Page 101 of The False Vow

I returned her grin. The atmosphere was too easy between us—I almost felt relaxed. With the rest of my bridesmaids on their way to meet me, it was a dangerous emotion to indulge.

Rising, I pulled myself together. Still, I couldn’t keep myself from glancing down at Anais before we departed. “Why do you favor him?” I asked. “Noé.”

She didn’t seem put off by the switch in topic. “I’m not sure,” Anais answered. “The two of you seem suited to one another, I suppose. Eliot is so neat, you know, so procedural. He clings to his code of chivalry so tightly that it threatens to strangle him. You need someone who will let you break things.”

My stomach flipped over. I didn’t ask her to expand beyond that.

Still, I heard her voice, echoing in my ears as I made my way to the door.

Chapter Forty-Four

The dress fitting sped by without incident.

I despised my wedding gown as much as I had when I’d first tried it on, but at least this time, no one attempted to kill me while I was wearing it. My bridesmaids seemed preoccupied, each of them lost to their own worries. Not all of our party was present: Clio never showed, though she did send a servant with a message claiming a stomachache. I wondered if it was fear of me questioning her again that had kept her away, or if she just didn’t want to see me without Eliot there to defend her.

Neither possibility made me feel particularly good.

After the dressmaker took her final measurements, I escorted the other silkwitches back toward the front entry hall. Nathalie lingered at the rear of the group, her pace dragging. Catching her eye, I fell into step with her.

She spoke softly, so that only I could make her out. “Good Sister couldn’t do as you asked.”

My heart dropped.

Noticing my disappointment, Nathalie continued. “She identified the path the veiled lady took,” she clarified, “but she couldn’t follow it all the way. The passage went too deep…Good Sister described encountering a great pressure bearing down on her from above. It was too much for her to stand, so she turned back.” The other silkwitch ducked her head closer to mine. “I think it was the ocean,” she murmured. “The tunnel the lady took must run beneath the bay, to mainland Balmoore.”

The answer came as a shock. “The mainland?” I asked. “You’re sure?”

Nathalie shrugged. “I’m sure of nothing. It is only a suspicion.” Hesitating, she glanced over at me. “Are you all right?” she whispered in a still lower tone. “You seemed…emotional…last night.”

I flushed. “I’m fine.”

She raised a brow, but at that moment Delphine Barbier dropped back, evidently curious to know what we were whispering about. At her approach, Nathalie and I both went quiet, straightening to face forward once more.

We conducted the rest of our walk in silence.

I thought about what she’d disclosed to me for the rest of the day. Several theories were bumping around my head—and yet all of them collapsed upon deeper prodding. There were too many holes in the narrative; whenever I went to make a stitch, the fabric pulled and tore clean through.

Frustrated, I returned to my bedroom after dinner, determined to sort through all I’d learned.

The sudden pop of Ophelia’s candle startled me as I made my way to my desk. The wick had sprung to life, the flame winking at me like a fading star above its hump of melting candle wax. As I watched, a scroll of paper fluttered out of it, drifting to the desktop.

I hesitated before fetching it. Noé and I hadn’t written each other since he’d lured me to the turret room at the start of our investigation—not to mention that last I’d heard, his candle had been in his quarters. Had he taken it with him when he’d left Fortblanche?

A message was imprinted on the paper, neat letters stamped in stark gray ash.

Sending a missive. Is anyone reading this? I am incredibly wealthy, and in desperate need of aid.

For a moment, I could only stare at the note. Then, reaching for a fountain pen, I dashed back: No one around. Better you take your money and help yourself.

I fed it to the flame. The response came less than a minute later—as if the writer had been hovering directly beside their candle, waiting for my message to appear. So callous. You can only be my bride, Lovett Tamerlane. I’ve missed you, darling.

So it was Noé, then. I rolled my eyes, fighting back a smirk. He must have snuck his candle into his trunk while packing so he could reach me while he was away.

I was not sure how that realization made me feel. I thought you were meant to be hunting, I wrote. Have you killed anything yet?

Yes. My liver. A terrible loss—I do not know how I will endure without it.

Ah. Well, at least now I understood why he was writing me. You’re drunk.