Chapter Thirty-Seven
We planned to leave at midnight, once the rest of Fortblanche had gone to sleep and the estate was ours to explore.
Upon departing my room, Eliot agreed to pass word to Noé that I was faring well but needed undisturbed rest in order to assure a complete mental recovery from Dorian’s assault.
All going well, Eliot would return to fetch me in only a few hours’ time.
It was just enough to accomplish what I needed.
Clio Lavoie took several minutes to come to her door.
It was only after I’d knocked for the third time that the knob finally twisted, my fellow maiden appearing, tired-eyed and scowling, in the threshold beyond.
Her lustrous, dark hair was bound in loose white netting for slumber, her olive skin tinged with an unhealthy pallor.
Her nighttime ventures in the tunnels, it seemed, had taken their toll.
I smiled cheerfully at her. “Hello.”
Clio blinked at me slowly. “You’re alive, then,” she said. “They told us you’d had an accident during the last test.”
She did not seem pleased by the revelation.
“As are you,” I replied, my tone unchanged. “I see you passed the fourth trial.”
Manon had not. I’d been saddened when Eliot had broken the news to me, though part of me wondered if the other girl’s poor performance had been by her own design.
Whether, with Anais gone and the prospect of marriage to Noé looming closer than ever, she’d simply felt that she had nothing left to fight for.
In front of me, Clio arched a brow, and I focused back on her. “I was fortunate enough to be visited by a helpful spirit this morning,” she said in a dry, level tone. “They warned me that the test was approaching but disappeared before I could thank them.”
A thrill went through me at the implication in her words—my ploy had worked—but I crushed it down. “That is lucky,” I agreed. “Though I have heard that spirits sometimes ask favors in return for their aid.”
Her face slackened. “What do you want?”
“Nothing much.” I rested a hand on the doorframe, checking to ensure the hallway was still free of servants before continuing. “I want to know why Dorian Drake has you scouring Fortblanche for a key Sybil Dabos supposedly stole.”
Clio’s features lit as if illuminated by a bolt of lightning, her expression stark with fear. “I can’t give you that.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” I edged closer. “Because, in the case of the latter, I certainly can and will tell Noé where you got your information this morning, should you choose to be withholding.”
“I can’t ,” Clio hissed. Her dark brows had drawn together, like a flat line underscoring her refusal. “You may tell Noé whatever you like. It is not to him that I gave my word.”
My fingers tightened over the wood. “Who did you give it to, then?” I pressed. “His father?”
She hesitated, her gaze flicking over me, her lips pressed into a stern, pale grimace. I bit back the urge to question her again, afraid that if I did, my desperation would become too obvious, my bargaining power crumbling like a castle made of sand.
“Come up with another favor,” Clio said tersely after a beat of silence. “So long as it stands less a chance of killing me than this one, I’ll do it.”
I whipped my hand back as she slammed her door, its hard edge clipping my fingertips and sending a sharp pain through me.
Drawing a breath, I tucked my thumb between my teeth and sucked at it, glaring resentfully at the solid wood boundary in front of me.
Whether Clio locked me out or not, it would make no difference—I could enter either way, and we both knew it.
Yet my Wit was not Anais’s; I could breach the other maiden’s boundaries, but unless she confessed whatever Dorian had told her willingly, I couldn’t breach her mind.
And I sensed, for the moment at least, her lips were shut tight.
Retreating down the hall, I returned to my room, frowning as I took in the library book and candle still lying on the floor. The evidence Eliot and I had gone over—after he’d departed, I hadn’t bothered to tidy it up.
I set the book in my trunk but took the candle to my desk, still unsettled by the sight of it after my correspondent’s last message. When I pulled out the drawer to stow it away, I stopped.
Tucked into the compartment’s back corner was a slip of paper, folded neatly in two. It was larger than the scrolls from my correspondent, its edge ragged as if torn.
Had I put it there? Now that I considered it, I hadn’t opened the drawer since just before Sybil’s death—the night of the Midway Ball.
The thought pulled free another: Marie-Louise, whispering to me the day of her departure. They were standing near your desk…rifling around as if searching for something . The intruder she’d seen through my mirror—I’d never figured out what they’d come for.
I eyed the open drawer again. Near my desk…
Curious, I tugged the paper free and started to skim the message.
A minute or so later, a muted knock on my door startled me. Eliot. Gathering myself, I set the note down. I did not have time to consider its contents now.
Now—for better or for worse—I would once more place myself in the questionable, self-serving hands of Eliot Lear.
—
He came in the dark, like a raven all dressed in black, waiting solemnly just beyond my door.
I exited my room quietly, careful as I turned the knob, easing the latch closed behind me with a muted click .
He’d been carrying clothes with him when he knocked—a maid’s uniform, sized for a person much smaller than he—and I felt odd wearing it, as if, for the second time since entering Fortblanche, I’d slipped out of my own skin and into another’s.
My hair, I’d bound in a braid to complete my disguise; if any other servants passed me in the dark, they’d know I was out of place immediately if I’d worn a caul.
It was peculiar: For most of my life, this had been my usual style, and yet now…without the netting containing my tresses, I felt naked, the brush of my plait against the back of my neck a constant reminder of my out-of-placeness.
I was changing, and I was aware that this change was partially a result of Eliot’s influence—knew that he had both softened and hardened me, as liquor emboldens and impairs a drunk in equal measure. All of this I understood, and yet the single discovery that eluded me was how to stop it.
Without the usual bustle of servants, the corridor felt deserted. Eliot did not speak when he’d fetched me; rather, he’d simply placed a finger against his lips and then nodded for me to follow, his departing strides long enough that I almost had to run to keep up.
Once we reached the end of the passage, Eliot hung back, allowing me to take the lead.
Wordlessly, I guided him through the estate, the echo of our footsteps dangerously loud in the velvet silence.
Every other minute, I felt the bud of panic in my chest threaten to bloom at the idea of the Weaver King happening upon us, his presence cutting through my mind like a knife, but no interruption came.
The house was peaceful and dim, barely stirring beneath the light of the Woven lantern I carried.
When we arrived at the magesilk workroom, I strode past the empty pegs and the covered spinning wheels, all the way to the back of the space.
Pushing aside the tapestry, I found the seam of the hidden stone door behind it and summoned my Wit, apprehension coiling in me as it creaked inward to reveal the carved maw of the tunnel entrance waiting beyond it.
Behind me, Eliot made an audible noise in the back of histhroat.
“How many passages like this are there?” he murmured. His voice was low, but it carried in the quiet. I turned over my shoulder to look back at him.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I’ve only found the one.”
But judging by the number of archways in the atrium below, I would be unsurprised to discover more. Possibly dozens more.
How many secrets was Fortblanche hiding?
My heart thumped a panicked, erratic beat in my chest as I stepped over the threshold and placed my foot on the first stair, gripping my lantern tight.
The black air swallowed me—like stagnant water, cold and lifeless—and I stiffened, all too aware of Eliot’s presence lingering to my back.
When I glanced at him again, he nodded, a wordless confirmation; then, in unison, we began to move.
We walked slowly to start, like a pair from a funeral procession, gradually increasing our pace once I’d found my footing.
Even with the Woven lantern washing the tunnel in its ghostly light, the darkness surrounding us was oppressive—flat and clinging in comparison to the blue fuzz of night, like a slick of oil upon the water.
I forced myself onward, the echo of Eliot’s footsteps against the stone the sole proof of his continued presence to my back.
When the path beneath us began to level out and I could see the faint curve of the atrium archway up ahead, I paused. My lantern bobbed like a lure in front of me, long-fingered shadows reaching out to press icy palms against my heart.
I flinched as, like a phantom, Eliot appeared out of the gloom, advancing to stand beside me. “What’s the matter? You’ve stopped.”
His question irked me, though I knew there was no malice in it. I shot him a reproachful glare. “Nothing.”
He lifted a brow, meeting my gaze. “Well, go on, then,” he challenged. After another moment had passed and I’d still made no move, he shifted toward me, frustratingly calm. “You realize we don’t have much time.”