Page 67 of The False Vow

When I lowered the monocle, both the message and the hands disappeared, blinking out of existence like a trick of the light. Curling my knuckles around the item, I sat up. Curious.

Nathalie observed me smugly over the top of her plate, evidently pleased with the results of her minion’s thievery. Biting down onto a sausage link, she chewed, then asked primly, “Remind me why I’m aiding you?”

I chuckled. “Oh, I think you enjoy being in on the action.” Rising, I stowed the monocle in my waistband. “Thank you,” I said sincerely to Nathalie. “And thank Good Sister for me, too. I’ve a suspicion I may call upon you both again before my wedding day is done.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Fortblanche emptied out after breakfast. Only once Bernard assured me that my final bridesmaid had departed did I abandon the drawing room I’d shut myself in, grateful to still be alive.

Nothing much happened for the rest of the day. I informed Noé of the findings Nathalie had disclosed to me in the afternoon, but he had no more ideas about how to ascertain the identity of the veiled lady than I did. We spent the evening ensconced in the library, me strategizing, him reading and occasionally calling out lines which he particularly favored for me to hear. A few times, I laughed.

It was all very worrying.

I looked at the monocle before retiring for the night, but its hands had gotten stuck at the six o’clock point and refused to budge. I tried not to let its lethargy worry me. The object was evidently Woven—what if it had somehow sensed that I was not its rightful owner and was barring me from whatever secrets it was keeping? What if—

What if, what if, what if. They were about all I had. A slew of unanswered questions, a veiled lady who was a silkwitch but not one of my witches, a pair of missing gloves, and a tunnel entrance in the billiards room where they’d last been sighted. It felt like a children’s game: Spot the common thread. I’d always been good at those sorts of logic puzzles when I was younger. But if there was a connection now, I couldn’t find it.

Or perhaps it was worse than that. Perhaps none existed at all.

The stalemate ended two mornings later. I was taking my coffee in the breakfast room, sorting through a fresh stack of newspapers. The message on the monocle had reinforced the theory I’d been entertaining since I’d first heard Nathalie’s description of the veiled lady during my dress fitting, and I was eager to dig up as much information as I was able before the monocle’s clock hands—hopefully—jumped forward again.

I turned to a new page, then paused as I became aware of a presence standing to my left.

For a half second, I thought he was his son. Bastian Alaire had a contrary way of appearing young and old all at once. Immortal, I supposed, was the word. His gray eyes were ancient, all-knowing and wholly out of time.

He grinned down at me, Mariéprix winking from its usual place on his left ring finger. “Forgive me, dear. Did I catch you by surprise? I only meant to ask whether you might allow me to steal you away for an hour or so. We’ve gotten to know each other so little, and your marriage is approaching so rapidly. Shall we embark on a father-and-daughter-to-be excursion?”

As always, Bastian spoke fluidly, as though he were merely reciting a line of dialogue and already knew the response which would come after it. I knew it would be worthless to deny him. He’d clearly put substantial effort into his Maiden’s Race and was likely frustrated that I’d not done as he wanted and died. Whatever the nature of this excursion was, I had the distinct impression that he was coming to the bargaining table.

Not to mention, there were questions I wanted to ask him about the veiled lady, too. Namely, why he hadn’t informed me of her earlier, if Bernard had told him that she’d been sighted with one of his keys.

“Of course, sir,” I said, standing. “That sounds wonderful. Where shall we go?”

His smile widened. “Oh, here and there, I think,” he replied. “You’ll see. The joy is in the discovery, yes?”

As someone currently caught in the middle of a murder investigation, I strongly disagreed. Still, I followed him out of the breakfast room and to Fortblanche’s front drive, where the automobile Noé had driven us in was waiting. Bastian patted its polished hood affectionately, then stooped to peer more closely at it. He scratched his nail over something—a chip in the paintwork, so minuscule I never would have noticed it had he not pointed it out.

He sighed. “You know, sometimes I am convinced he breaks things just to spite me.”

I said nothing. It was such a fatherly remark.

Bastian handled the auto with far more ease than his son had. I wondered if he was taking me into the capital as we wound down the cliffside road, but Bastian only skirted the city, heading for the bridge which connected the Isle d’Eylau to Balmoore’s mainland. My pulse skipped as the automobile rolled over the ocean, gray waves below us and fog all around so there was almost no delineation between wet sky and wet sea. I hadn’t left the island since coming to live with my brother over a year ago. Where in the world were we headed?

The Weaver King said nothing as we drove. Though he had not stated as much, I got the sense he was waiting for me to play a card.

Quickly, I rifled through my deck. “That was a fearsome race you arranged the other day,” I said.

Bastian’s cheek dimpled. “Ah, yes,” he replied without glancing away from the road. “Your first loss, was it not? There is no shame in it—Clio Lavoie is quite the competitor.”

Fog gusted over us, settling damply behind my ears. I felt like a woolen sweater, rain-soaked and moldering. “She is,” I agreed. “Vicious, in fact. Though all the girls fought hard.” I paused. “It may sound foolish, but there were times that I almost believed they were actually trying to kill me.”

The Weaver King gave no response. I let several seconds pass in silence before continuing more bluntly.

“Manon Blanc attempted to push me off a ledge during the bridal tea you arranged. I think I’ve played fair with you. Did you ever mean to let me marry your son, or was your only intention in assigning me the mystery of Sybil’s death to distract me until you managed to have me murdered?”

Bastian’s brow furrowed. Up until a few days ago, I’d rather have taken a blade to the heart than reveal my knowledge of the Weaver King’s plot against me, but the Maiden’s Race—the obviousness of the other girls’ attacks on me—had changed the rules of our match. He was making moves out in the open now; I would, too.

That and the mere fact that he’d invited me to accompany him on this driving trip indicated that he was intrigued—if not also annoyed—by my survival thus far. If I showed him my hand, perhaps he would be more willing to display his.