Chapter Twenty-One
I made it halfway back to the maidens’ corridor before vomiting.
The nausea was ruthless, like rancid oil in my belly, pursuing me with the unflinching vigor of a predator. Unable to resist its assault any longer, I stumbled down the hall until I found an unattended window, fumbled at its latch to open it, and leaned through the gap.
Rain soaked me as I retched, its icy kiss bracing against my clammy skin.
My head was pounding, my thoughts wobbling like porridge against the swollen confines of my skull.
All around me was drizzle and mist, the mournful howl of the wind; hesitantly, I raised a trembling hand to wipe at my forehead, shuddering when it came away tacky with perspiration.
My whole body was sore and hot, like an unbroken fever.
Then: I started at the sound of a voice to my back, its call nearly lost beneath the crash of the waves far below me.
Straightening, I hauled my shoulders back through the window, afraid to be caught by Bernard in my disheveled state—or worse, one of the other maidens.
I did not know how many had completed Bastian’s test, nor which of my competitors had failed, but if I allowed the likes of Anais Tremblay to glimpse me wet-haired and shivering like a field mouse, I was certain any measure of respect I’d managed to earn thus far would vanish in an instant.
My stomach turned as the same voice called out again, near enough now that I could make out its alarm, and—did I recognize it? My hearing was distorted, dim, as if I were waking from a dream: “Miss Lovett? Lovett. ”
Eliot. I registered his call only a moment or so before I felt him crouching beside me, his hand lifting to rest between my shoulder blades.
Gently, he pressed his palm down against the flat of my back, the cool weight of it blessedly anchoring amidst the intoxicated surge in my mind.
Through his touch, I felt his head turn as he shifted to bark an indecipherable command at a figure behind him—a servant, I thought hazily.
I barely made out the responding tread of their footsteps as they padded obediently away.
Rubbing unsteadily at my mouth to wipe off the hardening crust of sickness from my skin, I hoisted myself the rest of the way back into the corridor, resting my brow against the damp stone directly beside the window.
“You,” I coughed. My eyes fluttered closed to distract from the dizziness rolling through me. “Your call came…too late.”
On my back, Eliot’s fingers flexed.
“I summoned you as soon as I could,” he answered.
He spoke quickly, his words rapid and fumbling—so different from his usual composed manner, I noted.
“Noé didn’t inform me of the trial—I think he may be punishing me, after what happened with his secret.
I…” My neck prickled as his exhale washed over me, his hand at last falling away as if in resignation.
I found I missed its steadying touch, though perhaps that was only the brooding clover speaking.
“Listen,” Eliot started again, more firmly.
“I’ll speak with Noé myself this afternoon—tell him you were sick, or distracted, or…
or else come up with some other reason to keep you in the race.
He’ll be eager for an excuse to avoid sending you away, especially after your stroll the other day.
” A pause, like a strained breath. “I believe he’s grown quite fond of you. ”
I absorbed his words gradually, a knobbed ridge of understanding cutting through my delirium. An excuse… Of course. So he believed I’d been eliminated, then.
Really, it was almost funny.
I huffed out a dry laugh. “I won.”
In my periphery, I saw Eliot drop back on his haunches, his expression befuddled. “What?”
“I beat…the Weaver King…at his game.” I spat my reply around another swell of nausea, pressing my scalp more forcefully against the granite wall.
Whether it was merely the alcohol muddling my mind or the aftereffects of Bastian’s interrogation, I felt entirely like an overripe tomato; I craved nothing more than the ability to pluck my own head from my spine and hurl it to the ground, watch it burst.
“Knave’s Cup,” I finished weakly. “He wasn’t expecting it.”
“Knave’s Cup.” Eliot’s tone was contemplative now; I could hear the smirk in his voice, even without seeing it. “That’s…That’s slightly genius.”
His reaction pleased me more than it should have. Inhaling deeply through my nostrils, I straightened, keeping one hand splayed against the wall as a safety measure. “Thank you,” I said, turning to face him at last. “Your friend gave me the idea. Well, indirectly—”
Without warning, Eliot swore, surging forward on his knees.
My lightheadedness fled, usurped briefly by adrenaline as I found my chin abruptly cupped in his palm, his movement so natural it couldn’t have been anything other than instinctive—a reflex.
His thumb skated across my face, tracing a delicate path along my skin.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was low—the harsh sound of it protective somehow, like a hand going to a knife. “What is this—are you injured?”
His hold was gentle, cautious, like he was afraid I would wilt beneath it.
Blinking, my eyes focused on his. It was as if in his rush to help me, a wall had come down—I saw, perhaps for the first time since meeting him, his emotions purely, like staring into a deep, clear well.
There was relief and concern, and overwhelming them both, fear—claiming and bold and selfish, the kind of fear that is personal, that accompanies loss.
He was frightened, I realized—not of me, but for me. Frightened of the possibility that I’d been hurt. Likely because I was an asset to him, because injury to me would mean inconvenience on his end…but still, Eliot Lear was scared, and it felt like an admission I did not know how to bear.
We both remembered ourselves at once. I drew back as he dropped his hands, standing and averting his gaze. My skin was hot, my perspiration now dried.
“I’m fine,” I said stiffly. Swiping at my chin with my thumb, I examined the smudge of crimson that came away at the motion—the sight of which, undoubtedly, had sparked his concern.
Amused, I tucked my fingernail between my teeth, sucking it clean.
“It’s only whiskey,” I explained. “Brooding clover. We drank it during the game.”
The pounding in my temples slightly dulled, I made to stand—only to let out a curse as my legs carried me unsteadily sideways, my arm colliding roughly with the wall.
Glaring reproachfully at the offending granite, I flinched as Eliot’s hand wrapped round my other bicep, pulling me upright again. “You’re drunk.”
I lolled against him, still scowling. His usual measure of irritation had reentered his tone, and its presence was a balm, settling the tension that had stretched momentarily betweenus.
“Perhaps,” I replied. In truth, I was more than drunk; beneath the coils of nausea, I could sense a gentle drift to my thoughts like the motion of the sea, but I had no desire to admit as much to him.
Instead, I tipped my head back, baring my teeth in a demented sort of grin.
“A necessary condition of victory in Knave’s Cup. ”
He released me, and I stumbled, swearing again. Over the rush of blood in my ears, I thought I heard him mutter, “Reckless.”
My temper flared, soaked in alcohol and as combustible as a barrel rag.
“Am I? Or am I simply desperate?” I interrupted hotly.
“Do not forget, Mr.Lear, that if you’d bothered to uncover the nature of the second trial before this morning, I never would have had to rely on my own instincts to begin with.
Instead, we have one argument, and you abandon me for days afterward, like I’m some doll you can pick back up when it suits you.
” I was surprised when my voice cracked around my speech, more so by the passion in my words.
“Do you think, because I do not show you my emotions, that I have none?” I heard myself say. “That there was no part of me that did not fear being left to fend for myself in this great house?”
Wrath welled in me; the depth of it took me aback, as though it were not my own—as if it had grown without my awareness, spreading like mold through my lightless parts. Blinking furiously, I ducked my head. Pressure had built behind my brow bone, a throbbing beat like the swing of a hammer.
“That’s what you believe?” The fight had left Eliot’s tone. His speech was tentative, oddly hushed, as if I had wounded him. “That I’ve avoided you because I didn’t wish to see you?”
I flushed. “I care nothing for your desires, whether they relate to me or others,” I snapped. “We made a deal, you and I, and I cannot carry out my end if you refuse to uphold yours. If you think I will allow myself to be carted off to the cloisters—”
“Lovett.” He spoke my name like a command; at it, I glanced up. His eyes were fierce, alive as if with anger—yet his voice, when his gaze met mine, was gentle. “I will never let you go to the cloisters,” Eliot said. “Do you hear me? That will not be your fate.”
It was as though he’d drawn me into his stare. For a moment, I saw myself as he did: rain-mussed and untidy before him, my hair damp and half slipped from my caul, and my skin red with drink. At once, my neck flared with heat, our conversation—my position—abruptly, unbearably intimate.
“Only a fool speaks in absolutes,” I replied. “You cannot control my fate. Or are you going to marry me, Mr.Lear?”
I saw a jolt go through him at my accusation, a disturbance like a rustling in the grass, and pounced on it.
“I spoke with Anais Tremblay,” I said softly. “She told me what you confessed to her. How you would never deign to love a girl of my kind.”
A heaviness descended between us then, as final as the swing of a gavel; I had won, but there was no sweetness to the victory. Pressed into the apple of my cheek, Eliot’s thumbprint still stung where he’d rested it against my skin, a honeyed buzz like a warning.
Immediately, I felt a stab of guilt. “I…”
My words died there. Past the curve of Eliot’s shoulder, I thought I’d detected movement from the end of the hallway—a flash of color, bright against the monochromatic wash of the stone. Squinting, I stepped woozily forward, brushing my fingers against Eliot’s jacket sleeve to keep my balance.
There. Goose bumps lifted along my arms as I spotted a flicker of red hair, bound up in gold netting and disappearing around the corner. If I focused, I could hear the pad of retreating footsteps echoing in the distance, rapid and sneaky as if made by a person who did not wish to be overheard.
My pulse skipped. The whiskey I’d shared with Bastian had dulled my instincts; I’d forgotten, over the course of our bickering, that Eliot and I were not in our usual turret, but rather out in the open—liable to be witnessed by anyone who happened to pass us by. Liable to be discovered.
The realization drove the drunkenness from me. Someone had seen us. We were not alone.
And in the entirety of Fortblanche, there was only one silkwitch I knew of with locks that particular shade of crimson.
Sybil.