Chapter Twenty-Three
In all, six girls, including myself, managed to beat the Weaver King at his game.
Two did not.
In addition to Elspeth Winn, Delphine Barbier had fallen victim to the Alaires’ second trial.
Our corridor was lonelier with nearly half of its occupants absent, the emptiness of the four rooms that previously held the now-eliminated maidens somehow able to be sensed even once I’d closed my door, as a tooth is pulled and the tremor felt all along the jaw.
Unlike our previous nights at Fortblanche, there was no gathering to distract those of us who’d survived the second trial; rather, following its conclusion, the other remaining girls and I were given leave to roam the estate at our leisure for the rest of the day, the house staff preoccupied with preparing for the ball that would occur the following evening.
The Midway Ball. In the tumble of the past week’s events, I’d nearly forgotten about it, the extent of my forethought diminished to one hour, one challenge, at a time.
How strange, to think that already, nearly five days had passed since I’d entered the Alaires’ halls—that come tomorrow, half of the Vainglory would lay withered behind me like a vine plucked clean.
The time had run so quickly through my fingers, I was almost convinced it had cheated me.
I didn’t do much exploring. When dusk came, I found myself settled at my desk again, staring through my rain-spattered window out at the gray ocean, curls of paper all around me and the candle in their center like a half-melted trophy.
My message, this time, was short.
Sybil, is that you?
No response came. I waited for a long while, watching the whisper and flick of the flame until eventually, the wax had burned down low enough that I was forced to douse the wick to conserve the rest of it, returning, answerless, to the dark.
—
Night passed, quick and blue, then the bright flash of the next morning. I slept poorly as ever, waking sometime before dawn to a sharp pang in my gut like the iron weight of menstrual cramps. Anxiety, most likely. It disturbed me, how accustomed I was growing to its presence.
Breakfast with the other maidens was tense, the six of us still in the competition—myself and Sybil, along with Anais, Manon, Marie-Louise, and Clio—picking silently at our plates.
Though we’d been assured by Bernard that the Alaires’ third trial would not occur until after the Midway Ball had completed—we’d been explicitly instructed to enjoy the upcoming festivities, not fret over them—the prospect of an evening off seemed to do little to raise the collective group spirit.
I was glad when the last teacup was drained and I could escape back to my room, gladder still when my borrowed Alaire maid arrived in the afternoon to help me dress.
Upon the sight of the golden spool, my mood soured, but I’d learned my lesson well; this time, I did not protest, only averted my eyes as my maid wrapped my shed hair around the metal.
An hour seemed to pass before the maid finally put aside her comb.
I kept my eyes downcast as, finally, she tucked the full spool back into her uniform and set to work pinning my locks up in a caul, but the thought of my hair in her pocket made me sick nonetheless, like glimpsing a vial of one’s drawn blood.
Just as with the opening festivities, the Midway Ball was held in Fortblanche’s main ballroom—though clearly, additional effort had been poured into its transformation this evening.
Golden ribbons draped from the chandeliers, servants ferrying food and drink on silver platters across the floor below them.
Here and there, I saw evidence of enchantment amongst the crowd of finely dressed attendees that filled the space—primarily in the forms of rings or other ornate jewelry that several of the Weaver men wore, likely seals signifying their unions to silkwitches such as myself—and picked absently at the silver netting of my caul.
Ever since Eliot had cautioned me against taking mine off, I’d worn one at all times except during slumber, but I had yet to get used to the pressure of the accessory.
The way it gripped at me constantly, like a spider’s webbing wrapped round my scalp.
“You look rather splendid tonight, Miss Lovett.”
I did not sense Marie-Louise until she was beside me, having drifted up in a feathered white dress and matching caul that made her resemble a swan.
Though she’d addressed me directly, the other maiden appeared somewhat lost amidst the clamor of the ballroom; her colorless gaze roved this way, then that, never entirely focusing on me, as though searching for a savior to come extract her from the tumult.
I smiled down at her. The gown I’d chosen for tonight was one of the more daring of Ophelia’s collection: velvet, with a sloping neckline that sat just below my shoulders, leaving the milky ridge of my collarbones exposed.
A pearl in the shape of a teardrop dangled at the center of the V between my breasts—the garment’s sole embellishment.
“Thank you, Miss Rochefort,” I said with a nod. “As do you.”
“Mmm.” Marie-Louise did not seem particularly impressed by the compliment, though her eyes at last settled on me. “I am glad you chose the green. I quite preferred it to the violet.”
My maid had insisted on pulling down my mirror coverings when she’d come to dress me earlier; evidently, the other maiden had taken advantage of her ignorance.
The revelation should have disturbed me, but instead, I felt only faint amusement at it.
Ever since our conversation, I could not bring myself to fear the Owl or her Wit—as much as I tried, there was something about the girl, odd as she was, that I almost found… endearing?
Sisters three. Did I like her?
“I’m thrilled you approve,” I replied. Lowering my voice, I added, “Miss Rochefort…you never told me. Why did you assume I would ask you about Eliot Lear the other day?”
Marie-Louise’s brow furrowed. “Because of how he watches you, of course,” she said. Her stare flicked away, darting just over my shoulder. “There—he is doing it just now.”
I turned, my heart contracting at the sight of Eliot’s slim figure lingering in the crowd near the entry doors. He was dressed formally in a dark suit, an ascot knotted expertly beneath his stand collar. His unruly curls were slicked back at his temples, leaving his face clear.
His fingers flexed when our stares met, his eyes slightly widening, and I knew, in the hazy and omnipotent way one understands another’s motivations in a dream, that he was reacting to the memory of his hands on my skin the day before. Of his thumb wiping away my tears.
“Miss Lovett. There you are.”
Noé’s voice, as cool and sobering as water, broke the trance.
He’d slipped up to us without my noticing him, Marie-Louise falling silent in his presence.
Anxiety spiked in me at his appearance. I had not spoken with Bastian’s son since my conversation with his father, but had he seen me looking at Eliot just now?
If so, had he understood the meaning of it?
What was the meaning of it? I wanted to ask myself, but I did not know the answer, or perhaps I was too afraid to admitit.
“Excuse me, Miss Rochefort,” Noé said, his black hair glinting in the lamplight as he bowed. “I’ve come to inquire whether I might steal your companion here for a dance.”
He extended a ringed hand toward me, and I simpered appropriately. “Of course, sir.”
To my side, low enough that I knew only I could hear her, Marie-Louise murmured, “He saw that, too.”
Laying my palm in Noé’s, I let him lead me toward the dance floor, the rowdy assembly of onlookers surrounding it parting to let us by.
The current song was only halfway through; I hesitated, preparing to wait for its conclusion, but the younger Alaire strode confidently onward, paying no mind to the couples that whirled around us.
A shiver went down my spine as, like soldiers falling into line, each pair of dancers paused as we passed them by, the musicians’ bows stilling partway through their crescendo like a dying breeze.
Once we’d reached the center of the floor, Noé lifted a lazy hand, and the orchestra hummed to life again. I watched, incredulous, as the frozen couples reset like marionettes tugged back into motion, easing through the song’s opening steps.
My companion seemed unimpressed by the transformation he’d caused, his palm flattening against my low back as he drew me smoothly into his hold.
I was grateful when I recognized the dance as one Eliot had taught me.
When we’d practiced it together, Eliot had led me through the steps at a midtempo, every movement clipped and precise, but Noé’s gait was slower.
Almost leisurely, as if time afforded him a special patience, as if it would wait for him to catch up.
I worry for him…about the kind of bride a boy of such sympathetic disposition may choose .
Bastian’s voice rose in my mind, yet for the first time, I found myself disinclined to believe the Weaver King’s criticisms. Perhaps Noé did not wield his power as bluntly as the elder Alaire did, but in many ways, he was his father’s son. I saw that clearly now.
“I am glad to see you looking so well, Miss Lovett.” Noé’s voice was soft enough that I had to lean in to hear him above the music. “My father told me of your performance in his test. Knave’s Cup was a clever choice—I believe you managed to surprise him.”