Page 119 of The False Vow

The Owl preened, her enormous eyes fluttering. I watched her shift in her seat, white-haired and as pale as a specter, and suppressed a smile. She certainly was something.

Still gazing at her husband, Marie-Louise touched his wrist. “Dearest, perhaps our guest would like tea now that she’s woken?” she remarked. Turning to me, she added proudly, “Cyril grows the mint himself, in the garden on our property. He really is quite industrious.”

From the enthusiasm with which she stated it, one would have thought he built the entire house. As Cyril scuttled obediently back into the corridor, I asked, “And where is this property, exactly?”

Marie-Louise watched her husband go before answering. “Cyril’s family estate,” she said, turning back to me. “You have been here three days now, along with Miss Blanc and Miss Tremblay, of course. It is quite remote—Audubon, up north, is the nearest city, and even that is a day’s ride away. Cyril and I felt it would be best for you to have privacy while you are recovering.” She tilted her chin, her expression darkening. “You know, in the capital they are saying you killed Sybil Dabos.”

Of course they were. The story did not surprise me in the slightest; if it had been me in Bastian’s place, and him on the run, I likely would have spun the same. “And Noé?” I pressed, unperturbed.

“Remarkably well, considering the gunshot he suffered,” Marie-Louise responded. “His father has confined him to Fortblanche until he heals completely. Eliot Lear has attempted to see him multiple times, but from what my mirrors have detected, he’s taken no visitors.”

My relief was so great, it was like a physical object was lifted from my chest. Noé’s parting words were tucked close to my heart, beating steadily within me. I love you. Don’t forget it.

Don’t forget it. I hadn’t. I wouldn’t.

Abruptly, the door swung open again. Cyril stumbled through, wearing a befuddled expression. His neck was flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as though he’d hastened to reach us.

Frowning, Marie-Louise chastised him. “Cyril! You’ve forgotten her tea.”

“Apologies, dearest.” Her husband winced but did not go to her. Instead, he turned to face me, paling when he caught my gaze. “A visitor has just arrived. For you, Miss Tamerlane.”

Anais and I exchanged wary looks. “Bastian?” I asked.

It was the first guess that came to mind—yet in response, Cyril shook his head. “Not him,” he replied grimly. “Eliot Lear.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

It didn’t surprise me that he’d come. Only how quickly he’d found me.

Anais accompanied me to the back of the house where, Cyril had informed us, Eliot was waiting for me in the rear garden. My mind whirred as we walked, my palms clammy. With every step, I heard his voice calling out my true name for all at my wedding to hear.

She is Lovett Tamerlane, and she is a liar and a thief.

When we reached the wooden door which accessed the back garden, Anais paused, laying a hand on my shoulder before I could reach for the knob.

“I’ll watch through the window,” she said. Her gaze was solemn, her flaxen hair falling in loose ringlets around her shoulders. It occurred to me that I’d never seen her wear it down before. The style softened her, made her appear less goddess and more girl. “In case you need me.”

I nodded in gratitude. Meeting her eyes, I asked, “Good Sister didn’t bite you during my first dress fitting, did she?”

Her expression shifted—befuddlement, then, after a moment, guilt. It was as good a confirmation as any.

“Bastian told me the truth of your engagement,” I went on before she could reply. “When you heard Nathalie talking about the veiled lady—the same woman you spotted coming out of the hidden entrance in the billiards room during the Midway Ball—it must have frightened you, yes? You pretended your concentration had been broken, and your Wit no longer had any hold on her, to keep me from questioning her further.”

Anais flushed. I wondered if she would try to deny my accusations, but instead she merely twisted her hands. “The Weaver King told me if anyone else learned what I’d seen, he’d ensure I ended up in the cloisters,” she said. “I didn’t mean to mislead you.” Her eyes darted away. “I was only trying to protect myself.”

I watched her for another moment—then, on impulse, drew her into a tight embrace. She stiffened up when I wrapped my arms around her but eventually relaxed. I felt something tug within me as her arms came tentatively around my back, her chin pressing against my temple.

We remained that way for a minute—clutching one another awkwardly, both of us resolutely avoiding the other’s stare—before I stepped back again. Clearing my throat, I looked up at her. “Thank you.”

She crossed her arms. Though I could have been imagining it, her eyes appeared glassier than usual—or perhaps it was my own vision that was altered. Sentimentality seemed to flow more and more willingly from me lately, no matter my attempts to staunch it. “I’ve just confessed to deceiving you,” she said. “What are you thanking me for?”

I touched her wrist. “For coming with me,” I replied, and then, without waiting for a response, stepped through the door.

Eliot turned his head in my direction as I shut the door behind me. His hands were in his pockets, his curls tucked beneath a black bowler cap. As he shifted toward me, I saw that below his left eye, his skin was puffed and purpled, his cheekbone slightly swollen with the aftereffects of Noé’s punch. The flesh pulled as he took me in, his expression attempting to rearrange itself, then contorted further as he winced.

The sight of it pleased me. Gathering myself, I stepped toward him. “Hello, traitor.”

Another flinch. Eliot removed his hat, running a hand through his curls. Like their estate, Cyril’s family’s garden was rambling and disorganized. Plots of herbs and flower beds were situated alongside paths formed of crushed white shells, wending at odd angles. The shells snapped beneath Eliot’s feet as he walked toward me, a clean snick, like bone.