Page 103 of The False Vow

Bastian’s killing curse. It had been a long while since I’d thought of the enchantment the Weaver King had informed me of on our drive back from the opera. A charm meant to detect ill will toward Bastian in all who came in contact with it—there was a sick sort of genius in that. He couldn’t possibly apply it to all of his Woven goods; many were sold through standard channels, and I doubted it would be good for business if random consumers began dropping dead after touching Alaire products. He must reserve it for select items—those which, if they fell into the wrong hands, could prove incriminating.

At the thought, another one itched at my mind. Frowning, I went to my end table and dug out the newspaper clipping I’d shown Noé on our drive to Dorian’s—the one with the article on the Daboses’ independent autopsy.

I found the line I was searching for easily. A chambermaid present at the scene, who requested to remain anonymous, expanded on the disturbing findings: “She looked alive. Even beaten as she was…when the doctor opened her eyes, I swear they were glowing.”

My attention lingered on last word. Glowing.

Something snapped. My stomach twisted.

And at once, I knew who had killed Sybil Dabos.

Chapter Forty-Five

The Weaver King was in his study, bent over a stack of writing paper when I found him.

As I entered, he glanced up. It was deep into evening now, night fogging up the room, but Bastian had yet to light any of the gas sconces which were mounted on the walls. Rather, a single candle on his desk provided the room’s sole illumination, the plain orange flame jittering as though unnerved by the enormity of its task.

Bastian’s eyes fastened to mine through the dimness. I could not sense any of his feelers in my head; still, as he regarded me, I felt certain he was detecting—something. His expression shifted, the initial intrigue which had colored it replaced by a low-bellied wariness, like a cat hiding itself in the grass.

He spoke. “You’ve solved it, then?”

I could not tell whether he was pleased or disturbed by the sentiment. Before I could answer, he sat back and waved a hand.

“Well, go on. Present your findings.”

I steeled myself. “You killed Sybil,” I said. “Or rather, you and Adélard Drake, who is at your command.”

His eyes gleamed. Setting his elbows on his desktop, Bastian pitched forward, his black hair falling about his face like ribbons in the gloom. “A fascinating theory,” he murmured. “Expand, please.”

Between us, the candle continued its unsteady flicker. Though I knew he was not, in that moment I could have sworn he was controlling the flame—that the entire room, that this house and all its contents, were set pieces cupped in his hand, and I was just another puppet at the mercy of his strange and infinite power.

I swallowed, and the sensation passed. Perhaps he was the one who had installed it within me in the first place. “When you set me the task of uncovering the truth behind Sybil’s death, you were careful to plant the notion of a murderer in my mind,” I began. “Some person—some malevolent figure—who struck her down in the tunnels and ran off with your key. Yet the pivotal question has never been who killed Miss Dabos, but what.

“The same evening you assigned me Sybil’s mystery, you confessed to me another secret—that of the killing curse you have your artisans apply to a select number of your Woven goods,” I told Bastian. “Perhaps you were handing me a clue, though at the time, I failed to catch it. Until recently, when Dorian Drake pointed out what should have been an obvious assumption: that your key to the moonless door was, in fact, Woven. Which led me to wonder—if the key was enchanted, did that also mean it was cursed?”

Bastian looked amused. “And what did you determine?”

“I think it was,” I answered him. “I think, in fact, Sybil sealed her own death as soon as she touched it—though of course, she wouldn’t have realized it at the time. There was never any murderer. Sybil was killed by the very same object she risked her life to steal, after that item sensed her ill intent toward you and unleashed its magic against her.”

My pulse was racing. In front of me, the Weaver King tilted his head. “An interesting story,” he said. “And yet there is a hole in it.” He arched a brow. “Sybil was strangled.”

So she had been. It was a wrinkle which had thrown me off for a long while; thanks to Anais, however, I finally had an answer for it. “She was,” I admitted. “Once you discovered that your key was missing the evening of the Midway Ball, you must have guessed that the enchantment Woven into it would kill the thief before they got too far, but you were worried. Would it kill them quickly enough? You couldn’t risk anyone getting access to the records in the spinning room behind the moonless door, yet neither could you abandon the ball you were meant to be hosting without raising suspicion. Which is why you contacted Adélard Drake.”

For the first time, a reaction: Bastian sat forward. I sensed his presence slink into my head and gritted my teeth against the invasion.

“He dispatched a veiled woman,” I went on. “One of his own witches who entered Fortblanche via an underground tunnel which connects it to the cloisters. The rest is pure hypothesis, but my guess is that this veiled lady tracked Sybil through the passages and found her—likely half dead from the key’s curse already. Then she finished the job and exited into Fortblanche, key in hand, to notify you of her success.”

“A passageway between this estate and the cloisters would be expensive to fund, and difficult to maintain,” Bastian replied. His tone was steady; I could not tell whether he was refuting me or testing me. “What use would I have for such a tunnel? And why would Adélard send one of his witches to aid me?”

“Because,” I answered, “he is not the true head of the cloisters. You are.”

I paused.

“When you took me to visit the cloisters, the attendant who spotted us called out, ‘Master.’ In my distraction, I assumed he was referring to Adélard—but earlier, you’d stated that Mr. Drake was away from the institution that day. You only revised your claim after the man recognized you, likely in an attempt to prevent me from realizing the truth.

“Anais and Adélard’s marriage was arranged by you,” I went on. “She claimed, when I questioned her, that the union was an incentive to keep her from speaking out about her involvement with Dorian during the Vainglory, but I think that explanation was a lie.” I leaned closer to him across the desk. “You commanded Adélard to propose to Anais because she had seen something dangerous—something which she had not been meant to see. On the night of the Midway Ball, Anais and Dorian were interrupted midway through their rendezvous by the sound of a door opening. Both of them told me as much, though their narratives differed slightly: Anais claimed she’d only heard the door, while Dorian mentioned she’d glimpsed something, as well.

“My guess is that she glimpsed the veiled woman Adélard dispatched—the cloister witch—as she was attempting to exit the tunnels after killing Sybil,” I said. My thoughts were moving fast now. A strange fever had gripped me, like the urgency of a cat with a mouse between its jaws. I just wanted to make my kill. “Anais had visited the cloisters before. She remarked to me how it was apparent that the girls there were miserable, even though she could not see their eyes.” I emphasized the words, letting their meaning sink in. “When she spotted the woman through the cracked-open door the night of the Midway Ball, she must have recognized her uniform—the veil—as the same kind Adélard makes his girls wear. The same uniform which his nephew Dorian adopted upon the opening of his own establishment after the competition’s conclusion.