Page 5 of The False Vow

Lucie’s brow creased. Shaking her head, she reached over to lay a hand on Eliot’s forearm. “For your sake, sweet, I do hope she’s teasing,” she murmured.

Lips pursed, she addressed me again. “I was not a part of the Alaires’ little game, Miss Lovett. I have no patience for tests and trials.”

Neither did I, and yet it seemed I was constantly expected to endure them. “You sent your daughter into Fortblanche for a secret,” I answered. “She confessed as much to me in a letter which she penned prior to her death—there is no use in denying it. That is why you permitted her to join the Vainglory, a competition for the hand in marriage of one of your oldest foes, is it not? You wanted her to uncover evidence of a scandal, which you could use to bring down Bastian.” I paused. “Do you still want that?”

Lucie’s attention focused. Even within the limited scope of our interaction, I could sense her skill as a debater—the decades of practice she’d undergone as a Councillor in Parliament. She argued with a loose, relaxed hand, receiving counterpoints and batting them away with a girlish ease, almost as though she were flirting.

“I have all the evidence I need, dear,” she said after a moment. “My daughter gave me what I required, whether it was in the way we intended or not. If you read the papers, you should know that.”

Independent Autopsy Raises New Questions. The headline of the article I’d stowed in my reticule flashed briefly in my mind. Shoving it away, I answered, “Your investigation will prove fruitless. Sybil was not killed by Bastian.”

The Councillor’s gaze tightened on me. “You are certain of that?”

“As much as I can be certain of anything.”

“And from where did you secure such confidence? What are your findings?” Lucie pressed. When neither Eliot nor I spoke, she laughed lightly, folding her hands in her lap. “Ah. Of course. The bargaining has commenced.”

Eliot shifted in his seat. “Sybil was looking into something before she perished,” he said cautiously. “The sort of secret you requested her to unearth. The kind which, if brought to light, would all but ensure Bastian Alaire’s—along with all Weavers’—social ruin.” He hesitated. “We have discovered what it is that she was investigating, but we lack the platform to share that knowledge effectively with the public.”

“And let me guess—you’d like me to elevate your message.” Lucie smiled softly, shaking her head. “I do so love being a puppet.”

Idly, she picked at her nails, then glanced up at us.

“Well? What is it?”

This was the riskiest part. Quickly, I cut in before Eliot could speak. “Agree to our alliance, and we shall tell you.”

Another tinkling laugh. “How quaint,” Lucie cooed—but there was annoyance in her voice now. We were testing her patience. “My loyalty is valuable. I do not just give it away.”

I met her smirk with one of my own. “So is our information.”

“Even so, your friend has just admitted that you lack the mouthpiece to disseminate it,” Lucie countered. “In this situation, it seems I hold the cards.”

Though I hated to admit it, she was right. Since I’d first told him of what I’d learned during the Vainglory’s final trial, Eliot and I had spent most of our meager windows of time together debating how to spread the news, to little avail. The Weaver lie had been forged over centuries—stitched into the fabric of our society itself—meaning possible holes for us to exploit were few. Silkwitches under twenty-one were kept isolated and warned against using their Wits unless it was in the presence of a Weaver suitor, while any girl who aged beyond that deadline was swiftly taken to the cloisters before she, or the public, could begin to question why her magic had yet to fade. By contrast, sorcerers came into their powers around maturity, conveniently near the time that most of them married. Most young Weavers were not even told that their powers were stolen, rather than inherited naturally, until just before they wed, to prevent any grooms from being struck by a bolt of empathy and attempting to share the truth with their fiancées prior to binding them.

As Reginald Lear’s son and a Weaver himself, Eliot held considerable influence, but his outspokenness on the issue of silkwitch rights meant he was mistrusted by his fellow sorcerers. If he attempted to break from their ranks, it would be all too easy for Reginald, or other sorcerers, to paint him as a well-meaning zealot, his mind muddled by conspiracies following the death of his sister. On the other hand, my engagement to Noé meant I’d earned protection from being sent to the cloisters, but their threat hadn’t diminished completely. If I spoke out against Bastian, I had no doubt he’d find an excuse to cart me away for good.

Recruiting Lucie had been Eliot’s idea. She had what the two of us lacked—both the independence to speak freely, and a platform from which to do it. Her long-term hatred of Weaverkind should have made her a natural ally, and yet…I was loath to give up the truth to her without knowing, for certain, how she would use it.

My chest squeezed as Eliot released a sigh. “It pertains to my kind,” he said. “Weavers.”

I glared at him.

Ignoring me, he went on. “Sorcerers’ magic is not inherent to them, as they claim,” Eliot explained without looking at me. “There is a reason our gifts never manifest before adulthood—around the same time silkwitches’ Wits begin to die out. Our power is stolen from girls like Miss Lovett’s kind. There is a binding ritual within Weaver marriage ceremonies: The bride swears on the first piece of magesilk Woven from her hair. She thinks it is an oath of devotion, but in actuality, she is tying her magic to her husband.”

Lucie frowned. I couldn’t tell whether she believed his confession or not—she appeared intrigued, but skeptical. “I have met Weavers, including your father,” she replied to Eliot. “I have witnessed their abilities firsthand. They are vastly more powerful than silkwitches’ Wits.”

“The magic grows with age, and practice. It is one of the reasons witches must marry young, before their gifts have fully matured,” Eliot responded. “If they were aware of the truth, many girls would likely find that they were able to extend the boundaries of their Wits, even prior to marrying age. But society tells them—enforces, really—the belief that their Wits are no more than a single, relatively limited, trick. That their only true magical value is the raw power contained in the hair they give to their husbands.” He shrugged. “If a person is told there is only one exit in a house, they do not often spend time searching for hidden passageways.”

Lucie hummed. “Then, you,” she said, turning in my direction. “You know—as Mr. Lear puts it—the truth. What can you do?”

I flushed. It was a sore subject.

“The scope of my abilities has thus far remained unchanged,” I admitted reluctantly.

The Councillor clucked her tongue. “So you have a pretty story, but no proof.”

“The pair of us are proof enough.” Eliot sat forward, brow creasing. “I am past twenty, and still, my magic has yet to appear. What is that, if not evidence that we are speaking the truth?”