Chapter Thirty-Nine
I made it back to my bedroom undetected.
It seemed unfair—the ease with which I moved through the empty halls.
Past the lancet windows, an early-morning fog had wrapped Fortblanche like a white stole; inside, the atmosphere was drowsy and lethargic, as if the estate were squinting away from the rising sun, still hungover with the previous night.
How had no one noticed it, I wondered—the jolt when I’d plunged over the edge of the cliffside with Eliot and then come back?
It felt too monumental to be so easily missed; it felt, to me, as though the corridors I passed through on my way to my room and the ones I traversed hours ago in the dark were not the same at all.
Like a dividing line cutting through history: yesterday evening, I had existed squarely in one realm, one era, and today…
Today, I did not know where I was.
By the time I was safely behind my own door again, dawn had fully broken.
I didn’t bother climbing into my bed, instead immediately setting myself to the task of preparing for breakfast. I’d barely managed to tame my hair—snarled and tangled where Eliot’s fingers had raked through it, though I did my best to forget that—into a caul when Bernard made his appearance in our hallway, knocking on my door and summoning me to come out.
I met Clio’s gaze before falling into step behind her.
Walking together in our little line of two felt strange, as if we were stray ducklings, wandered off from our flock.
More than once, I twitched around at the phantom sound of Marie-Louise’s prim footsteps behind me, or the apologetic murmur of Manon accidentally colliding with the girl in front of her, her nose buried in one of her books.
Even if the structure of the Vainglory had not necessitated their departure—if all of us were still here together—I could not have confided in any of my fellow maidens about Eliot, I knew that.
I was but one blade in a savage set, several of them far wickeder than I.
In all probability, my competitors would have dashed off to tell Noé of my tryst before the tale had finished falling from my lips, the same way I’d done to Anais.
No, the alliances I’d formed at Fortblanche had always been destined to break.
Yet for the first time, though I would not bend to it, I understood Eliot’s position—his refusal to marry, regardless of the emotions he held in his heart.
With fewer Weavers than silkwitches, and our futures entirely dependent on securing a husband, we would always be like foxes in a trap, chewing off our legs for a chance at safety.
I did not blame any of the others for their choices, no more than I blamed myself. But…a private part of me mourned for them, for us. For the friendships we might have had, had society not forced us into the role of enemies.
“Cecilia!”
The sound of my false name sparked a moment of dissonance within me, a halving as if I were being separated into two. When I came back together, I stopped, turning in the direction of the voice.
My heart leapt when I saw Noé striding quickly toward our group, elegant in a black suit, an ascot cinched around his neck. He grinned at me as my gaze met his, the ivory gleam of his teeth so bold, it was startling, like the glare of the sun appearing from behind a cloud.
He paused when he reached us, nodding curtly toward Clio, who had already dropped into a curtsy. I noticed that he was carrying a book in his hand, a slim clothbound volume in an elegant sapphire blue, and illogically, my mind jumped back to Eliot: He picked up many of his better habits from me.
My pulse reacted, speeding at the memory. Sisters three, I could feel him there next to me, and I wondered helplessly if this is how it would always be from now on. Like he was the lake I skated across, ready, at the first crack in the ice, to reach up and pull me back to him.
“Bernard,” Noé was saying, back in the present. His free hand was on my elbow—how had I missed him putting it there? “Miss Lavoie, I hope you won’t mind if I steal Miss Lovett for a moment.”
The butler murmured his assent, though I caught Clio’s look of displeasure before she hurriedly swept it away, fixing in its place an empty, cordial mask. Pleased, Noé gently flexed his grip on my arm, prompting me to follow him.
As soon as we were out of sight, his demeanor shifted, like a dog shaking water from its coat. The buoyancy vanished from his stride, his features sharpening with a previously unseen alertness. I stiffened reflexively as, midway along the corridor we’d turned down, he drew to a sudden halt.
“Are you all right?” His voice was gruff, and for a moment I was terrified he’d seen it—the mark his friend had left on me, staining my skin like berry juice.
It seemed a long time ago now that I’d woken with Eliot’s arms wrapped around me, his lashes closed in slumber and his warmth bleeding through my nightgown.
I can no longer pretend that I do not love you. I forced his words down like bile; like bile, they threatened to come backup.
Hurriedly, I blinked back my anxieties before they could show. “Excuse me?”
Noé’s skin flushed; stepping away, he dropped my elbow to run a hand through his waves. “I should have called yesterday, I realize,” he said, averting his gaze. “Eliot said you’d requested solitude, but I…”
He paused, his jaw flexing as if in decision.
“Miss Lovett, I need you to know, Dorian has been dismissed from the estate grounds,” he said. “I escorted him out myself last night—you have nothing to fear from him any longer.”
Swallowing took effort. Amongst all Eliot and I had discovered yesterday, the other judge’s attack had all but faded from my mind, though I had no desire to reveal as much to Noé. “Thank you, sir,” I managed. “I am well.”
I felt a needle of guilt at the genuine relief I saw crystallizing in my companion’s expression. “Good,” he breathed. Rubbing absently at his neck, he repeated the word, as if speaking to himself. “Good.”
Briefly, his attention retreated to the middle distance. I had a half urge to turn and gaze after him, but before I could act, he was snapping back to himself—his jovial facade dented but in place once more. Nudging me, he smiled.
“No lucky coin today?” When I paled, he added hurriedly, “My father mentioned you used one against him during his trial. I assume that’s what you were carrying when Dorian—” He broke off, wincing. “When I found you,” he finished gently.
My shoulders relaxed. “No, sir,” I confirmed with a weak smile of my own. “It seems that its luck has run out.”
Noé chuckled. “Of course,” he returned, nodding. “Listen—Miss Lovett, I…”
Another pause stole the remainder of his sentence. There was, overall, a strange brittleness to Bastian’s heir’s disposition this morning, I decided, and against my will I felt my curiosity spark. Had the incident between Dorian and me truly disturbed him so?
As if sensing my thoughts, Noé cleared his throat and began again.
“Miss Lovett,” he resumed. “I know that you and I haven’t spoken much of emotions, but if you want…
” He hesitated, an almost bashful flush coloring the skin above his cravat.
“Well, I know what I want. And if you’d like, I wanted to tell you that victory is yours. ”
We were positioned directly opposite one another, his head craned toward mine and his lips close—nearer even than he’d been when he’d held me in the music parlor, not even a full day ago.
I could hear the walloping thump of my heart against my rib cage and prayed that if he could, too, he would take it as a sign of tenderness toward him, rather than the truth.
The splitting sensation I’d experienced upon hearing him call out to me had returned; I was half with him, half tumbling backward, into the past and a small turret room.
Will you marry him? Will you be his bride?
Leaving had been simple—a single step, a closed door, and I was gone. I had not realized, in the heat of the moment, that Eliot’s question would follow me.
I hadn’t realized that I would need to answer.
My gaze wavered, fell to Noé’s side. When I registered the book still clutched in his other hand, I leapt for it, clinging to it like a lifeline. “What are you reading?”
If Bastian’s heir was bothered by my change in subject, he didn’t show it. Rather, he seemed to settle back into himself at my question, his anxiety fading. “Ah,” he said, following the path of my stare. “Poetry. By Vaudevaul.” He held up the cover for me to examine. “Are you familiar?”
Vaudevaul. The name did sound familiar, in a hazy way, but I couldn’t place it. “I don’t believe so.”
“He’s quite popular. It’s unoriginal of me to like him as much as I do,” Noé said.
“I’ve read this collection at least a dozen times—there’s one verse in particular that I’ve always loved.
” Stepping to my side again, he dropped his voice.
“To know, always, that I keep you close / As the cherry tree comforts itself with memories of its blooms.”
Cold surged through me—a frigid knife slid between my ribs. Spring immortal, untouched by frost. The last line echoed in my head as naturally as if I were reading from a script. In a way, I suppose I was.
The underlined passage on the torn-out page I’d found my first day at Fortblanche—the poem, addressed to O.
I’d thought, initially, it had been given to her by a lover, but Eliot—and the rest of the contestants—had convinced me otherwise.
Why, I wondered now, had I listened to them? Why had I let the loose thread drop?
The wording matched the verse Noé had just recited exactly.
Do not dwell. Noé was too close to me; if I let myself connect the pieces further, he might see the discovery in my eyes.
Adrenaline had filled me with an unnatural calm—I felt each second as it shivered by me, saw, like a narrowing gap, the window for a proper reaction growing slimmer and slimmer.
One more breath, and it would be gone entirely.
Answer him, Lovett. Answer now.
Inhaling, I smiled, like breaking through water.
“I—I think I may have read that one before, after all. It is beautiful.” Summoning a blush, I ducked my head and traced the gilded title, then handed the book back to him.
“Forgive me, sir, but I should be going. Miss Lavoie will already be jealous that you’ve called for me, and she is trial enough without putting her in a sour mood. ”
Noé chuckled, pushing the collection my way.
“Take it,” he insisted. “Read it when you have a spare moment today, and think of me when you do.” Bending, he pressed a light kiss to my knuckles, then paused.
“It would not be so bad, Miss Lovett,” he said softly.
“Us, together. I believe we have more in common than you might think.”
The brush of his lips made my blood curdle, but I held my expression, curtsying as he rose again. Murmuring another bashful farewell, I turned and, as quickly as I could without appearing too eager, walked in the direction of the breakfast room.
Clio glared at me over the top of her spoonful of porridge when I arrived. I did not bother greeting her, sinking down into my chair and leaning across the table, steam from the teapot tickling the underside of my chin. “I’ve thought of another favor.”
She widened her eyes, glancing surreptitiously over toward Bernard, who was waiting by the door, wearing a look of complete boredom. Dispatching him with a placating simper when she caught his eye, she turned back to me, her voice a low hiss.
“I’m not dropping out.” Her spoon was still hovering in midair, bite uneaten.
“I’m not asking you to,” I replied evenly.
Picking up my napkin, I spread it over my lap, then lifted the teapot and refilled her half-empty cup.
“I need you to make a scene.”