Page 108 of The False Vow

“I keep my promises.” The reply burst from me before I could contain it. Quieting, I reined myself in. “I said I would not love him,” I finished through gritted teeth, “so I do not love him.”

I cast him a glare as I said it. Inside me, a stillness had arisen; though I was speaking to him, in truth I had passed into another place. My bedroom, a night ago, Wasting Season in front of me and Ophelia’s candle burning steadily at my side.

And all else in life, I have found rotten aside from these three seeds.

My heart broke. I felt like a traitor.

Still, at my admission, Eliot released a breath. “Then we can salvage this.” He reached for me. “Leave him, Lovett,” he whispered. “Leave him and be with me. I am begging you. Your wedding day—it will not be the celebration you think.”

His comment dug at me. I looked up. “Is that a threat?”

Eliot’s eyes were soft. “It is a plea.”

I held his gaze for a long moment. Then, my decision made, I drew my arm away. “If you call for me again, I will not answer,” I said, turning. “I will see you at the wedding, Eliot.”

The door latch undid itself when I twisted the knob. Same as I had on the day we’d met, I left without looking back.

Chapter Forty-Seven

My head spun.

I was back in the carriage, the Diplomat far behind me. To my left, my window displayed a dreary view of the Isle d’Eylau’s cliffs—the narrow, chalky road running like a seam along their edge. The path was like a trail of gunpowder, disappearing beneath the wheels. When we reached the end of it, I was confident something would burst.

Slumping against my seat, I massaged my temples. Was it my refusal of Eliot which had unraveled me so, or my denial of Noé? Either way, it felt like my throat had been filled with hot ash; each time I went to breathe, there was only grayness and smoke.

Abruptly, I called out. “Stop the carriage.”

Obediently, Philippe flicked the reins, and the vehicle trundled to a halt.

I popped open the coach door, then hopped as neatly as I could to the ground. “I’ll walk from here.”

Phillipe craned his neck toward me from his perch atop the driver’s box. “Miss, a storm is coming in,” he shouted above the wind. It was particularly strong today, screeching in my ears, carrying the sounds of the waves up from below. “You’ll be washed away.”

The sky, a sickly, sulfurous yellow, further illustrated his point. By the three. Did it ever stop raining on this Sisters-damned island? “I said leave me,” I snapped, and before he could offer another protest, I began to walk.

A minute later, I was rewarded when the carriage rolled past me. I avoided the reluctant, hopeful look Phillipe cast in my direction as he drove, tipping my chin higher until the vehicle was out of sight. The air was damp, laden both with salt and the humid promise of rain; ignoring its prickle, I clutched my skirts more firmly to my bodice and quickened my pace.

Ahead of me, the road plunged onward. Philippe had taken us about halfway to the island’s peak before I’d forced him to abandon me, but that left halfway still to go, the cliffs rising up like a ridge of razored teeth to my side. I dared not peer over them, afraid of what I’d see if I glanced toward the gnashing sea far beneath—the waves, kicked up by the weather, like a pack of dogs rushing forth at the scent of food.

Slowly, deliberately, I picked my way higher. The path beneath me was slippery, the gravel formed mostly of crushed bits of shell and limestone, but even so, I did not regret leaving the carriage behind. I needed this. Since my betrothal—no, since the start of the Vainglory—I’d scarcely had any solitude, any breath of time which was not infected by some mission or trial. And with the encounter with Eliot just behind me…his words ringing in my ears, making me question—well, everything, really…

I needed to be alone.

Damn. I swore as, not even fifteen minutes into my walk, I felt a plink of moisture along the collar of my dress, then a second on my sleeve. Above me, there was a drowsy crackle of thunder, the grumbling snort of an old man just waking up; I glanced up just as the yellow clouds split and water poured down.

Rain unleashed in a steady patter. Wiping at my eyes to clear the moisture, I kept going, unleashing another flurry of curses as the narrow heels of my boots struggled to find purchase on the slick earth.

One meter. Two meters. My progress was tedious, any sign of my destination obscured by the downpour. Eventually, I relented, squinting ahead for a landmark to orient myself.

I paused, my breath catching. Was that…?

“Tamerlane!” Two beams of pale light cut through the dimness. My stomach dropped as, from behind the curtain of rain, a vehicle emerged—ungainly and monstrous, its metal hide glistening with moisture. The automobile roared around the twisting bends of the road, racing closer until with a growl it slowed and idled alongside me.

Within it sat my fiancé. Noé was protected from the rain by a sort of webbed hood which arched up from the back of the vehicle’s booth, his features lost to shadow beneath it.

Breathing hard, he glanced down at me. “Get in the auto.”

I stared at him. So he’d made it back from his trip, then—and, judging by the fact that he was here, he’d been immediately alerted to my whereabouts by Philippe. Traitor.