Chapter Thirty #2
“Apologies,” he said, his mouth close to my ear, his words stripped to nearly a whisper by the breeze. “I wanted to show you my favorite place.”
His black hair was untamed and alive, ebony tendrils gusting across his face and tangling with my brown ones, a few strands of which had ripped free of my caul and now waved in the air between us.
Perhaps it was only the heady, intoxicating flush of adrenaline—of soaring near death’s shadow and escaping unscathed—but standing with him in that second, I felt drunk on his image: his skin, whipped red by the wind, the liquid shine of his eyes like sparkling gray pebbles.
The landing was narrow enough that the two of us together took up most of it, the wicker basket tucked, forgotten, behind his legs and empty air all around us, just he and I at the end of the world.
He laughed at my dazed expression, the pad of his thumb digging into my hip bone, and the sensation brought me back to myself. Shaking my head, I pressed a palm to my cheek and carefully sat down, my skirts forming a cushion between my body and the hard, cold stone.
“This spot is your favorite?” I asked, pulling my knees against my chest to make room for him to sit beside me. “It’s beautiful, but rather well hidden, no? I never would have found you, had you not called for me.”
Reaching into the basket, Noé unearthed a bottle of white wine from its bottom and uncorked it, swigging directly from its long neck before passing it to me.
Beads of alcohol clung to his jaw, running down his neck like clear spring water.
“On the contrary,” he replied as I took the wine from him, the glass slick and frosty against my palms. “It is here where I feel the most seen.”
He nodded out toward the sea, the split yolk of the setting sun dripping over the waves. “She is the only beast I’ve met whose moods are fickler than mine.”
I took a shallow sip from the bottle, savoring its crisp tartness, then rested it beside me and rubbed at my arms. The rush of exhilaration that had filled me upon my leap from the turret had begun to wane, and with its fading, the dusk’s chill had rushed in, settling damply over me.
Noé winced guiltily when he noticed my shivering.
Shrugging off his suit jacket, he motioned for me to shift forward.
The satin lining was warm as he wrapped it around my shoulders, sewn with his bodyheat.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said, drawing back. “I was worried you wouldn’t. That perhaps you thought me cruel, for my mistreatment of our mutual friend.”
I glanced sidelong at him, unnerved by his frankness. It was true, there was a part of me that, despite threatening to do the very same only a night prior, had not relished in seeing Eliot so aggravated—that, in fact, had been pained by his abrupt departure. Still…
“The first time you and I spoke privately, I told you how I stole from Mr.Lear to find a secret for your trial,” I replied, my tone guarded. “I have no room to judge you.”
“And yet you cannot help but do so.” Noé smiled thinly at me, chuckling when I seized up in protest. “It is fine,” he said, waving off my apology. “I am judging myself, too.”
Reaching over me, he took another drink of wine, his knuckles white around the bottle’s neck.
“Eliot and I were raised in similar manners, by similar fathers,” he continued.
“But while our friend would never admit it, Reginald has permitted Eliot a measure of freedom that my own father never has. He has been allowed to engage in his small acts of rebellion—to put off marriage, though he is his father’s only heir—and I’ll admit, at times, I’ve grown enviousof him.
Of how little he appreciates the gifts he’s been handed. ”
Turning, Noé leaned his shoulder against the turret wall so that his features were no longer in profile, but rather facing me directly. He was startlingly close, much more so than I’d realized, like the ground rushing up after a fall.
“In Eliot’s mind, it would be preferable to let you go than risk another accident such as that which befell Miss Dabos,” he said. “And if it is your wish to leave Fortblanche, I will not stop you—yet perhaps it is my own selfishness, but I cannot make myself banish you so easily.
“Is it really so terrible,” he murmured, his gaze tracing me, “that I wish to claim a single good thing as my own?”
I swallowed, abruptly dizzy, though I’d only had a sip of the wine. “I’m afraid I am no good thing, sir.”
He smirked. “Only the truly good refuse to recognize themselves as such,” he rebutted evenly. “There is kindness in you, Miss Lovett. I have seen it.”
His stare was unwavering, intrusive in its consistency—I was afraid if I let it linger any longer, it would cut all the way to my heart, reveal the sins I kept tucked like shadows behind it. I turned my chin away, uncomfortable.
“You disagree?” Noé’s voice was amused. My entire body tensed as he moved closer, his fingers finding one of the locks of hair that had fallen from my caul and brushing its end over his palm, almost absentmindedly.
“I may not have my father’s omniscience, Miss Lovett, but I am still quite observant,” he said softly. “Perhaps I know better than you.”
My nerves felt shocked by cold, my awareness distilled to the sight of my hair lying, loose and free, against his skin.
Only a fortnight ago, I would have thought nothing of the gesture, and yet now it felt wholly scandalous, as intimate as a kiss.
I could smell the char of his cigarette—knew that if I but shifted toward him, it would envelop me, like the fragrant smoke of a cleansing fire.
The notion was tempting, different from my attraction to Eliot, but nearly as powerful.
With Eliot, I felt inescapably myself, known and knowing in a terrible and honest way, as if we were members of the same species—each of our flaws reflected in the other.
By contrast, Noé’s confidence was obfuscating, eclipsing me like the moon.
As if it could bury me and redeem me, mold me into someone new.
I wanted to lean into it—to become the girl he promised me I was, good and kind and true. But even as I tried, I sensed it: a weakness within me, like a trapdoor, primed to drop out from under my feet.
Doubt. And it would not mend unless I patched it.
“Noé,” I said, pulling away and weaving the loose hair hurriedly back into the confines of my caul.
My companion arched a brow at my use of his first name, his silver eyes hooded, but did not correct me.
“Forgive me if I am speaking out of turn, but…you referred to Miss Dabos’s passing just now,” I ventured, feigning uneasiness.
“Grateful as I am to you and your father for allowing the rest of us maidens to continue on with the competition, I’ll admit that I’ve wondered—well, has there been no discussion of canceling the remainder of the proceedings, as was done during Ophelia Lear’s Vainglory? ”
Noé slumped back against the stone, allowing the distance between us to yawn wider.
His fingers intertwined over the cap of his left knee, his expression contemplative.
“Last year was different,” he replied carefully.
“My father called off the competition out of respect for Reginald, but besides that…” His nose wrinkled.
“He had advantages then which he does not now. Time, for one.”
“Time?” I echoed. “Time for what?”
“Many things,” Noé answered vaguely. “Mostly, though…” His knuckles strained over his knee, pale skin whitening further.
“The hair my mother gave was plentiful enough to sustain us for my youth, but a little over a year ago our stock ran out. Since then, he’s made due selling pieces our artisans had already crafted, though… ”
Shrugging, he bent to pick at a thread near his right trouser cuff.
“The marriage edicts specify that each Weaver may take only one bride over the course of his life—only one and no more. My father’s talents are impressive, but without a silkwitch providing fresh hair for our artisans to spin on our wheels, my family’s income will soon dry up,” he admitted.
“I am the only unmarried Weaver left in our line, meaning I am my father’s only chance at reversing our fortunes.
To speak candidly, I think he would be willing to let all the rest of you remaining in the competition die but one if it meant I’d marry the girl left standing. ”
I raised a brow. “And do you think there is any danger of that, sir?” I asked.
Noé flushed as if realizing his overstep. “No—of course not,” he assured me. “I only meant…” He drifted off, gnawing at his lip. “Apologies,” he began again a few seconds later. “I was simply being morbid. I promise you, Miss Lovett, you are quite safe here.”
My nerves tingled as he spoke. Taken alone, Noé’s words were comforting; his demeanor, though, lacked the confidence of his statement. The louche ease with which he usually held himself was absent—rather, he almost appeared…Was it afraid?
I decided to test him and find out. “But how can you expect me and the other girls to feel certain of that when the details of Sybil’s death are shrouded in such mystery?
” I pushed. “You mentioned yesterday that her body was found in a restricted area. My first night at Fortblanche, I stumbled upon something odd—a tunnel, hidden inside a workroom in the far reaches of the estate. I wanted to ask you about it, but Mr. Lear advised me otherwise—said you were too busy to bother with a maiden’s petty concerns.
” Pulling Noé’s jacket tighter around myself, I flicked my gaze toward my feet as if anxious. “Was it there where Sybil died?”
Noé’s jaw tightened, his head swinging to look out over the ocean.
I hoped by playing up Eliot’s discouragement of my question, I could goad him into answering—but perhaps he knew his friend too well to be fooled by my spur-of-the-moment fabrication.
The cold wine bottle had rolled to press against my thigh, and I attempted to focus on it, on the damp bleed of moisture through my skirts, rather than the dismissal I was sure would follow any moment.
My heart twisted when Noé sighed, his shoulders drooping in a tired sag.
“Yes,” he said, and the single word—so begrudgingly spoken—set my nerves ablaze.
“I didn’t realize you’d ventured there—if Lear had told me, I’d have encouraged him to warn you against it.
That part of the house is ancient, as is the corrupted magic that built it.
There are frequent cave-ins…” His throat bobbed hard as he swallowed.
“My father believes Miss Dabos was the victim of one.” He grimaced.
“Why she was in the area to begin with, though, or how she gained entrance…Those questions remain unanswered.”
If you know the way through, it would benefit both of us to share it.
I curled my nails into my palm to keep from flinching, Sybil’s voice a crash of salt water in my ear.
The day before her death, she’d interrogated me about the tunnels—had seemed to be searching for something there, an object she worried I’d found first. Was it the same one my correspondent had written me about the following night?
If I closed my eyes, I knew I would find their messages awaiting me, written in ash across the backs of my eyelids.
Did you take it?
You have no idea what you’ve done.
I fought my suspicions down. As far as I could gather, Noé had no reason to lie to me about the location of Sibyl’s passing, but neither could I accept his word as law without proof.
Perhaps he’d simply taken the explanation I’d provided him and thrown it back at me.
It was what I would have done, had our situations been reversed.
“Your father believes Sybil died in a cave-in?” I asked abruptly.
When Noé glanced at me sidelong, I flushed.
“Forgive me,” I said, ducking my chin. “It is just…You must admit, sir, it is an odd word to choose. If it was a collapse that killed Sybil, would the evidence not have been obvious?” Hesitantly, I leaned forward, aware that I was pressing yet unable to retreat. “Have you seen the body yourself?”
Noé was looking at me directly now, his gaze intent and inscrutable, and under it, my resolve weakened.
What was I trying to accomplish, prying in this manner?
He’d invited me to his quarters, had given me a leg up in the competition I claimed to want to win—and I was ruining it all for the sake of an investigation I’d told Eliot I was through with.
Suddenly irritated with myself, I stood, swaying a little in the buffeting wind.
“Forgive me,” I repeated. “I’m not sure what’s come over me—I should be going. ”
“Miss Lovett.” Noé’s hand caught my ankle, pausing me midturn.
Alarmed, I looked down. Caught in the gloaming, he was almost unrecognizable, his features draped in foreboding like that of an oracle, of a raven perched ominously outside a window.
“If you repeat any of this, I will deny it,” he said, his voice low.
“Sybil Dabos’s death was a terrible tragedy.
But…she was a strong-willed girl—the type of girl who ventured where she was warned not to.
Perhaps she relished in her defiance; perhaps she thought the worst it could bring her was a few newenemies. ”
His grip tightened around my leg, his forehead creasing.
“This house is old, and there are things in it which even I cannot protect you from,” he went on roughly. “Forces that grow without light, which have been festering in the shadows for a very long time. And they, Miss Lovett, do not make enemies. They kill them.”