Chapter Thirty
Marie-Louise did not pass the third trial.
Dread dropped, stone-heavy, in my stomach when the news made its way to the rest of us, lingering in the breakfast room after the challenge had concluded.
It wasn’t only that I’d grown fond of the Owl and her strange, infantile curiosity—her way of stepping back and observing, quietly and constantly, the world around her, as if it were all one grand puzzle, better studied at a distance than interacted with.
With her gone, Sybil dead, and several more of our group long since departed, it meant there were only four of us left to wander Fortblanche’s halls: me, Anais, Manon, and Clio.
All three members of the alliance I had scorned.
Thus far, I’d been able to avoid interacting with them as a unit the way I had my first night—I’d succeeded in chipping away at them individually, revealing their weaknesses.
Yet our cage was getting smaller; I could feel the bars pressing against my back, and I knew I could not evade my fellow inmates for much longer.
Suddenly, it seemed far safer to be of the wolf pack than surrounded by it.
“Miss Lovett.”
I turned, my hand still hovering over the doorknob to my room, which I’d been preparing to enter.
Farther down the line of doors, Marie-Louise’s pale head was poking out of her own, her white hair barely restrained by her caul, her eyes saucerlike even at this distance. Urgently, she beckoned me closer.
I obeyed. Past the bony jut of her shoulder, I could make out a pair of servants bustling about in her bedroom, packing away her belongings for her departure.
My eyes widened as I took in the scene. The Owl’s quarters had been transformed into a veritable sanctuary of mirrors—looking glasses in every shape and size filled the room, propped up against her furniture and hanging on the walls, the entire space a single glittering prism of reflected light.
I could imagine my fellow maiden sitting in its center, watching the world unfurl around her like a theatergoer before a stage.
She leaned toward me, drawing my attention back to her. “There was someone in your bedroom the other night.”
I arched a brow. In my frazzled state, I must have forgotten to re-cover my mirror after returning from my confrontation with Eliot—though the realization that I’d been observed wasn’t the piece of Marie-Louise’s admission that bothered me most. “Yes,” I replied uncertainly.
“As there was in yours, I’m sure—the men who fetched us for the trial. ”
The Owl shook her head vigorously. “No. Before that,” she insisted.
“There was someone else—the evening Miss Dabos was found, during the ball. They were standing near your desk, turned away from the looking glass, so I couldn’t make out their face.
I thought at first it was another of the maidens, come to sabotage you, but they didn’t do anything malignant that I could see.
Just stood there, rifling around as if searching for something. ”
She blinked, the motion traveling all the way down her slight frame like a reed quivering in the wind. At her words, I felt the flesh on my arms prickle with goose bumps. They didn’t do anything…just stood…as if searching for something.
Near your desk , she’d said. Besides Ophelia’s dresses, I did not have much of value stowed within my quarters—though there was one object that could have drawn an intruder.
My candle. Fear surged toward me like a moth from the corner of a room.
For most of my stay in Fortblanche, I’d been careful to keep it stowed out of sight within my desk drawer—but in the flurry of preparations for the ball, I realized with a jolt of horror, I’d forgotten.
I recalled its white flame winking at me through the dark when I’d returned to my bedroom after Eliot’s and my kiss, the slips of paper curled like dead flies around it.
Had someone been searching for it?
I swatted the worry forcibly away. If the person Marie-Louise had seen had come looking for my candle, they would have taken it.
And besides, I was supposed to be through with these conspiracies.
I’d told myself I had finished with Eliot’s investigation after learning of his deception, and I’d meant it.
I would not allow him—or anyone else—to pull me backin.
“I am sure it was only a maid,” I said placatingly. “Perhaps a servant thought they heard something in my room and wished to check.”
The Owl seemed unconvinced, but she nodded, preparing to turn away. Before she could shut her door, I stepped forward, my hand catching the knob. “Marie-Louise?”
She looked back at me, her eyes questioning.
I smiled at her, meeting her stare. “Good game, Miss Rochefort.”
On her side of the threshold, I saw her knuckles tighten round the doorknob, and for a brief moment, it felt as though we were joined—connected, somehow, through the barrier of the wood. She returned my smile, her lips thin. “Good game, Miss Lovett.”
—
I was summoned to my appointment with Noé around dusk, Bernard appearing grouchily to retrieve me from my bedroom.
I expected to be led to the Alaires’ formal dining room, was surprised when we instead ascended Fortblanche’s westernmost and largest spire, an area of the estate I’d avoided in my exploration.
To my knowledge, it contained only family chambers—Bastian Alaire’s quarters as well as his son’s, neither of which I’d been bold enough to enter even if my Wit would have allowed me to do so.
Unlike the tower that held Eliot’s and my meeting place, this turret was well maintained, its walls hung with portraits.
The majority of the paintings depicted bridal or family scenes, similar to those I’d glimpsed elsewhere in the house—generations of Alaires and their wives gazing stoically out toward the viewer, their hands bound with faintly glowing magesilk as they clutched one another.
Latticed windows overlooked the ocean below, a few set with stained glass flowers in shades of indigo and lapis blue.
We came to a halt at the top of the spire, before a solitary door.
The wood was the distinctive matte black of Stravastian fallownut—exceedingly rare, found only in the distant mountains of my father’s home nation—and carved with a design of cresting waves and hanging moons. Where was I being taken, exactly?
Bernard answered for me, approaching the doorway and turning the knob. “The young master prefers to dine in his private quarters tonight.”
The door creaked open: an invitation. A sitting room peeked through the gap, a tiered brass chandelier throwing light on a plush sofa upholstered in canary yellow and a matching set of armchairs, a powder-blue rug beneath them.
The sight of it set my teeth on edge. Noé wished for me to meet him here ?
Move, Lovett. Just as I’d done with Marie-Louise earlier, I cast aside my worries. You will dine where he wishes. You’ve come too far to turn back now.
Smiling wanly at Bernard, I dipped my head in farewell and stepped through the door.
Noé was not inside the sitting room. I had not seen him from the landing, but a part of me had hoped he’d be tucked into a corner somewhere, grinning at me with a full dinner spread before him.
Hesitantly, I edged farther into the space, eyeing a second door, which was propped open along the back wall, leading into what I presumed was the bedroom.
My stomach dropped when a voice drifted out from it, resonant and full.
“Come in, Miss Lovett.”
A bilious taste curdling on my tongue, my mouth going dry.
My limbs moved reluctantly, as if I were walking through mud; step by clumsy step, I forced myself onward until I was at the threshold of the second room, my hand flat against the door’s wooden face.
With a push, it lolled open, and I held my breath against the onslaught of images that filled my head—Noé reclining on a bed, ushering me closer…
I blinked, an exhale hissing through my nostrils.
The space beyond the door was indeed a bedroom; my dinner companion, though, was nowhere to be found.
Brow furrowing, I entered, taking in the four-poster bed (unmade, its silk sheets rumpled), the elegant side table (stacked high with books, a few with ribbons stuck between their pages like forked tongues), the fireplace hidden by a filigreed grate.
No candle , I noted, though that in itself did not mean much.
The bedroom was large; I was certain its hiding spots were as numerous as mouseholes.
Was it possible I’d imagined Noé’s voice summoning me here?
“Out here.”
Another call, nearer this time. My head snapped toward the window—open, I now noticed, its drapes billowing gently in the breeze. Crossing toward it, I poked my head over the sill, gazing, perplexed, toward the sea below.
“There you are.”
I nearly lost my grip on the window ledge when I saw not the choppy, shale-colored ocean I was expecting, but Noé, his chin tilted to smile up at me.
Four or so feet down, a bay window had been built into the curved side of the turret, its crenellated roof forming a compact landing of sorts.
Noé was seated on it, leaning against the tower wall with his head thrown back, a lit cigarette leaking a steady trail of smoke in his right hand.
Beside him, a checkered napkin had been spread out, an open wicker basket placed alongside it.
I glimpsed half of a crusty baguette amongst its contents, as well as a block of hard cheese wrapped in waxed cloth, a profusion of grapes.
Stubbing his cigarette out, Noé stood, offering me his hand.
“Did I frighten you?” he asked as I grasped it, swinging my legs over the windowsill and dropping down.
My heart fluttered briefly as I left the safe confines of the turret—as the wind gripped me, rougher and wilder at this height than I was accustomed to—but then Noé was catching my waist, balancing me atop the roof’s flat surface.