Page 31 of The False Vow

It could not be right. Could it?

I looked toward Clio’s betrothed, and Eliot Lear looked back at me.

Chapter Thirteen

There was a ring on his finger.

My gaze was drawn to it immediately. Slim and plain, the band was similar in style to the one Noé had adopted after our betrothal, though its metal was a brilliant gold rather than silver—a match to that which Clio wore. An engagement ring.

I did not feel myself stand, becoming aware of it only after I sensed the collective gaze of the other silkwitches in the room sweep my way. Their notice brought me back to myself. If I allowed Bastian to rattle me—if I made a scene—then the weight of the other girls’ attention would linger. And if their attention was on me, I could not do what I wished.

Mustering the full force of my willpower, I smoothed down my hair, composing myself as much as I could without my caul. Then, with a great mental heave, I tossed my emotions away.

As I approached Eliot, I felt only a white blankness, like the sky just before a snowfall—as if everything in me had been scrubbed into nonexistence. His eyes fell naturally to mine as I came closer, the easy snap of our gazes only serving to intensify my feelings of betrayal. How was it possible that he could have given himself to another? Even the reaction of our bodies proved that he was mine.

His face was stoic, but I detected a certain softness creeping into his expression as we regarded one another—that familiar hesitancy, which he only ever reserved for me. The inclination to pull his punches, ensure that whatever casualties his game playing caused, I was not among them.

Well. It was far too late for that.

“Miss Lavoie. Mr. Lear. I see my congratulations are due.” I addressed each one of them in turn, my forced smile nearly chipping as I took in Clio’s simper. Turning my back to her, I laid a hand on Eliot’s forearm, urging him my way. “Mr. Lear, I know my fiancé will be eager to see you. Come, shall we go find him together?”

My voice was light—but Eliot resisted my attempt to lead him away, grounding himself where he stood. “You are kind to offer, Miss Lovett. Yet there are many who I mean to reacquaint myself with—several of whom are already present,” he replied. “Let Noé come to us. I am sure he will do so as soon as a bottle of wine is produced.”

His cheek dimpled around his final words, like a politician punctuating his rejection with a joke. I wondered if he’d learned the trick from his father.

I laughed. Inching closer, I tightened my grip on his arm, speaking so that only he could hear. “Do not test me.”

My teeth were gritted. He dipped his chin, dropping his volume to match mine. “I am not endeavoring to,” he hissed back. His eyes darted briefly away from me to check on Clio, then returned to peer intently into mine. “Lovett, it is not what you think. Trust me.”

His use of my true name stilled me. Casually, he slipped his free hand into his pocket. A moment later, I felt my coin, tucked in its usual place beneath my foot, light up before falling abruptly silent again. Its burn was grounding—not completely, but enough for me to release him.

Backing away, I turned and slipped past Clio, hewing close enough that our shoulders brushed. “Clever witch.”

She chuckled. “Jealous, Cecilia?” I paused, angling my profile halfway toward hers. In response, she leaned forward, whispering directly in my ear. “You should’ve let me have Noé.”

At once, my restraint shattered. My body went numb, my arm lifting—to hit her? To shove her? I was unsure, but before I could move, there was a hand gripping my elbow.

“Miss Lovett and I were just about to explore the library’s upper level.” Anais’s voice was like something out of a dream—I’d nearly forgotten she was in the room with us, my awareness distilling to the little triangle of Clio, Eliot, and me. Startled, I let the other silkwitch tug me nearer, like a dog reluctantly leashed.

“Come along now, friend.” Tucking me against her side, Anais gave Clio a fluttering glance. “I would ask you to join us, Miss Lavoie, but I am not sure the subject will interest you. You were never much of a reader.”

Forcefully, she pivoted me away.

“Do not give her the pleasure, dear,” Anais murmured when I resisted her tug. “Foxes do not perform for mice. Now do as I say, and come along.”

Her buffed nails dug into my forearm in emphasis. Giving in to her pull, I allowed her to guide me to the back of the library, where a wooden spiral staircase connected the first floor to the walkway and raised shelves above it.

We ascended without speaking. Since the Vainglory’s conclusion, I had not frequented the second level of Fortblanche’s library nearly as often as I had the first. It was little more than an extended gallery snaking along the room’s perimeter, its weight supported by a flight of carved wooden buttresses below. Books packed the shelves in toothy rows, the smell of them more aged than the ones which populated the first-floor stacks—paper cut with mildew, mottled by an implacable, omnipresent dampness, as if they still held the memory of long-ago rains.

A little ways from the stairs, we came to an alcove tucked into the stone wall and furnished with a pair of armchairs, an end table, and a mounted gas lamp—extinguished at present. Releasing me, Anais selected a seat, leaving its twin to me.

She dug in her bodice as she sat down. My brow creased when she withdrew, of all things, a small flask. It was as elegant as the rest of her, its surface inlaid with a delicate mother-of-pearl design in the shape of an A.

Unscrewing the top, she extended the offering toward me. “For you.”

I frowned but accepted it, holding the flask’s neck beneath my nose. A potent scent drifted out of it, the corrosive tang of greening metal, making my tongue pull back in my mouth.

Lowering it, I eyed the dark swirl of liquid within dubiously. “I thought you didn’t drink.”