Page 54 of The False Vow

Squinting, I raised my hand and brushed absently at my temple. I could not rid myself of the feeling of Noé’s fingers gusting gently over my hair. The memory of his touch seemed to have stuck to me, as irritating and persistent as a fly.

I’m a romantic.

I was jerked out of my thoughts as, to my left, Noé swore. “Shit.”

Pausing, I focused. We’d reached Fortblanche’s threshold, the area around it silent and still. Above the grand double doors, a sleek-looking raven sat perched atop the peaked stone mantel, the only living creature apart from the pair of us. It glared down its beak at me as I examined it, as if offended by my impudence in studying it so directly.

Leaning up against the doors beneath it were three items. The larger two caught my attention first: a pair of ivy garlands, evidently molded to fit over the wearer’s brows. Their leaves were dark and glossy as though freshly picked.

The third item was a note.

Son and Miss Lovett,

We have gone ahead and started without you. Find me on the terrace abutting the main ballroom—I will be waiting there for you both. So long as you retain possession of your crowns until you reach me, victory shall be yours.

Best of luck, children.

It was signed by the Weaver King. Frowning, I reached for the nearest ivy garland—the obvious candidate for the crown Bastian’s message mentioned. At my motion, Noé leapt forward, blinking as if coming out of a stupor.

“Don’t!”

His warning hit me just as my fingers brushed over the leaves. Startled, I pulled my arm back—then glanced up as I caught a flicker of movement in my periphery.

Dark feathers fluttered at the top of my vision. Above us, the raven had detached itself from its perch and was swooping downward, toward the spot where Noé and I stood. I caught a glimpse of its talons as it zipped nearer—claws extended beneath its body like a pair of hooks.

The air shuddered. One moment I was staring into the raven’s beady eyes; the next the bird had vanished, and a girl stepped forward in its place. She was dark-haired, dressed in gray, her shining locks caught up in a webbed ebony caul.

Delphine Barbier. Another of the silkwitches I’d competed against in the Vainglory—another of my new, unwanted bridesmaids who’d been dismissed from the competition before I’d gotten to know her. My pulse faltered as she met my gaze. What was happening?

Again, it was Noé who brought me back. “Knife!” he shouted, pointing at Delphine.

She did indeed have one. I ducked as it swung overhead, narrowly missing the top of my scalp. Delphine yelped in annoyance, unbalanced. Sensing my opportunity, I dove forward, wrapping my arms around her knees and pulling her down.

It happened in the span of an instant. Delphine’s legs gave out, her head knocking hard against the paved stone. There was a dull thunk as her skull collided with the ground, before—all at once—she went limp.

Her eyes closed, her lips parted. Untangling myself from her, I fumbled for her pulse—shallow, but decidedly present—then clambered unsteadily to my feet.

Immediately, Noé’s hand was at my elbow. “We need to get inside.”

I wrenched away from him as he went to open the doors. “Why? What is this?”

“Tam—Cecilia, I mean—there’s no time.” His voice broke; collecting himself, Noé retrieved the arm I’d ripped from his grasp. “The race begins as soon as you touch the crown,” he hissed. “We can discuss the rest inside.”

The race. The Maiden’s Race? My heart lurched at the reminder of the event I’d mentioned to Noé prior to our trip into town, Bastian’s note suddenly making a great deal more sense. We are in another game. We’d been gone for so long, I’d assumed that we’d missed it.

I stooped to pick up the ivy garlands from the ground. Passing one to Noé, I kept the other for myself, then—casting a final look at Delphine’s prone figure—followed my fiancé indoors.

The double doors creaked open. Beyond them, Fortblanche was quiet, no servant rushing forth to welcome us as they usually did. The house was dark, as if its clocks were running several hours ahead of those outside—it took me a moment to place why. All the curtains had been drawn over the windows, the gas lamps extinguished so that there was nothing to displace the murk which had rushed in.

Briefly, my mind returned to the tunnels, the lightless press of their shadowed crevices, the huff of Clio’s breath as she hunted me down, and I shivered.

Noé took my hand, the direness of our situation removing any potential awkwardness from the gesture. “We need to get to the White Terrace,” he muttered.

I nodded. The destination Bastian had laid out for us was a familiar one to me. As his note had stated, the feature directly abutted Fortblanche’s ballroom, sweeping out over the cliffside like a great ivory wing. It had been from the terrace that Ophelia Lear had tumbled to her death, over a year prior. The reminder of her passing was grim enough that I did not venture out onto the terrace often—but I’d be damned if I let another silkwitch beat me there today.

Letting Noé take the lead, I trailed behind him through the corridors, glancing over my shoulder every so often to ensure we were not being followed. Several minutes into our walk I spotted a plain-looking door on the hall’s right-hand side. From experience, I knew it led to a linen closet, a small, compact space utilized exclusively by the servants.

I acted on instinct. Before he could react, I tugged Noé into the closet and firmly shut the door behind us.