Page 6 of The False Vow

“Delayed development. A late bloomer, as they say.” Lucie lifted a shoulder, her manner noncommittal. “Many sorcerers do not come into their magic until they are fully grown, well into their late twenties.”

“You doubt us?” Eliot’s voice hardened.

“I am not saying that,” Lucie replied in a mild tone. “I am saying your argument has holes.”

“You are a politician.” Breaking in, I met her gaze. “Can you not help us to patch them?”

“Certainly, I could,” she answered calmly. “If I wished to.”

She lapsed into silence. I stiffened as, for the first time in the course of our conversation, her stare fell to my left hand, resting on the cushioned arm of my seat. In the dimness, the black agate stone which crowned my engagement ring was nearly invisible, the sharp edges of its marquise cut like a dark eye in the murk.

“Tell me—how does your fiancé feel about all this, Miss Lovett?” Lucie asked. “Does he know you are here tonight, speaking with me?”

My stomach dropped. I resisted the urge to curl my knuckles inward, hide the gem from view. “He knows what he needs to,” I replied in a frosty tone. “Which, for the moment, is nothing at all.”

“So you wear his ring, and yet you deceive him. As your prospective partner, your duplicity concerns me.” Her gaze cut to Eliot. “Mr. Lear. Tell me: Does your friend stand by her allies?”

The entire suite seemed to focus on him. Eliot, too, appeared dismayed by the sight of my ring; he blinked at it once, as if rousing himself, then blinked again.

Several seconds went by before, at last, he replied. “Yes,” he answered. “Of course.”

My throat felt tight. His words were firm, but his voice was weak, less sure than it should have been. It felt like a blow to my chest.

Her point made, Lucie settled back in her seat. “Politics, as Mr. Lear well knows, is a game of image. The Weaver lines—particularly the Alaire lineage—are disliked by many in our nation, but they are also familiar, understood. Their regulations have ensured that a steady, if limited, supply of enchanted goods reaches the public—items which are, as you know, both a highly valued and valuable commodity. If I am to go up against Bastian, I require a good girl. A model witch, who will endear people to her cause rather than scare them away.” Turning toward Eliot, she asked, “Can you tame her?”

Indignation lashed me. Unthinking, I stood. “I do not require taming.”

“Cecilia.” It took a moment for me to register my false name—another to recover from the harsh snap of Eliot’s rebuke. To Lucie he replied, “I can teach her to be what you need.”

The Councillor seemed to consider his response. I stiffened as, slowly, she rose from her seat, shifting in the darkness of the opera box to face me.

“Cecilia Lovett,” she mused, studying me. “My daughter wrote me about you, you know, during the Vainglory. Many of the other girls made partnerships throughout the competition—friends, some—but Sybil claimed that you had none.” Her eyes met mine again, canny and cold. “Why is that?”

I wasn’t certain what she wanted me to say. Abruptly, I felt unmoored, my footing in the conversation uneven. “Perhaps it was they who avoided me.”

Lucie tilted her head. “And what does that tell you?”

Brushing the skirt of her gown, she addressed Eliot. “I’ll consider your proposal. Goodbye, children.”

She vanished into the darkness. Distantly, I heard the door to the box open as she let herself out—and, a moment later, the definite snick as she shut it again.

Chapter Three

Eliot was the first to break the quiet.

“Sisters, Lovett,” he spat. With Lucie’s exit, darkness had returned to the box, so that all I could see of him were the silvery parts illuminated by his coin. “What was that?”

Technically, he wasn’t accusing me, yet I flinched like he was. “She riled me.”

“She was testing you.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, rubbing at his brow. “Must you always be so defensive?”

His tone had softened. There was affection in it, and yet still, I blushed. “I wasn’t,” I protested weakly. “I’m not.”

A moment passed in quiet. Collecting myself, I added, “You could have stood up for me.”

“I was being pragmatic.” Eliot shrugged. “She wants a face for her movement; we’ll make you that face. It is only politics—it means nothing.”

Pushing off from the wall, he drew nearer, taking me by my shoulders.