Chapter Twenty-Two
I caught up with my quarry at the turn into the maidens’ corridor.
Eliot hadn’t questioned my abrupt departure, only stood aside as I’d brushed by him and let me leave without a word.
Aside from the pair of us and Sybil herself, no one stirred in the Alaires’ estate; several times as I wove through Fortblanche in pursuit of her, the sound of her footsteps was swallowed up by the cavernous gloom, leaving me to wonder if I’d imagined the crimson whisper of her hair disappearing around the bend in the hall—but then I would hear the thwack of her slipper against the floor, like a twig cracking in the forest, and our chase would resume once more.
What had she seen of the interaction between Eliot and me?
More important, what had she heard ? Without questioning her, I had no way of knowing; still, the possibilities were sobering, focusing my mind like a dousing of ice water.
I had survived two of the Weaver King’s trials now—I could not, would not, allow myself to be undone by a foolish, tipsymistake.
For the dozenth time, I cursed Eliot. Our relationship was, by all possible interpretations, a pragmatic one; we were partners in conspiracy, nothing more. Why did I allow him to pull such emotion out of me?
“Sybil.”
I hissed her name into the silence, and up ahead of me, she hesitated, her pointed white chin angling back over her shoulder.
Judging by the occasional snore that drifted from beneath the other maidens’ doors, the majority of our competitors had not yet been summoned for Bastian’s test, so for the moment it was only she and I in the corridor—just the two of us and the echo of our footsteps, resounding hollowly against the walls.
“How clumsy your manners are, country mouse,” Sybil replied, still only half facing me. Even in the weak dawn light, I could see the cut of her blue eye, glinting and reptilian as it took me in. “In polite society, you should refer to me as Miss Dabos.”
I advanced a pace toward her. “Excuse my impudence. Though I am unsure whether polite society would approve of one of its members spying on another before breakfast.”
With a breath of silken laughter, she turned to address me fully, her gaze darting to the row of doors as if to ensure we would not be overheard. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Her tone was testing, stern, as if intent on cowing me into submission—and yet, the mere fact that she had responded to my gibe at all, rather than retreating to the safety of her room and closing her door firmly in my face, betrayed her.
With her family and status to bolster her, there was no reason, really, for a maiden of Sybil’s caliber to bother making an enemy out of someone like me.
Even my status as a newcomer in the race for Bastian’s heir’s heart should have earned me no more than some petty bullying and social maneuvering, as the rest of the silkwitches had given me.
Yet since the moment Sybil had taken my hand the day of my arrival at Fortblanche, her treatment of me had been far beyond that. Whatever her Wit had shown her during those precious few seconds when her fingers had grasped mine, it had transformed me in her eyes, elevated me from a pawn to a rival.
Past, present, or future. What piece of myself she held close, tucked like an ace up her sleeve, I still did not know; perhaps, though, if I played this interaction right, I could convince her to reveal it to me.
“You were watching me in the hallway just now,” I accused her tersely. “Intruding on a conversation not meant for you. Do you deny it?”
Sybil smirked. “Why would I deny what another has glimpsed with their own eyes?” she said coyly.
“Perhaps we should inform Noé of your sighting together—that way I, too, can share what I witnessed.” Stepping close, she clasped her palms together.
“You and Mr.Lear appear quite intimately acquainted. Tell me, Miss Lovett, what could the two of you possibly have to discuss so early in the morning?” she asked.
“Is he helping you with the trials?” Her voice pitched lower, scandalized. “Are the two of you lovers?”
I flinched, my neck heating. “Of course not,” I said quickly— too quickly. “We are nothing.”
She cocked her head to the side, her gaze narrowing. Against my will, I felt my flush ripen, spread. Eliot and I were not lovers; in a way, I supposed I should have been grateful that was where Sybil’s mind had jumped, rather than to another sort of collusion.
Yet I had seen the fear in his eyes when he held me earlier, and its memory made my denial feel like a lie.
“Weavers are wolves, Miss Lovett,” Sybil said after a pause.
Her tone was unexpectedly gentle, almost sympathetic, like a pitying hand laid on my shoulder.
“They act only to feed themselves and their kin. It would be a mistake to confuse one for a docile creature, just because it has deigned to let you pet it.”
I blinked at her, embarrassment veiling my thoughts in red.
Unbidden, another image rose in my mind: of myself, crouched before the windowsill, Eliot’s palm rubbing assurances into my back.
Whatever the intention behind her words, Sybil was mistaken; in our relationship, it was I, not Eliot, who was the wolf.
And it terrified me, how docile I had been for him.
Glancing behind myself to ensure we were still alone, I lowered my voice.
“You have not addressed my accusations, Miss Dabos,” I replied.
“Though if it is the Lears you wish to speak of, perhaps we should discuss Mr.Lear’s sister, Ophelia.
Did you watch her last year, as you did me today?
” I drew a step closer. “I have heard firsthand of your obsession with her. There is no use pretending otherwise.”
Sybil reared back—unbalanced at last. Encouraged by her reaction, I pressed on before she could speak.
“I know the nature of your gift—your prophetic touch, as you call it,” I said. “The opening day of the Vainglory, you took my hand while yours were ungloved. Did you see something that reminded you of Ophelia? Certainly, I can think of no other reason for your fascination with me.”
Fury blazed across Sybil’s features, present only for a moment before she erased it.
Composed once more, she huffed, like a swordsman raising their weapon to parry.
“A question for a question,” she answered primly.
“I will confide in you, if you will confide in me. What were you searching for in the tunnels?”
The tunnels. For a half second, I did not understand, gazing, uncomprehending, back at her; then there was a snap like the pop of a flame, and it unfurled in my mind again: the shadowed absence behind the tapestry, the wormlike corridor, and the vast black infinity of the underground atrium.
Amidst all else I’d discovered, it had nearly slipped my mind, but now I recalled it—the scrap of fabric snagged on the stone floor, white like a beacon.
My pulse sped. “The lace I found,” I murmured dimly. “That was you?”
Sybil said nothing, only watched me with steady blue eyes. Was it my imagination, or did her stare seem overly familiar now— knowing , as if all this time, she had been lurking just out of my line of sight, studying me in the dark moments when I believed myself alone?
Collecting myself, I slowed my thoughts. “I wasn’t looking for anything at all,” I answered. “I stumbled on the door to the tunnels by accident.”
“Don’t be obtuse.” Sybil snarled. “You speak of my gift—you should realize, then, that I have seen too much to be swayed by your denials.” She’d stepped forward so that we stood chest to chest, bristling up at me.
“If you know the way through, it would benefit both of us to share it. Even you cannot enter on your own—and I have discovered where they keep the key.”
“What key? The way through what?” My words cracked, my control slipping. “Forgive me, Miss Dabos, I truly don’t know what you mean. What does this have to do with Ophelia?”
Sybil spat out a curse. “Sisters three, you cannot be this dull.” Her calculated patience had burned away now, usurped by wrathful, raw wanting.
It hung strangely on her petite form, like a rough-edged ribbon, a rusted pearl.
“Fine, then,” she went on. “If you will not help me, I will search on my own—but please, Miss Lovett, I implore you to broaden your thinking. Or do you wish Miss Lear to have died in vain?”
A tingling in my nerves, a surge of static, as if she’d stripped her glove off and wrapped her bare fingers round my wrist once more. “What did you say?” I asked.
Sybil smiled impatiently. “I am certain you heard me, Miss Lovett, but I shall repeat myself nonetheless. Where—”
“Is it you?” I spoke over her, too eager to let her finish. “Behind the candle,” I elaborated. “Are you Ophelia’s confidante?”
Her smirk wobbled, then faded completely. Without her cynicism to guard her, she looked bare-faced, younger than her years. “The candle…”
From one of the bedrooms behind me came a sudden rustling—the susurrus of bare feet moving across the floor. Panic gripping me, I whirled instinctively toward the noise. Had our conversation woken one of the maidens? I stiffened, an excuse ready on my lips—
Almost immediately, I realized my mistake.
My heart plunging to my feet, I prepared to wheel back around, but it was too late.
A mechanical click echoed to my back, as decisive as a verdict: the sound of a door swinging shut.
Sybil. Why hadn’t I considered the possibility that if I turned away from her, she would run?
Cursing myself, I looked over my shoulder. Where the other girl had stood only a moment before, the hallway was now vacant, greeting me like an empty-handed guest.
Sybil was gone.