Page 30 of The False Vow

Gradually, comprehension began to knit together. I recalled the strange tug in my middle, seconds before I’d crashed into the sea—a jerk as though I’d been clinging on to a rope which had lost the last of its slack. And the grayness which had followed afterward, smokestack haze, of the exact same quality which clouded my vision whenever I used my Wit to study a door.

An extrapolation. The more I pondered it, the surer I became. Somehow, despite my distance from it, the weather-beaten door abutting the landing had sensed my panic as I’d fallen and reached for me, plucking me out of the air and ushering me through it, to the safety which lay on its other side. Or perhaps it was I who had grasped on to it, the primal instinct to avoid death at all costs triggering a sort of desperate evolution within me, my abilities pushed beyond borders which I’d been unable to force them past before.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up my throat. Noé had been so desperate to keep me alive, to keep me in his game until my Wit grew to the level he required it. How would he feel if he learned that attempting to kill me was far more effective?

Slowly—gradually—I pushed myself to my feet. The speed of my fall had ripped my caul half from my head; in a surge of pure adrenaline, I tore the netting the rest of the way off and flung it to the ground. Reattaching the accessory would have been the pragmatic decision—my appearance would immediately attract the notice of the other silkwitches in the library now—but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I wanted to look like a girl excised from her own tomb. I wanted my enemy to be scared.

My breaths wheezed in my ears, unsteady and ragged, as I walked through the halls of Fortblanche. When I reached the library, I shoved the double doors open and lingered in the threshold.

The head of nearly every occupant snapped my way. I ignored their curious stares, bypassing them until I found the one I was searching for. Manon was standing along the far border of the room, peering out through the library’s soaring arched windows toward the gray ocean beyond. Her skin, normally a cheerful brown, had a chalkiness to it that hadn’t been there when we’d conversed; in her hands, she carried a steaming cup of tea.

Her lips parted as she took me in. As I watched, she lifted her fingers shakily to her mouth, her expression lit by, not the terror I’d hoped for, but clear, unmistakable relief.

I’m so sorry. I turned him down at first.

I held her stare for a long moment, then turned deliberately away.

Anais was the only silkwitch who had not shifted round to look at my reappearance, likely because, at present, she was engaged in a fervent debate with the maid nearest her, a willowy girl named Maude who was currently clutching on to her coffee cart as though for dear life. The other witch was angled away from me, seated in an armchair so only the back of her head was visible.

“How many times must I tell you—when I request a drink to be hot, I do not mean a temperature adequate for bathing. Do you think I mean to take a dip in my morning brew? Answer me honestly—I am truly curious to know—oh, hello there, dear.”

As soon as she registered my presence, Anais dropped her mask back in place, the transition so seamless, it almost frightened me—from critic to coquette in the blink of an eye. Behind her, Maude sagged gratefully against her coffee cart, blinking back tears.

“Would you like some tea?” Anais asked, nodding to a patterned-porcelain cup resting neatly on its saucer on an end table. She held an identical version in her lap, which she lifted higher as she spoke. “I’ve had the staff make you a cup. Mine is…not quite right, I’m afraid.” She paused, seemingly noticing my disheveled appearance for the first time. “My, what’s happened to you?”

I waited until Maude had scampered away to respond, lowering myself into the chair beside her. “Why did your ex-lover just attempt to kill me by pushing me from a stair landing?”

Anais’s drink spilled, hot tea splashing onto the skirt of her dress. Cursing, she set the half-empty cup down to wipe at the fabric, the delicate pink silk now stained with brown. “Sisters dammit.”

Giving up, she interlaced her fingers—which were quivering, I noted with interest—her eyelids fluttering closed. When they opened again, I was once more staring at the hardened, adversarial girl I’d met during the Vainglory. “You are speaking of Manon?”

Her voice was perfectly flat, her damsel-like flirtatiousness gone. I smiled. “Isn’t it sad that I must specify between them all?”

Anais’s nose wrinkled. Looking behind herself to ensure Maude had left, she leaned closer—then froze.

Her stare locked with mine. A chill moved down my spine at the intensity in her expression, all her previous emotions emptied like scrapings flushed down a drain. “Do not think,” she muttered.

I understood the meaning of her command a second before a ringed hand clapped over my shoulder. Stiffening, I glanced up into the gleeful face of the Weaver King.

“Cecilia.”

Bastian grinned affectionately down at me. Though I was certain he’d noticed it, he did not remark on my lack of caul, which only served to make the sick feeling in my gut worsen. If he was leaving me be on that front, it was likely because he was preparing to advance on another.

“Pardon my interruption, girls,” he said. “My dear, I only wished to inform you that your final guest has arrived. I am sure you will want to greet her, seeing as I know the two of you share a…uniquely special bond.”

Clio Lavoie. My hackles lowered as his meaning connected. Amidst all the tumult, I’d forgotten we were still a single maiden short of a party—though if any special bond existed between the other silkwitch and me, it was one of mutual loathing. I still woke sometimes in the night to the memory of Clio thrusting her knife down at my chest—still saw her occasionally in the dark, the way I’d glimpsed her through the shadows during the final trial of the Vainglory.

Bastian nodded toward the double doors, and reluctantly, I followed his gaze.

And, for the second time that day, I fell.

Clio was just as I remembered. Dressed in a frock of pine green and matching gloves, she stood at the library’s threshold, her dark hair pinned tidily back as she regarded me. But beside her, over a head taller, lording over her diminutive frame like a personal guard…

My thoughts traveled back to the minutes after my own entrance, the caveat Bastian had murmured in my ear as he’d made his introductions. Miss Lavoie’s fiancé is bringing her by later.

Miss Lavoie’s fiancé.