Page 12 of The False Vow

Bastian spun Mariéprix around his finger. “My son insists that you are clever,” he answered. “And, admittedly, you did perform well during the Vainglory. Solved all the little puzzles I laid out for you, and so on and so forth.” He paused. “I wonder whether you can solve another one,” the Weaver King said. “A murder.

“During the Vainglory, you girls were told that Miss Sybil Dabos lost her life as a result of a tragic accident,” he continued while I sat, stunned silent, across from him. “That is a lie. In truth, I do not know what, or, more accurately, who, killed her. As her passing occurred on my property, I’d hoped to unravel it on my own, but certain parties—namely, her insufferable mother—have attempted to turn the blame on me.”

His features briefly creased with displeasure at his mention of Lucie.

“Here is what you need to know,” he said, wiping his expression clean again. “On the night of the Midway Ball, Miss Dabos stole something from me. Before she could make use of the item, however, she was killed—strangled—by an unknown party. When her body was found, the item she’d taken was missing.” His gaze tightened on me. “I want you to find her killer.”

My pulse sped. The air in the coach seemed heavy; I was suddenly, intensely aware that whatever words I spoke next counted. “What was the item?” I asked.

Bastian’s mouth curled upward: pleased. He approved of my inquiry. “A key,” he replied. “To a very particular door.” His nostrils flared. “But I think my son has told you that.”

I ignored the accusation. “This key,” I returned instead. “How can you be sure that Sybil is the person who stole it? Simply because she died the night the item went missing does not necessarily mean the two incidents are linked.”

It was an answer I was truly curious to know. I wondered whether the Weaver King would balk at it, but instead, Bastian only nodded. “A fair question,” he answered. “Her body was found en route to the door which the key accesses. Personally, I suspect that her murderer learned she’d found the item, followed her, and stole it before she could use it, but…” he added with a tilt of his head, “that is for you to confirm.”

I frowned. Before I could think of what to say, the Weaver King was speaking again.

“I have made my offer, Miss Lovett,” he stated. “Find me Miss Dabos’s killer before the day of your wedding, and your lack of dower will be forgiven. Fail to do so, however…” He drifted off, his lips pursing as if soured by some bitter thought. “Well, I suppose I shall have to come up with a story to distract from the scandal of a broken engagement,” he mused. “Revealing your true identity should do the trick. I am certain the other maidens’ families will demand restitution for your deception—likely, you will be taken to the cloisters at once.” He smiled, neat and pitiless. “I would ensure it, in fact. A speedy departure, before you could let any family secrets slip.”

My skin went cold. I was barely aware of Noé, still positioned beside me, until he was half out of his seat, straining toward his father. “Your offer”—he seethed—“means nothing. Miss Lovett is the rightful winner of the Vainglory. You cannot—”

“Yes, she won.” Bastian held up a palm, and his son went still, vibrating with barely contained wrath. “So do horses. And yet, do you know what happens after a victor is crowned at the end of a race? The winning steed is taken home. For a time, it revels in its victory, but soon, it is summoned to run the track again. And again, until a younger horse rises up and bests it.

“The test is finished, son,” Bastian concluded, “when you lose.” His teeth shone in the moonlight as he grinned, his gaze swinging toward me. “Your bride understands.”

And the worst bit was, I did.

I straightened. “I would need access to the relevant suspects. Without them, I stand no chance of accomplishing what you ask.”

“I will gather whomever you request,” Bastian agreed. “You will find, Miss Lovett, that when it comes to competition, I am quite a good sport. We wouldn’t want to hamper your…investigation.”

“Give her time. To consider your proposal.” The sound of Noé’s voice jarred my focus. Blinking, I glared at him as Bastian replied.

“She may have as much time as she wishes,” the Weaver King said. “Though the deadline must remain unchanged, I’m afraid.” He looked at me. “Three weeks to find me my murderer, Miss Lovett—or else, the cloisters await.”

Chapter Six

I fled the carriage as soon as I could upon returning to Fortblanche. Bernard, the Alaires’ butler, startled as I swept through the house’s grand front doors—since my win, he’d dropped the hostile attitude he’d adopted toward me during the Vainglory, replacing it with a pining subservience I found rather more disturbing—but I ignored his calls, carrying on toward my bedroom.

My fiancé caught up with me near the entrance to my quarters. I heard him pounding up the stone steps behind me and quickened my own pace, whipping open the door and slipping through as hastily as I could.

I cursed when the door caught as I attempted to pull it closed. Reluctantly, I turned and found Noé panting heavily in the threshold, his hand clutching the edge of the wood. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt; his crimson jacket was nowhere to be seen.

Catching his breath, he lifted his head. There was a sour scent coming off him, a mix of alcohol and perspiration that turned my stomach. His gaze fell from my face to my left hand, which was tensed around the doorknob, preparing to give it another tug.

His jaw flexed. “Don’t you dare—Tamerlane, we need to talk—”

I averted my eyes before he could finish his sentence. “I have talked with you enough for one evening. Leave me be, or force your way in like a brute.”

In emphasis, I gave the door a mighty pull, relieved when he lost his grip and it snapped closed. I wondered, as I locked it, whether he would take me up on my offer and beat the entrance down—but, possibly in an attempt to appear civilized, Noé only slapped the doorframe once, muttering a muffled word that sounded faintly like impossible, and retreated.

As soon as I detected the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, I turned and crossed to the standing mirror in the corner of my room. My original quarters along the corridor where I and my fellow nine silkwitches had stayed during the Vainglory had been reverted back into guest lodgings following the end of the competition, meaning I’d been given a replacement. The chamber the Alaires had chosen for me had originally belonged to Noé’s mother before her death. There was an enormous bed pushed against the back wall, tasseled pillows piled high beneath a brocade canopy in a lavish shade of marigold; a fireplace with a mouth wide enough that I could have curled up and made a nest in the soot if I’d wished; and a powder-blue rug so thick, it was like a blanket, protecting me from the chill of the granite floor.

All of it was vastly more opulent than my previous room. Since I’d been installed here, I’d only made a single adjustment to the space: swapping out the gilt mirror which had originally been displayed for the relatively plainer one from my guest quarters.

A certain calmness came over me as I settled in front of the looking glass. For a moment, I regarded myself: maskless, my skin still flushed from my confrontation with Noé and the skirt of my dress belling around me. Then, letting my gaze slip past my reflection, I reached forward and knocked soundly on the surface of the mirror: once, twice, three times.

Of all eight surviving maidens who had competed against me for Noé’s hand, Marie-Louise Rochefort had fared particularly well in recent months. Despite the fears she’d expressed to me during the Vainglory that the odd nature of her gift—the ability to peer through mirrors like windows—would keep her from attracting a suitor, she’d been courted by several Weavers following the tournament’s end, most notably Cyril de Lesseps of the wealthy de Lesseps Weaver line. Their engagement had been announced shortly after the Vainglory’s conclusion; on the one hand, I’d been happy for the Owl when I’d heard the news, glad she’d managed to secure a future far away from the cloisters’ starving grasp.