Page 68 of The False Vow

It was, at least, a theory.

Finally, Bastian spoke. “How funny.” He shook his head, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “Did you think I would just let you win?”

I didn’t know how to respond. Watching me, Bastian leaned forward to fill the silence.

“I must admit, I’m surprised you are taking this so personally,” he remarked. “Noé, of course—he is an irrational creature, driven entirely by whims and emotion—but I expected you, of all people, to understand the motivating benefits of a little…competition.”

Rage boiled in my veins. So that was why he was doing this.

It was all just another trial.

“And if I prove victorious,” I replied. “If I stay alive until my wedding day, and solve the murder you’ve laid out—then what? We become one happy family, after you have attempted to have me murdered?”

Bastian waved a hand. “Please. A little murder is healthy for a family. My grandfather nearly beat my great-uncle to death over a business dispute—and it is rumored that his father before him poisoned his parents because their longevity was substantially delaying his inheritance. Frankly, I do not respect any relative who has not attempted to do away with me at one time or another. It implies a certain lack of ambition.”

He guided the automobile over a bump in the road—we’d moved off the bridge and were bouncing along the coastline, hemmed in by a dense jacket of fog—then turned back to me.

“You misunderstand, Miss Lovett. All I’m attempting to do is remind you of the ruthlessness of your peers. I didn’t force your fellow witches to take up arms against you—quite the contrary. I merely offered them an opportunity. Does it not shock you, how many of them took it?”

His arched brow underlined his point. I shifted straight forward in my seat. In truth, my fellow silkwitches’ actions over the past week or so had done worse than shocked me—they had frightened me. I’d never concerned myself with making friends during the Vainglory. In my past life, I’d never needed them; such relationships had always seemed sentimental at best, dangerous at worst. Like weights tied to one’s belt, it was best to cut any potential companions off before they inevitably dragged you down.

Until recently, I’d never considered that there might be a flaw in my thinking. That without any loyalties to burden me, I was on my own, but also—

Well, that was it, wasn’t it? I was on my own.

My fingers itched. I resisted the urge to slip them beneath my caul and feel the bump which had swollen over the place where Clio had smashed my head into the floorboards.

“Ah.” Bastian’s voice drew me out of my haze. The automobile was slowing; around us, mist collected in damp yellow pools, so thick it almost appeared liquid. “We’ve reached our destination.”

My heart dropped as I picked out the shape of a building in front of us. The road Bastian had taken us on ran along Balmoore’s cliffs, directly across the bay from the Isle d’Eylau. To my left, the land fell into a steep, chalky drop-off; to my right, though, a series of structures paraded in a neat line. Their faces were blank stone, completely featureless except for the grand iron gates set into their fronts.

At the sight of them, I felt a spool wind tight within me. “You gave me until my wedding day.”

“And until then, you shall have.” Bastian’s nod did little to relieve the panic which had sprouted in me at the sight of the cloisters. I’d never been so close to them before. How many silkwitches were trapped behind those gates?

Releasing his hold on the steering grip, the Weaver King sat back. “Adélard Drake is fascinated with you,” he said. “In our circles, we call him the Vulture. Whenever a girl turns twenty—a year out from the cloisters—he begins hanging around.” He fluttered his fingertips, then glanced at me sidelong. “He’s swooped in a bit early, in your case.”

My entire body felt cold. “You brought me here to meet with Mr. Drake?”

“Not at all. Adélard is away today, as it happens.” Again, Bastian waved away my question. Illogical as it was, I felt certain the cloisters had sensed my arrival. I could practically feel them pitching forward, like dogs straining at a leash. “I brought you here because there are few places in that wretched capital of ours where two people may speak privately. And because I’m sure you’re curious to know what occurs within those walls,” Bastian went on, tracking my interest. “Seeing as you are aware of the origins of us Weavers’ magic.”

His words took a moment to register. When they had, I stiffened.

Bastian chuckled as I hastily relaxed again, attempting unsuccessfully to disguise my reaction. “Oh yes,” he said. “I know what my son confided in you at the end of his Vainglory. He thinks he’s taught you to shield yourself from my prying, but he doesn’t realize that secrets leave fingerprints on every thought they touch. One does not need to see the intruder to understand that their house has been robbed, after all. They need only glimpse the broken vase, the jewelry gone missing, and—”

He snapped. I tried and failed not to jerk at the sudden burst of noise. Sighing, Bastian crossed his arms.

“Honestly, I find it nothing short of miraculous that the knowledge has remained contained for this long.”

I didn’t know what to say. My mind was still caught on the fact that he’d guessed—no, that he knew—his son had told me his secret. For the second time, my stare twitched to the cloisters. Had he brought me here to dispose of me? Shut me away before I could tell anyone else about the truth I’d learned?

My palms began to sweat. I needed a strategy—and fast.

“Doesn’t it seem odd to you?” Bastian questioned, jerking me out of my thoughts. “How willingly the public—even you girls—accepts that Weaver magic waxes as silkwitch magic wanes? Or even more ludicrous than that is the fact that, despite being perfectly able to do so, none of you attempt to expand your Wits prior to marriage. Of course, a few have happened upon the discovery by accident and had to be hushed up, but for the most part, you easily don the restraints we give you.” He clucked his tongue reprovingly. “You’re told your gifts are limited—a single magical trick—and you accept our word as law. It never fails to disappoint me. Do you know how many times I’ve encountered a clever girl, a particularly talented witch, and wanted to take her by the shoulders and say—test me, you idiot! Give me something to fight against!” He held out his hand as though to shake a person in front of him, then settled back in his seat. “But you never do.”

I remained silent, peering uneasily into the yellow mist around us. Eventually, I replied.

“Witches are as fearful of their gifts as they are fond of them,” I said. “The public is wary of us; no girl would risk stoking their ire and earning an early trip to the cloisters by attempting to push the boundaries of her Wit, especially when history and society insist that such a feat is impossible. Not to mention, from the moment their magic manifests, most girls of my kind are kept in relative isolation to prevent their hair from being stolen, and hounded to find a Weaver to marry. All our efforts go toward securing a suitor—there is no room for anything else.”