Chapter Eighteen
From the garden, I returned directly to my quarters, shutting my door behind me and adjusting the shroud over my mirror to ensure it was covered. Then, confident in my own secrecy, I struck a match and lit Ophelia’s candle again.
I’d drawn the drapes over my window and balcony doors so that my room was as sealed and dark as a tomb despite the midmorning hour, the flare of the wick as it ignited a wintry star.
On the subject of Eliot’s sister, my conversation with Bastian’s heir had not been as productive as it had in other areas, but there was one piece of information that had snagged my attention—Noé’s mention of Ophelia’s frequent trips to Fortblanche’s library.
He was the second person I’d spoken with since the onset of the competition to bring her habit up; Marie-Louise had also referenced Eliot’s sister’s passion for reading.
As far as leads went, it was by no means a strong one. Still, it was the only one I had.
Watching the candle flame jump to life was as disconcerting as it was thrilling, like an eye blinking open: One moment, there was solitude, and then I was not alone.
I stared into the pale heart of the flame, focusing intently as though if I tried hard enough, I could peer through its blur to the unknown figure lurking on the other side.
Was it another of the maidens I was speaking with?
A judge, like Dorian—or even Noé himself?
I considered the possibility, though I couldn’t quite convince myself of it.
His reaction when I’d asked him if he’d had much contact with Ophelia during her time in Fortblanche had seemed genuine—not to mention, the estate and its grounds were the Alaires’ domain.
If Bastian’s heir had wanted to speak with Ophelia, what would have stopped him from sending a footman to fetch her, as he had with me?
Rather, the secrecy of the candle-writing suggested, if not a love affair, a conspiracy, like the one Eliot and I were involvedin.
The only question was, who was Ophelia Lear conspiringwith?
The fire devoured my message eagerly, as if it were starved. I’ve decided to pay a visit to the library.
Less than a minute later, a response spat into my waiting palm. You again. You’re quite persistent, aren’t you?
I smiled in spite of myself. I find myself in need of recommendations , I wrote. After the note burned, I penned another. Surely it is safer to ask questions of books rather than people.
I tapped my pen against the desk, its nib bleeding ink into the wood grain as I awaited an answer.
When the candle flame flickered, I tensed, half prepared for it to be extinguished entirely as it had the night before—but then, like a pale moth, another scroll fluttered out of the fire, its edges singed black with soot.
On the paper was a single word. I grinned as I read it.
Pender.
—
The Weaver King’s library jutted from the western side of Fortblanche, overlooking the sea.
Past its groaning double doors, the space rose two stories high, all dark oak and towering shelves, books arranged in gleaming, endless rows.
The fourth, exterior-facing wall was an elongated curve, as if the room was puffing its chest outward, arched windows set into it revealing the infinite gray plane of the ocean below.
Beyond the rain-spattered glass, the waves roiled and surged like chimney smoke, the sky soot-stained and growling above them.
Despite its lack of occupants, the library had a wakefulness to it that reminded me of an aviary, its tomes like roosting birds observing me from their perches high above.
I felt oddly as though even after I departed from the space, they would remember me, the impression of my figure caught between their pages and preserved like a leaf.
Walking along the perimeter of the shelves, I trailed my fingers lightly over the spines.
It seemed that the books were categorized alphabetically within their respective subjects; I did not find a Pender in History, General or History, Balmoorish ; Literature or Filiumology— the study of the process by which silkwitches’ hair was spun into magesilk; Theology —
I paused when my hand grazed across an empty space—an absent spine like a missing tooth. On its either side, the books around it leaned in as if attempting to obscure the gap. Stepping back, I found the subject heading engraved at the top of the section I was in: Myth, Legends, and Folklore.
I frowned. Had someone borrowed this text? Stooping lower, I examined the title before the missing one. On its cover, golden letters spelled out In the Young Country: A Compendium of Balmoorish Formation Myths, by Oscar Pelham.
Canopied against it was a work by Elinor Petichor. I paused. If a volume by the unknown Pender did exist, it should be shelved right…My hand found the slot of empty space between the two books, like a thin, dark scar. Here.
I froze then, at the feeling of a presence beside me, my fingers gripping the wooden shelf.
Without rising, I swept my gaze over, taking in the pair of slippered feet that had appeared to my right, all but their satin toes lost beneath the frothy hem of a dress.
Stooped as I was, I could not make out my visitor’s face, nor any identifying features, but I needed neither to make a guess at their name.
I’d been wondering when she would come.
“Is that you, Miss Tremblay?” I called, my focus still on the missing title before me. To my side, the shoes shifted.
“Impressive, Miss Lovett. And here I thought you simply a glorified lockpick. Do you have another Wit you are hiding from us? A third eye, perhaps?”
Anais’s voice rang as clear as a bell above me; I could feel her patronizing smirk like the beat of the sun on my neck, though I could not see it. Straightening, I met her gaze.
“Only two eyes, I’m afraid,” I said, blinking them at her.
She tutted. Beneath her caul, her maid had styled her hair in an intricate weave of golden braids today, and it gave her a stretched look—as if her face had been pulled too tight. “Only two,” she repeated musingly. “And yet you see more than you should with them.”
So this was about Dorian, then. “Anyone may glimpse what is flaunted so indiscreetly,” I replied. “Come to buy my silence? I warn you, it is quite expensive.”
Anais glared at me. “You know nothing of expenses, orphan,” she snipped.
“And it is only out of a desire for a fair fight that I’ve come—to caution you against making a fool of yourself in front of the Alaires by spreading false rumors.
” She stepped closer, the sharp floral scent of her perfume catching in my nostrils.
“Noé may have developed a taste for you, Miss Lovett, but he will always trust the word of a Weaver over that of a silkwitch,” she stated. “Always.”
I stared blankly at her, undeterred. “How considerate of you,” I said, my voice flat. “Though I’m afraid you’ve misled yourself. It is not the Alaires whom my silence would protect, but Manon.”
Her slip was minuscule, just the twitch of her eye, but I was watching for it, and I caught it. “Manon?” Anais echoed skeptically.
I smiled. “Yes, exactly. I assume she’s unaware of your and Dorian’s involvement. Though perhaps you have an arrangement—how long have the two of you been together?”
The transformation was immediate—where one moment, Anais had been all restraint, withheld emotions, and dubious looks, she now seethed fury like a kettle boiled over.
I took in her reaction, masking my relief.
Truthfully, I’d suspected that the maidens’ intimacy extended beyond the bounds of friendship since I’d seen the way they’d leaned against one another, sitting on the windowsill the night of the introduction ball, though I’d planned to keep my assumptions to myself until I’d dug up more evidence to support them.
If Anais had chosen to seek me out before then, force my hand…well, really, she had no one to blame but herself.
“How dare y—” Anais started.
“Please, Miss Tremblay,” I cut in swiftly. “We are both of us intelligent girls—let’s not insult ourselves with pointless denials. Manon had lipstick on her teeth the night of the first ball.”
The clench of Anais’s jaw was such that I expected it to snap. “And?”
“She was not wearing lipstick,” I elaborated helpfully. “Youwere.”
A pause, like a break in a storm, taking none of the tension with it.
I could feel Anais warring with herself, stewing over her decision: to retreat, or push forward with another denial.
I was adequately prepared for both courses of action, though I hoped she would choose the former. It would take considerably less time.
Evidently, she felt the same, because a moment later, the other maiden’s shoulders sagged. “Manon is…idealistic,” she said brusquely. “Fragile.” Jutting her chin higher, she gave me an arch look. “I try not to burden her with matters I know will break her.”
I clicked my tongue in understanding. “So she doesn’t know.”
Another hesitation, then, her lips pressed together, Anais shook her head.
Relief opened in me—I had not anticipated the admission coming so easily, especially from a girl as proud and naturally combative as the one I was facing.
Her type only rolled over for those they were not willing to risk losing, and with the thought came a plunge of something akin to sympathy.
She cared for Manon more than I’d realized.
“Why risk hurting her, then?” I asked Anais. “Dorian is engaged; if your affair is discovered, you risk retribution on three fronts: his fiancée, Manon, and the Alaires. Surely, you cannot love him that much.”
The other maiden glowered at me. “Now who’s insulting herself?” she snipped. “Love has nothing to do with it. You know why.”
I did. “Your Wit,” I breathed. When she nodded again, my pulse sped. “What has he told you?”
“Enough to ensure I was prepared for the first trial—and that I will survive the second,” Anais replied peevishly.
“He doesn’t give me too much, only hints, little breadcrumbs.
He knows the nature of my blessing, but he does not care.
” Shrugging, she pouted her bottom lip suggestively. “His type enjoys the danger.”
I recalled the pair of them, entwined in the hallway, her head lifted to meet his.
As far as vices went, engaging in a tryst with a silkwitch able to compel any person she kissed to speak the truth seemed a needlessly risky one—though, then again, I did not know Dorian well.
Who could say? Perhaps the risk was the very thrill that most enticed him.
“And what of Noé?” I asked. “If your heart belongs to another, why bother fighting for his hand at all? Should you not leave the prize for those who desire it?”
Anais scoffed. “You sound like Manon,” she said, lifting her hand to pick petulantly at her nails. “She wanted to run away, you know. Cut our hair and move upcoast. We could marry there—get a little villa, maybe something by the sea.”
Her voice softened as she spoke, her eyes fogging over as if lost in a memory, and pity stabbed me again.
Just as both men and women could claim seats in the Virtuous Parliament, for most in our nation, the institution of marriage was open to all—with the exception, naturally, of girls like me.
As the edicts dictated, only a sorcerer could be entrusted to manage a member of my kind; therefore, only a Weaver could marry a silkwitch.
Exceptions to the rule did not exist. Not for love, not for anything.
“It is a nice dream,” I said.
“It is a fantasy,” Anais hissed, stirring from her reverie.
“Even if we did escape, eventually, our hair would grow back, and we’d be found out.
The Weavers would as soon let gold slip through their fingers as let a single one of us go.
Our fate is set—Manon realizes it, too, even if she refuses to acknowledge that she does.
” Dropping her arm, she gave me a meaningful look. “She’s here, isn’t she?”
I inclined my head. “Perhaps,” I acknowledged. “Or perhaps it is for her beloved that she’s come.” Anais flinched at that, her expression shuddering, and I stepped closer—pressing down on the wound. “I would hate to part the two of you before your time. Help me, and I’ll spare her heartbreak.”
Anais drew back, the intentional, anticipatory recoil of a snake winding up to strike.
Her eyes were slitted with loathing, and my stomach dropped as they swept calculatingly over me, the vast silence of the library suddenly ominous.
Surely, she would not hurt me while we were both under the protection of the Alaires.
Or, I thought, my gaze dropping to her hand—now curled into a fist at her side—would she?
“Don’t be hasty, Miss Tremblay,” I said, pitching my voice low. “Orphans fight dirty.”
I did not relax until her hand unclenched. “What do you want?” she spat begrudgingly.
My shoulders loosened. Success. “Nothing much,” I answered. “I should like you to ask your paramour a question for me. Dorian,” I clarified, “not Manon.”
Anais gave a derisive huff. “Dorian is no fool. He knows his way around my Wit. If I ask him something that raises his suspicions, he will find a way to avoid answering.”
“Then you shall have to be convincing,” I replied evenly. At her scathing expression, I offered a placating smile. “I require only the truth, Miss Tremblay—which, with your gift, I am sure you can secure for me. I will drop a note with the particulars by your room this evening.”
“Fine.” She held my stare. “But I expect prompt delivery, or I cannot guarantee a reply.”
I curled my lips back, revealing the white of my teeth. “Fine.”
I had nothing more to say, but retreating felt weak, and so I stayed, my gaze burning against hers. After a moment, Anais’s grimace shifted, melting into a smile. “I kissed Eliot Lear once.”
This time, it was me who winced—my falter subtle, as hers had been, but just as I had, I knew she saw it. Her grin widened. “Years ago now,” she continued sweetly. “Do you know what he told me, once my Wit forced him to speak truth?”
Leaning forward, she closed the distance between us until our noses were almost brushing.
“He said,” she whispered, “that he would never love a silkwitch.”