Page 43 of The False Vow

My skin buzzed. “Nathalie Moreau?” I thought of the dark-haired maiden whom I’d sighted in the library yesterday. One of my new so-called bridesmaids. We hadn’t gotten to know each other well during the Vainglory, mainly because…“She was eliminated before the halfway point, was she not?”

Marie-Louise shrugged. “She left, but her spies remain,” the Owl answered. “The mice see all.” Before I could interrogate her further, she frowned. “I must go now. Your maid will be with you soon.” Her eyes glazed over. “I believe she is bringing your correspondence. I just glimpsed her coming up the stairs.”

With that, she vanished. True to Marie-Louise’s prediction, a knock rang out from my door a few seconds later, gentle enough that I knew it could only be my maid.

Mia hastily bobbed a curtsy when I opened the door. Straightening, she shoved her letter plate in my direction.

“Good morning, miss. Your correspondence.”

I hid my smile. Whether or not the Owl had any involvement in Sybil’s death, it couldn’t be denied that she was a dreadfully useful girl to have around.

Picking up the single envelope resting on the plate, I slit it open. The missive within was disappointing: an invitation to a ball, hosted by a woman I was not familiar with but who claimed a deep and particular intimacy with the Alaire family, apparently dating back to the time of her grandfather.

After a minute or so, I became aware of Mia fidgeting in front of me. Without lowering the letter, I lifted a brow, meeting her gaze over the top of the paper. “Yes?”

She flushed. “Th-there was also a red envelope, miss, like the one that came before,” she stammered weakly, ducking her head. “I did as you told me and burned it.”

I regarded her, staring at the thin seam along the top of her skull where she parted her hair down the middle, before I spoke again. “Well done,” I said, folding the invitation and handing it back to her. “Anything else?”

Anything from Eliot? It was foolish of me to hope; still, I did so all the same.

Mia’s chin lifted. “Yes, my lady,” Mia replied more eagerly. “Mr. Alaire has instructed me to remind you that your first wedding dress fitting is this afternoon. He wishes to know whether you would like any of your new bridesmaids to attend with you.”

A dress fitting. My heart dipped at the reminder of the punishing schedule Bastian had set for me—then, abruptly, lifted again. He wishes to know whether you would like any of your new bridesmaids to attend. I supposed there was one girl I could stand to get to know a bit more.

“Absolutely,” I answered Mia. “I know just who I shall ask.”

Chapter Nineteen

The dress was even worse than I’d feared.

I did not recognize the version of myself that gazed reproachfully back at me from the full-length mirror—her hair bound in a tight caul, her limbs as stiff as a wire doll’s, propped up on its stand. The gown Bastian Alaire had chosen for me was a white silk behemoth, the pale, slightly yellow shade of an old tooth. It had a high neckline hemmed in by enormous gigot sleeves, a brocade skirt with a distracting floral pattern, and a bustle sprouting from my back end like a tumor.

I looked like I was being consumed by some giant, carnivorous lily, only my head left free. I felt as though I’d been bound into a straitjacket.

And if the facade continues to the end of the aisle? Eliot’s voice invaded without warning, poisoning my thoughts. If your wedding day comes and Bastian still lives, will you keep on acting then?

For a moment, I sank into the memories, certain I would vomit. Then a knock sounded from the door behind me, and I pushed them out.

I’d hoped, when Mia had first told me of my dress fitting, that the errand would take us into town, but apparently Bastian did not trust any of the Isle d’Eylau’s modistes to clad his future daughter-in-law—or perhaps none of them were willing to play accomplice to such an egregious crime of fashion. As such, we’d set up in one of Fortblanche’s parlors, a theoretically sunny room on its eastern flank, its windows currently carpeted by rain. The servants who dressed me had not wanted to wait for my final guest to arrive before fastening me into my gown—fine by me. It was not for her clothing taste that I’d summoned her.

Without turning from the mirror, I eyed the maid starting toward the door in its reflection. “Leave as you admit her. I desire private time with my companions.”

The girl nodded. Reaching the entrance, she opened it halfway and curtsied to the visitor waiting on the other side, then slipped past her to allow her in.

Nathalie Moreau was tall—taller even than me—and willowy, her long black hair bound into a beaded caul. She wore Moreau red, the preferred color of her sorcerer relatives; the shade suited her tanned skin and dark, hooded eyes. Her gaze slid to me without hesitation as she entered, alert and inquisitive, as if she were curious to learn why I’d called her.

I met her stare. Of the dozen or so active Weaver lines in Balmoore, the Moreaus were clustered near the top of the pack in terms of prestige and power—though they despised city life as much as Bastian Alaire adored it, primarily keeping to their lavish estate in the western part of the country, near Changeling’s Woods. Nathalie’s father was only a cousin of the current Moreau patriarch, Arnaud, meaning her family’s influence was slightly lesser than their kin’s. Still, during the Vainglory, I’d heard tales of her Wit: the ability to speak with mice, and all rodents which wound their way through the mansion’s halls.

They called her the Ghost, because at once she could be everywhere, and nowhere at all.

Pulling the door shut behind her, Nathalie stepped forward—then abruptly paused. Her head tipped down toward her neck, and the knife currently pressed against her throat.

Blade in hand, Anais shifted away from the wall where she’d been lurking out of sight. My fellow silkwitch had been all too happy to oblige when I’d written and asked her to come early to the fitting, her messenger weaving back through the streets of the capital with her reply almost as quickly as I’d had Mia drop off my request. I got the sense that she viewed my summons as proof that I intended to honor the maid-of-honor title she’d forced me to bestow upon her—a regrettable concession which I nonetheless could see no way out of. I supposed I could bear the duplicitous maiden standing by my side on my wedding day if she also allowed me to place her in dark corners when I needed, to carry out my bidding.

“Ratty Natty,” Anais cooed, edging closer so that the flat of her knife was dug into the soft triangle of Nathalie’s flesh just beneath her chin. “Good to see you again. Apologies for the rude greeting.”

Nathalie eyed the other silkwitch’s blade. Despite the threat of the weapon, her composure was cool. She’d been the same during the bridal tea which Bastian had organized—lurking near the back of the pack while the rest of my bridesmaids had rushed up to me, eager to stake their claim on my attention. Then I’d appreciated her reticence; now her caution set my defenses on edge.