Chapter Thirty-Five
Anais’s bedroom door was open when I made it back to our corridor, her quarters empty and entirely unoccupied.
Though on the one hand, I was glad I hadn’t been present to face her wrath at being dismissed from the competition, another vengeful part of me wished her to know it was my words that had resulted in her exit.
That the orphan she’d shunned in the library was now one of three maidens remaining in Fortblanche, while she, for all her calculations, was on her way home.
Still, I couldn’t condemn her completely. Her treatment of me—and of Manon, for that matter—had been cruel, but her motivations were the same as the rest of ours.
I’d never asked her age. I wasn’t sure how many years she had left until the cloisters claimed her, but I hoped, after this was all over, she would take Manon up on her offer and flee upcoast before the time came.
Love aside, she seemed like the type who could benefit from some mellowing seaside air.
Apart from mine, only two bedrooms along this hall remained in use: Manon’s and Clio’s. Only two girls standing between me and my goal.
And I had business with one of them.
I slipped the note beneath Clio’s door, then turned away without knocking. Fourth trial , it read. Individual assessment. Be ready.
Guilt briefly rankled me as I bypassed Manon’s room, no similar warning in hand for her.
But it had been Clio’s name Dorian had called out in the tunnels last night; therefore, it was Clio whom I needed to pass the Alaires’ next test, so that when she did, she would be forced to credit her victory partially to me.
Unlike Manon, Clio was prickly. In all probability, she would not answer any questions I asked her about her business with Dorian unless she felt she owed me a debt. Which left me no choice but to force one on her.
I only hoped it would be enough.
Task complete, I retreated to my chamber, wrinkling my nose at the stale, smoky scent that greeted me.
Unlatching my window, I bathed in the briny ocean air that wafted in, then crossed to my bed, at last stripping off my nightgown.
As it puddled at my feet, I heard a muffled clink from its folds; curious, I bent down, examining the object that had fallen from the garment’s pocket.
I drew back as soon as I touched it, as if burned. Resting on my floor was a familiar, tarnished bronze coin.
Kneeling, I examined it. Though the token was identical to the one I’d discovered in Sybil’s room, I recognized it—immediately, illogically—as my own, given to me by Eliot my first morning at Fortblanche.
It was like there was a thin, buzzing field of energy laid over the coin’s surface; it snapped against my finger when I brushed it, a sparking connection I hadn’t felt with Sybil’s.
Some kind of bond formed by the magic living within it, I guessed, yet even so—how had it made its way back to me?
The last time I’d seen the coin, it had been lying abandoned in the turret room, tossed away by me after I’d broken my bargain with Eliot.
My hand rose absently to my shoulder. At once, I remembered Eliot knocking me unceremoniously aside as he’d made for the door. I’d assumed the action had been one of anger,but…
Perhaps I am not so vengeful as you. His words needled me as I placed the coin carefully into my palm. The feel of the metal in my hand was comforting, like the drowsy heat of a sun-warmed stone, and a gentle sort of softness expanded within me. It seemed as though I wasn’t as alone as I’d thought.
I dressed quickly, in a gingham frock with pearl buttons trailing all the way to my middle.
I set the token on my bedside table as I changed, observing it from the corner of my eye as I brushed my hair out, then bound it once more in a caul.
To bring the coin with me, or to leave it?
The glint of the metal seemed almost sly as I debated, as if it knew something I didnot.
Another burst of rapping on my door made my decision for me. Reacting on instinct, I swept the coin fluidly into my pocket before I could reconsider, patting it once to ensure it was secure, and then went to receive my visitor.
In the second after I opened the door, I wondered if I’d been caught. Leaning against the doorframe, louche and untidy with his mussed hair and his loosened ascot, was DorianDrake.
He grinned at me, a toothy, lupine smirk. Shifting his weight, he readjusted his position so that his left arm was braced at the top of the door, his body blocking the corridor beyond from view. “Surprise.”
The greeting was sardonic when uttered by him, as if even it, he found hopelessly dull.
I blinked, any potential response rendered abruptly incoherent by the suddenness of his appearance. Eliot’s advance warning had meant I’d known to expect him, yet I hadn’t anticipated our meeting occurring so soon, and now I found myself at a loss for words.
Dorian seemed amused by my silence, his blue eyes twinkling. His height was such that he took up the entire doorway, my gaze level with his waistcoated chest. “Come now, Miss Lovett,” he said, clucking his tongue admonishingly. “You can do better than that. Are you not happy to see me?”
You think you can keep yourself from me? His taunt from the tunnels echoed harshly in my ears; for a moment, I resistedthe urge to yank the door shut and close him out entirely, and then I gathered myself. “I assumed Bernard would be the one to fetch us for our next trial.”
“Ah, but the butler is such a poor conversationalist—so stiff, you know, so rigid ,” Dorian replied, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
“I’ve surely saved you from a disappointing walk.
” Dropping his arm, he stood back, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets.
“This test is to be an individual one,” he elaborated, his voice, which had sharpened as he’d been speaking, slipping back into a disinterested monotone.
“You will be guided through a series of challenges, customized to test your Wit. I’ll be your chaperone through them.
” Jerking his chin, he motioned toward the far end of the hallway. “Come, let’s goexplore.”
He strode off without waiting for me, leaving me with little choice but to follow after him.
Though I didn’t reach for it, I could feel the slap of the coin in my dress pocket as I moved, and its presence filled me with a begrudging gratitude toward Eliot.
I did not like the idea of using it, lest my calling for him result in my falling back into his debt, but still—it was a mild relief to know the option was there.
Dorian’s pace was ambling, his demeanor unhurried as we strode through the estate.
For all his talk of conversation skills, he made no attempt to speak to me as we walked, cutting an occasional wordless glance over his shoulder to ensure I was still behind him.
Gradually, we passed out of the square of open-air corridors that held the maidens’ bedrooms and further into the house until, after a few minutes, Dorian came to a stop in front of a plain, unadorned door.
He nodded at the knob. “Open it.”
Arching a surreptitious brow at him, I did.
On the other side, a narrow set of stairs extended—a servants’ stairway, I guessed, leading up to the third floor.
Was that where the trial was to be held?
With a grunt of approval, Dorian sidled past me and started unceremoniously up it, turning to beckon at me a second later.
“Your haste is appreciated, Miss Lovett. We have a great deal of ground to cover.”
Reluctantly, I followed after him. We exited at the top of the steps into a crooked passage, lancet windows spilling stained glass light onto the granite floor.
At the end of it stood another door, this one even plainer, its paint more faded than its predecessor’s.
When we reached it, Dorian signaled for me to continue on, and, unsure how to protest, I obeyed.
Several more times, we cycled through the same pattern— him leading us to a door, me turning the knob, us passing through to whatever lay on the other side—until, somewhere on Fortblanche’s third level, I lost my bearings.
Were we still making our way to the test, I wondered—or was this the course the judge had spoken of when he’d fetched me?
Opening a series of doors? After the illusory landscapes and midnight abductions of the third trial, it seemed unusually pedestrian.
Eventually, I broke the silence.
“Is this the entirety of the trial?”
We’d stopped in front of yet another doorway, the estate sleepy around us. Above our heads, the ceiling peaked; through the ever-slimming windows, I caught a dizzying glimpse of the sea, like a distant gray meadow far below us.
Dorian seemed unruffled by my inquiry. “Not at all,” he replied, his eyes lingering for a moment on my crossed arms before rising to meet my gaze. “There is also a component involving attitude.”
He smirked when I flinched, dropping my hands to my sides.
Clearing his throat, he gestured to the door waiting a few steps ahead. “Now that one, please.”
Reluctantly, I twisted the knob, tensing as, without resistance, the door creaked open. Pale sunlight flooded out from beyond it like an unstopped jug; I squinted as I stepped over the threshold, the brightness like that of a Woven object, stamping white into my vision.
As my eyes slowly adjusted, I saw that the space appeared to be a music room: In one corner, a sleek black piano stood proudly, the parlor’s dominant feature.
A settee and a couple of chairs were arranged at the room’s opposite end, like a happy clutch of partygoers.
Illumination poured in from the windows surrounding them—arched and grand, their prominence making the skinny lancet-style ones we’d passed on our ascent seem malnourished by comparison.
I turned in a slow circle, my initial awe quickly curdling as a realization descended upon me. “There are no other doors in here.”