Page 72 of The False Vow

When he took in the monocle still clutched in my fist, comprehension settled over him. Bowing, he moved to open the door at the back of the antechamber, admitting us to the space beyond.

Immediately, we were lost amongst a crowd of people. The room we’d entered was at least thrice the size of the area to our backs, yet the clutch of figures around us made it feel equally as cramped. Above us, a low brick ceiling stole the air from the space, while to our right, a bar had been set up against one wall. A pair of attendants shuffled behind it, dressed in the same livery as the guard who’d admitted us.

I jumped back as a body knocked into me—a young man, I saw as he turned in my direction, fair-skinned with long, whitish-blond hair which fell nearly to his chin. His gaze raked over my figure before catching on my caul.

Understanding passed over him. When he realized what I was, he smiled.

“Hello there.” From the boy’s manner of speaking, I could tell he was incredibly drunk; his syllables fell over one another as though unable to stand on their own. In one hand, he clutched a glass of red wine, half empty. “Is it my turn, then? Must’ve missed my number. Where’ve your coverings gone, darling?”

He stepped, or stumbled, forward. His free hand reached out to brush my cheek, only to be stopped when a second grabbed it by the wrist. “Careful there, Henri.” Noé manifested behind me. “I believe the general rule is to ask before you touch.”

“Alaire!” The blond boy—Henri, I surmised—seemed delighted by my fiancé’s appearance. He jerked his glass in greeting, causing a spatter of wine to splash across my neck. “Didn’t expect I’d see you here. Witch or stitch? Though you’ve already got plenty of both.” He winked at me, then waggled his eyebrows, as if pleased with his joke. “Did you bring Lear with you?”

Noé and I exchanged glances. “You know Eliot,” my fiancé replied while looking at me. “Won’t take part in anything underhanded or underground.” Turning his attention back to Henri, he narrowed his eyes. “Run through those options again, will you?”

The other boy blinked, as if thrown by the request. Shaking off his disquiet, he grinned and downed the last of his wine. “Oh no—you haven’t come in without a reservation, have you?” Digging into his jacket pocket, he produced something—a slip of paper, wine-stained and jagged at the edges. The number 21 was scrawled on it in bleeding black ink. “We’ve all been in line for ages. You’ll have to take a ticket.” Flapping the paper beneath Noé’s chin, he chided gleefully, “No cutting just because of Daddy, you hear?”

Noé smirked. “Well now, how would Daddy feel if he heard you saying that?”

His tone was deathly soft, sober where the other boy’s was boisterous. Henri blanched. Without waiting for him to speak again, Noé neatly snatched the paper ticket from his hand, ignoring Henri’s responding cry of protest.

Turning his back to him, he slipped an arm around my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Together, we dove into the crowd. The pack of bodies around us was oppressive, reeking of sweat and the anesthetic tang of liquor. I pushed indiscriminately through the rabble, coming up for air near the chamber’s left flank.

Noé joined me a second later. His hair was mussed, his cape askew. Adjusting the garment, he handed me the stolen ticket just as from the back of the room a voice called out.

“Nineteen!”

A cheer went up by the bar. Shifting, I watched on as an intoxicated-looking man thrust his arm triumphantly into the air, brandishing the slip of paper he was clutching like a spoil of war. Clustered around him, his friends thumped him eagerly on his back, steering him toward the far end of the chamber—where I now saw a curtained entrance stood.

Two guards were positioned on either side of it. When the man reached them, the attendant who’d summoned him pulled the fabric aside. I caught a brief glimpse of a dimly lit space past the threshold—an orange glow like a hot ember, stark against the darkness—as the man passed through the gap, then nothing.

I leaned against the wall, ignoring the damp soaking into my capelet. “Do you think that room holds the witches or the stitches?”

“I think we’ll find out for ourselves soon enough.” Noé leaned beside me. He’d shrugged off his cape and now stood in only a shirt and trousers, his ascot undone. Somehow, the untidiness of his dress made it seem as though he were wearing less than he was. He looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, or else exited from the sordid belly of a gambling den, half drunk and still smelling of his vices.

Glancing up, I found him already regarding me. His expression was guarded, his gaze inscrutable.

“Are you all right?” he asked bluntly. “Did Henri frighten you?”

The pivot was so sudden that I could do nothing except tell the truth. “Not at all,” I said. “I’m fine.”

He blinked. “I’m happy to hear it.” Lifting his chin, he peered over the top of my head toward the bar. Henri was already engaged in conversation with another of his peers, a fresh drink in hand and his lost ticket seemingly forgotten. “It doesn’t bode well for the nature of this place that he’s here,” Noé continued, watching him. “Henri’s family are merchants—not sorcerers themselves, but wealthy enough to buy their way into our circles, and to purchase many of the enchanted objects which our artisans produce. His parents are among my father’s best clients.” He grimaced. “Whatever he’s come for tonight, magic is certain to be involved. He’s drawn to it like a fly to rot.”

I frowned. “When he saw me, he seemed to think I’d come to fetch him for something,” I said in response. “Asked me where my coverings had gone.”

Noé arched a brow, tracking my meaning. “You think he was referring to a veil?”

“Could be.” I shrugged. “At the very least, he didn’t appear surprised to see a silkwitch about, which in itself tells us something. I don’t see any other women around, do you?”

Noé’s brow furrowed, as though the thought had not yet occurred to him. “I didn’t notice,” he said. “I suppose you’re right.”

His attention fell to me as I pushed away from the wall. Shoved against the stone, my capelet had become chilly with moisture; undoing the ribbon that fastened it, I slipped it off. The gown I’d chosen for this evening was more formal than the silhouettes I usually favored, pale pink with draping along the bust. My caul had been picked to match it, an intricate web of gold strands and blush-colored pearls.

I arched a brow at his appraising eye. In response, Noé said, “You know, you look quite nice tonight.”

His tone was flat. There was none of his usual coyness in the compliment—only the praise itself, held out plainly like a gift. Absorbing it, I frowned.