Page 60 of The False Vow

“Miss Lovett needs a physician,” he went on to Eliot. “Go find a servant and send them to fetch one. Miss Lavoie, with me. Let’s present my father with his victors.”

Obediently, Clio stood. My blood ran cold when, upon passing Eliot, Noé paused. His chin dipped toward me, then jerked hurriedly away again, the motion so swift, I couldn’t tell whether it was something in my face which had disturbed him—or if he was attempting to prevent me from glimpsing an emotion on his.

He clasped Eliot’s shoulder. “Do you make her fight every battle herself?”

His reprimand was hushed, enough so that I knew he had not intended me to overhear it. Beside him, Clio halted; Noé held on to Eliot for a moment longer, some wordless communication passing between them, then—at once—let him go.

With that, he and Clio departed, leaving the pair of us alone.

Chapter Twenty-Six

As a reward for her victory, Clio and Noé took their dinner together.

The rest of us gathered in their absence. Rather than the usual awkward trio of Bastian, Noé, and me seated around the table, Fortblanche’s dining room was packed to bursting with the entirety of our bridal party—all six of my bridesmaids aside from Clio, plus Eliot and Adélard. Despite the number of bodies present, no one spoke much; still, halfway through our meal, what meager conversation we had mustered up was quashed by a great clap of thunder.

Beyond the dining room windows, the gray paper sky tore open, unleashing torrents of rain. The temperature within the estate’s walls suddenly dropped; around us, the storm dripped like cold black ink.

“Well!” Bastian brought his hands together, his figure a craning shadow in the dimness. Behind him, servants rushed between gas lamps, flooding the room with light. “None of you can drive home in this. You shall all have to spend the night.”

He looked disproportionately pleased by the suggestion. Seated to his direct left, I gripped my wineglass harder. A night in Fortblanche. The message in my future father-in-law’s pronouncement was clear: My fellow silkwitches had failed to do away with me during our race today, so now Bastian was handing them a second chance.

He really was determined to kill me.

I smiled thinly, mimicking Bastian’s excitement. Undoubtedly, one of my bridesmaids would make a move against me tonight…

Which meant I needed to make one of my own first.

—

Noé had yet to knock at my bedroom door by the time I exited my quarters.

I carried with me only the knife which he kept under his pillow. It was nearing midnight, or past it—the clock in my room was too shrouded in shadow to make out, so all I heard was its anonymous tick-ticking, driving me onward as I departed. Around me, the world was timeless and flat; I could hear the angry churn of the sea past my windows, crashing mournfully against the cliffs.

The house was silent. Still, despite the lateness of the hour, I was certain not all the other silkwitches had gone to bed. Likely, some of them would still be up—networking, conspiring with their former allies, many of whom they would not have had much chance to speak with since the Vainglory.

By cooping us all up inside Fortblanche, Bastian had given them access to me—but I had also been given access to them. The chance to hear what they were whispering about in their private quarters when they thought themselves alone.

A chance which I intended to take.

My steps halted at the sound of a low cough emitting from a door to my left. Warm yellow light seeped out from beneath it; as I watched, a shadow twitched—a figure passing in front of the threshold, then moving away again.

Creeping forward, I laid my hand gently on the flank of the door. The wood shivered beneath my touch, awakened by the presence of my Wit. Feeling slightly ridiculous, I leaned closer to it and whispered my request.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was a subtle snap, like the crack of a candle flame, as the door gave another shudder. My Wit strained; my ears popped as if from a drop in pressure.

The next time the figure behind the door moved, I could hear them perfectly, the same as if I were standing in the room with them.

“—can’t even look at her. You cannot imagine—it feels like a knife wedged between my ribs every time we are in the same room, the knowledge of what I tried to do to her. I’m a terrible person.”

Manon Blanc. I recognized her voice immediately, though I was fairly certain she had not been installed in the chamber I was standing in front of. This one had gone to…

“Manon, please.” Anais’s voice was more distant than the other silkwitch’s, as if she were sitting down rather than pacing near the door. Briefly, I imagined them: Anais cross-legged on the guest chamber’s four-poster bed, Manon standing before her, hands clasped anxiously. “You are far from terrible.”

The other silkwitch huffed. “Stop it.” Her voice was thick, clotted with tears. “You are flattering me, because you think it will bring—this—back.” She emphasized this, as though she were gesturing between them. “You see how mercenary I’ve become?” Manon breathed. “That’s all I think of now—what I want, what others want, how to use them. I am horrible.”

“You are not,” Anais insisted. The other silkwitch must have made a face, because a moment later she laughed. “All right, perhaps I am flattering you—partially,” Anais admitted. “But it is only because I miss you. Dearly. I wrote you letters—”

Manon tutted. “Oh, your letters,” she said. “They were far too full of emotions for me to believe them.” A scuffing noise, like she was driving the toe of her slipper into the floor. “You lie now because it suits you,” Manon continued. “You do not miss people. You despise sentiment of any sort—do you think I do not know you at all?”