Page 102 of The False Vow

Absolutely not! Another scroll followed swiftly behind its predecessor. I left drunk behind several hours ago. I am exploring new and uncharted territory. I shall let you know what I find there.

Safe in the confines of my room, I shook my head, glad he could not listen through the candle and hear the small breath of laughter his message teased from me. Silencing it, I steadied myself. If we were going to talk, we could at least talk of useful things—it would, at minimum, quell the whisper in my mind which asked why I was so eager to keep answering him.

Focused now, I penned my reply. Have you heard of a tunnel that connects Fortblanche to Balmoore’s mainland?

A minute later, I stiffened as the flame gave another shiver and a scroll fell. One of my father’s? Not at all. Why do you ask?

I hadn’t the time to explain. A theory, I wrote back instead. The candle was silent for a long moment after I sent the message. Without fully knowing why, I found myself dashing out another. I spoke to Anais earlier. She told me Adélard makes his girls wear Woven lockets to inspire obedience.

Noé’s response was lengthier than his previous one. It’s true, he wrote. Adélard mentioned them to Eliot and me earlier, actually—he’s very proud of the enchantment. Offered to share it with us, in case our wives prove troublesome. I never thought I’d learn of a charm which disgusted me more than the killing curse my father puts on his Woven goods, but here we are.

I smoothed my thumb over his words. As I finished reading them, another message came through the flame.

Tamerlane. You will never belong to Adélard.

How had he known Anais’s confession had planted that very worry in my heart? If we don’t find Sybil’s killer, I will.

If you fail to solve my father’s mystery, I will take you to a temple in the dead of night, and I will marry you before Father can speak a word against it. I told you I would make you my wife, Tamerlane, and I intend to keep my promise.

My chest tightened as I read the scroll. The candle is burning low, I wrote, eyeing the rapidly depleting pillar of wax. Why did you write me?

Noé did not seem bothered by my brusqueness. There is a passage in Wasting Season I was reflecting on, but I can’t quite recall it, he replied. I left it in the library before departing earlier. Will you transcribe it for me?

I furrowed my brow. A passage?

Chapter seventeen. Third page in the chapter, first line in the second paragraph.

I pressed my lips together. You’ve memorized it?

I sense incredulity. Why must you always doubt me, sweetheart?

The question made a vague feeling of embarrassment rise through me. Clearing my throat, I sent my response. Eliot once told me that you stole your love of reading from him.

It withered in the fire, then turned to ash. I busied myself mopping up the mess until the flame spat another scroll back, the paper knocking against my knuckle as if in chastisement.

Just because Eliot Lear loved something first does not mean I cannot love it better.

My cheeks blazed. I dropped the note, flustered by the sheer ferocity of my own reaction, nervous that he would somehow sense it, passed like a message through the flame. Really, Lovett, I thought. Give him his quote and be done with it.

Gathering myself, I exited my room and hurried to the library. Wasting Season was lying on the sofa just as it had been in the morning, still turned to its fourth chapter as if awaiting its owner’s return. Snatching it up, I departed.

By the time I reentered my bedroom, the candle had melted almost to its base. Hurrying to the desk, I set the book down atop it, then flipped to chapter seventeen and ran my finger down its third page until I found the lines Noé had requested. I copied them on a fresh scrap of paper, then let them burn in the weakening flame.

Here you are, my message read. “I saw her in the morning—she was intangible; I met her in the afternoon—she was unknowable; I held her in the evening, and then she was gone. And all else in life, I have found rotten aside from these three seeds, and the first two I have named Knife and Water, and the third I have named Death.”

It was, admittedly, a beautiful passage. The candle was still for a long while after I sent it, the wax pooling thickly atop the wood of the mantel. Just as I was beginning to wonder whether Noé had been pulled away from his side of the conduit, the fire jolted again.

His message, this time, was brief. That’s right, it said. Thank you.

Something about the solemnity of it, the conciseness, gave me pause. Why were you thinking of those lines?

I sent the question before I could stop myself. The paper burned only halfway before the wick fizzled altogether, a breath of white flame still gnawing at the scrap of scroll I held even though the candle itself had guttered out, like the echo of a voice after its speaker has departed.

With a flick of my wrist, I put it out. And all else in life, I have found rotten aside from these three seeds.

Unsettled, I sorted through the rest of his messages, eager for a distraction. Most of the scrolls had cooled by now; they curled in on themselves like dead bugs atop the wood.

My focus lingered on the longest missive Noé had sent, regarding Adélard’s Woven necklaces. I never thought I’d learn of a charm which disgusted me more than the killing curse my father puts on his Woven goods. Those words had caught me when I’d first read them—why?