Page 48 of The False Vow

I turned toward him, lured by the strangeness of his question. “Excuse me?”

He looked vaguely uncomfortable, as though he’d drunk a swallow of spoiled milk. At least that made two of us. “How are you faring?” he elaborated. His eyes darted briefly my way. “I am guessing he did not inform you prior to his proposal.”

My cheeks burned. “What do my emotions matter to you?” I snapped. The automobile thunked as we rolled over a dip in the road; we were descending steadily now, winding down the cliffside toward the capital. “Is that what this expedition of yours is?” I asked abruptly. “A—a pity drive?”

Noé smirked. “No, it is not a pity drive,” he replied. Clearing his throat, he angled his chin in my direction. “You can speak openly with me, you know. I’m familiar with the trials and tribulations which accompany loving Eliot Lear. Who can say—perhaps you may even find that I can relate to you.”

His attention flicked toward me, then back to the steering lever, quick as a change in the wind. It disturbed me—the gray bristle of his stare, like a wire brush scraping away my protective cover. Perhaps you may even find that I can relate to you.

I thought of his moral ambiguity, the vices which he wore like bruises, arrayed for all to see. How he’d worked like a puppet master during the Vainglory, steering me this way and that, sending me missives through candle flame and then turning me loose, to succeed or fail of my own accord. How eventually, even his best friend had come to despise him.

I would not let myself be like him.

“You misunderstand, dear,” I said coolly. “Nothing is amiss between Eliot and me. Just because he cast off your friendship so easily does not mean he wishes to do the same to me.”

I smiled as I said it, driving the barb home. Noé’s features tightened; I watched his knuckles flex around the steering lever, then relax. “Is that so?” he returned. “So he did tell you of the engagement to Clio, then? He didn’t hide it from you until after the deed was done, because he knew you’d disapprove and wanted to avoid tarnishing his precious moral purity with your dissent?”

My heart lurched. To Noé I said, “He tells me everything.”

My fiancé chuckled. “Then what a lucky girl you are.”

We had nothing more to say to one another after that. Around us, the city sprouted; we’d descended past its wealthy crust and were now plunging toward the mud-bottomed lower quarter where I’d lived with my brother before Eliot had found me. Pedestrians stopped to ogle the automobile as it passed, their gaping expressions making me wish I had a hat to pull over my eyes.

Where was Noé taking us?

As if in answer to my unvoiced question, our vehicle rolled to a halt. Removing his cap, Noé ran a hand through his hair, glancing over at me.

“Here we are.”

I followed the path of his raised finger and felt my stomach drop.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Absolutely not,” I said.

The building Noé was pointing to was a pub: sag-roofed and mean-looking, with walls the color of a tea stain and a sign reading The Sea Witch dangling haphazardly above its crooked front door. Being relatively early, the place seemed mostly deserted, though it was difficult to tell through the grime encrusting its windows, so thick, it was like a sheer curtain. All I could make out was the orange glow of the lamps within, like the pulse of a distant lighthouse.

“Why not?” Beside me, Noé slouched back against the automobile’s booth, no longer clutching its grip. “What is wrong with it?”

I furrowed my brow at him. “If you cannot see for yourself, I fear there is something wrong with you.”

He scoffed. “I see a discreet establishment where Weavers never venture, where you and I can discuss our business in private and have a drink while doing it,” he replied. “Any other complaints?”

I was running low, but I was never one to concede easily. “Respectable ladies do not go out drinking at eleven o’clock in the morning.”

It was the first argument that rose to my mind; the flash of his grin told me it was the wrong one. “Ah, but you are not a respectable lady, my dear Tamerlane,” Noé said. “You are a silkwitch—and more than that, you are a deceiver, a pretender, and a thief.” He winked; my nose wrinkled. “It is my favorite thing about you.”

Without waiting for any further rebuttals, he swung out of the automobile.

“Stay with the machine, if you’d like,” he called over his shoulder as he strode toward the pub. “Though I feel obliged to warn you, we are in an unsavory part of town. Linger too long, and I’d reckon a black-market hawk will part you from your hair within the hour.”

I wanted to grab him by the collar of his suit and drag him into the vehicle again, but he was too far gone, already slipping through the door. Alone in my seat, I reached for my caul, feeling the weight of the locks caught up within it. The area was too quiet without his pestering to fill the silence; cautiously, I glanced up and down the road, my gaze catching on the single pedestrian I saw ambling my way. Was he moving past me, or toward me? My throat itched, my mind caught on the memory of my uncle, all those years ago—stealing into my parents’ house while they’d been away, slicing my hair from my scalp. I could still feel the metal of his knife.

Dammit. I stood up.

A bell jingled weakly as I entered the bar. The building’s interior was as dreary as its face, just a pocked wooden floor and a whitewashed ceiling supported by worn oak beams, a few sticky-looking booths pressed against one wall and a cramped bar shoved against the other. Noé was lingering at the latter, his back turned to me, making idle conversation with the barman—the pub’s sole other occupant aside from a pair of wizened-looking elderly men sitting together near the back.

His eyes widened as I sidled up to him. “Sisters three,” he gasped. “Has a lady decided to enter a pub? Dear woman, don’t you realize it is only eleven o’clock—you’re not supposed to be here until noon at least!”