Chapter Twenty #2
He grinned entreatingly as, in my lap, my palms began to sweat.
Hastily, I pressed them against my dress, all too aware of his feelers in my skull, turning my mind over like a spider does its prey.
Which game could I possibly select that would allow me a chance of defeating a sorcerer who could see my moves before I made them—who could tear any strategy from my head like pulling a bad tooth?
Damn Eliot. I tried to force away any thoughts of him, lest Bastian catch their scent, but it was a struggle to stymie the tide of my resentment entirely.
Why couldn’t he have warned me? What was I—
I inhaled. In the bitter wasteland of my panic, a memory had shivered to life: Noé Alaire in the gardens just a day ago, facing me with his umbrella held aloft.
What was it he’d said, before we’d parted ways?
My father is not invulnerable…He particularly struggles in games of chance, which he cannot influence through his mind-meddling.
My chest burned, as if my heart had been flushed of its blood. I’d noted, at the time, the strangeness of Noé’s goodbye; only now did I realize it hadn’t been a farewell at all.
He’d been giving me a clue.
The pressure in my head increased, like a heel driving into the bulb of my spine— Bastian . I’d forgotten, for a moment, that he was monitoring me. Wiping my mind clean, I glancedup.
“I should like to play Knave’s Cup.”
In the Weaver King’s hands, the deck of cards fell still.
“The drinking game?” he asked incredulously.
For the first time in our conversation, a furrow appeared in his brow—a falter in his omniscient facade—but he hurriedly smoothed it away again.
Sitting back in his chair, he chuckled. “It is too early for coffee still, Miss Lovett—surely, you cannot expect to indulge in wine?” he asked.
Spreading his hands, he showed me the bare palm of his left one, the Crone stacked atop the deck in his right.
“Alas, I do not have a coin we can play with.”
“I do,” I said.
With a plink, I laid it on the desktop. Eliot’s coin looked even more insignificant surrounded by the finery of Bastian Alaire’s study than it had in my bedroom, the tarnished bronze weather-beaten and dull, like something dredged from the bottom of the lake.
I muttered a silent prayer of gratitude to the Envies that the rain had yet to let up, its tepid gray wash preventing any early-morning sunlight from spearing through the windows and alighting on the coin, potentially exposingthe magesilk embedded within.
Bastian frowned. My nerves pinched violently as he took the token between his fingers, turning it first one way, then the other. “What kind of coin is this?”
“A lucky one, sir,” I lied hastily. “It was given to me by my parents—now sadly deceased. I carry it with me always.”
The Weaver King’s stare fixed back on me, his presence in the back of my mind like a pistol leveled at the base of my skull.
Do not think. I recited the command to myself like a prayer until the syllables went limp with lost meaning.
The best defense against a robber was an empty house; I was not sure how Bastian Alaire executed his mental searches, but if I kept my mind clear, there would be nothing for him to find.
At the sound of his low laughter, my shoulders relaxed. “All right, Miss Lovett,” he conceded with a bow of his head. “Knave’s Cup it is.”
Rising from his desk, he fetched a bottle from the lacquered bar cart at the back of his study, then a pair of tumblers to accompany it.
He placed one in front of me before pouring several fingers’ worth of a dark ruby liquid into it—brooding clover whiskey, I recognized by its distinctive matte shine, like organ blood.
I’d never tried the stuff; in addition to its high price tag, it was renowned for its potency.
It would be a struggle to keep my wits about me.
Setting the bottle aside, Bastian once again took Eliot’s coin in hand, turning it so the side bearing the engraving of the bird’s wing was showing.
“Let’s call this side heads,” he said. “If I flip heads, I take a drink; if I flip tails”—he flicked the coin over to reveal the talons carved into its opposite flank—“you drink. We shall alternate flips, the winner being the person who drains their glass the quickest.” He wrinkled his nose.
“There is something vulgar in simplicity, don’t you feel?
But never mind that. Have I got it all right? ”
I nodded. Settling further into his seat, the Weaver King slouched so that his elbow was braced against the desktop, his oiled black hair tumbling over his brow—and flipped.
The coin spun in the air between us once, twice, a third time before falling with a faint tink back to the desk. Both of us leaned in to make out the result, tension lancing through the atmosphere as though somewhere to our sides, a race had been called.
On the coin’s surface, a pair of claws reached statically out from the metal. The talons.
Tails.
I released an audible exhale, then quickly drowned it beneath a sip of my drink. The whiskey was strong, with an intense bitterness I disliked upon taste, like floor wax. I could feel it varnishing my tongue.
Bastian clucked in disappointment, then slid the coin obligingly my way. “You know, Miss Lovett,” he remarked as I picked it up, “it is good we’re getting the chance to chat. My son speaks quite highly of you.”
I felt my cheeks heat at his comment but kept my focus fixed straight ahead, balancing the coin on my thumb and index finger.
The brooding clover whiskey had finished its long slide down my throat and now sat in my stomach, radiating a comforting warmth.
“I am indebted to him. He is far too generous with his praise.”
Plink. The coin collided with the desktop again: heads this time. The Weaver King rapped his knuckles against the wood with a pleased Aha! , swallowing down a generous gulp of liquor. “I wonder what you think of him,” he continued abruptly as he pulled the token back toward himself. “My son.”
His head was cast downward, toward the coin, but I felt a tight poke in my mind at his comment, as though I’d been stuck with a thorn. I winced as once more the token landed on heads—another point to Bastian. “I think he shall make a fine husband to whatever maiden he chooses, sir.”
“Hmm.” The Weaver King seemed to meditate on my response, as if it were an oddly shaped stone for him to turn over and examine.
“A better one than Eliot Lear, or worse? You may speak candidly with me, my dear—of all the virtues, the Truth and I are in league.” Winking, he dropped his voice to a murmur. “I see what she cannot.”
As if in reminder, his presence surged more violently against my mind, the blinding pressure traveling up and over my skull to drive a nail between my eyes.
My fingers quivered where they’d reached to accept the coin for my flip.
Eliot. The bait was obvious—it did not even bother to disguise the fact that it was bait—but still, my mind leapt at it, like a dog freed from its leash.
In my head, memories rose up, unbidden and unable to be tamped down again—
A hotel lobby. A figure sitting alone at the bar. There is something in his hand, golden and glittering—a watch.
“I have a feeling you’re able to open a great many doors, Miss Lovett Tamerlane—”
No. Resurfacing from the images felt like emerging from a crash of water; with some effort, I forced the wave back. Across from me, a notch had appeared in the Weaver King’s brow, his gaze newly focused—curious—as if he had seen something that interested him.
My true name. Had he glimpsed it in the tumult of my thoughts?
Plucked it free like an apple from a bough?
For a second, I could not breathe, the notion paralyzing—but then Bastian’s mouth gave a twitch, and it brought me back to myself.
Whatever his method of hunt, my panic would surely only aid the Weaver King, like a rabbit kicking up dust and giving away its position.
Stay in the present, Lovett. An inquiry has been made—answer it, and only it.
I drew a steadying breath. Of Bastian’s motives, I remained unsure, but…Noé had been enamored by my boldness. Perhaps I could win his father over with the same.
“Speaking honestly, sir,” I said aloud, “I am not sure what you intend by that question, if not to distract me.”
In punctuation, I tossed the coin again. Tails. Pleasure rolled through me as I downed another sip of my whiskey.
In my periphery, I saw the Weaver King’s jaw flex—and then, to my relief, Bastian was relaxing again, his now-familiar gravelly chortle echoing through the room.
“Well, well,” he said, almost to himself.
“She parries. I see now why Noé favors you, Miss Lovett. He has a habit of seeking out those more intelligent than himself.”
I had not yet summoned the bravery to meet his eyes, but I could see them glittering, chilly and distant, in the corner of my vision like a pair of stars. “I would not call him unintelligent, sir,” I replied cautiously.
“No,” Bastian agreed genially, with a flick of the coin. “Simply less so than his peers.” Registering the result, he drew a lengthy pull from his tumbler, his manner leisurely in a way that was almost adolescent—as if he repudiated the concept of urgency and wanted no association with it.
Several rounds passed in rapid succession— tails, heads, heads— before he spoke again.
“He is too malleable, my son,” the Weaver King went on.
“He was quite sensitive as a boy—quick to admire, quick to love—and that sensitivity has made him susceptible to the radical philosophies of others. I have tried to surround him with alternative counsel to model more appropriate attitudes, like young Dorian Drake, but does he heed me?” He tsk ed in disappointment. “No.”
Another exchanging of the coin, another heads. I noticed, through the blurring haze of alcohol, that Bastian’s glass contained far less liquid than mine and felt a dull twinge in my gut. I cannot let him win. My wrist trembled as I positioned the coin on my thumb.
“I worry for him—my son,” Bastian continued, startling me.
Eliot’s coin clattered to the desktop—heads yet again.
In my mind’s eye, I saw the cloister doors splitting open as if to take me.
“Particularly, about the kind of bride a boy of such sympathetic disposition may choose. On the one hand, a clever girl could be a great helpmate for him. On the other…” The Weaver King gave an exaggerated shrug.
“She may pull him this way, she may pull him that, and he will follow wherever she leads. It has the potential to become quite tiring.”
He paused, Eliot’s coin in hand, to rock his tumbler on the desktop. The remaining whiskey sloshed meagerly within, no more than a single sip’s worth. Humming, he arched a brow toward my comparatively full glass. “Victory is nearly mine, it seems,” he purred. “I shall be sorry to see you go.”
Now tell me, Miss Lovett, why have you truly come to Fortblanche?
The command wrapped itself around my skull, a sudden obliteration as if I’d strode into a bank of fog.
All my mind turned milky white, the pressure so intense I could feel the pain of it dripping from my nostrils like a stream of hot blood.
I gripped the edge of the desktop desperately, gritting my teeth as, in front of me, Bastian tossed the coin oncemore…
When I saw the flash of the talons against the wood, I did not hesitate.
Leaving my thoughts in Bastian’s clutches, I acted on instinct, scooping up my glass and draining its remaining contents in a single greedy gulp.
Red gurgled over my lips and spattered onto my dress, my stomach heaving violently against the influx of alcohol—but when I set the tumbler back down again, it was empty.
The punishing grip on my mind slackened as if in shock. Across the desk, Bastian’s mouth was downturned, his eyes fixed disbelievingly on my drink.
“I win,” I breathed.
Then, my gait woozy and my head swimming, I rose, coin in hand, and stalked out of the room.