Page 74 of The False Vow

Once the last girl had slipped out through the drape, Dorian relaxed. “You know,” he said, “running a business is an exhausting affair. The sheer effort it’s taken me to get this place off the ground—I’ll be candid and say it’s been more than I ever expected to expend in my lifetime.” His fingers drummed against his glass, his attention slipping from me to Noé. “I really dislike having my solitude disturbed,” Dorian continued to my fiancé. “I’ve done as your father requested and made myself scarce since the Vainglory. Why has your witch persisted in digging around for my name?”

Noé had left my side. He’d been drifting around the perimeter of the room while Dorian was speaking, halting every so often to examine the furnishings on which the other silkwitches had been lying. At the former judge’s address, he paused. “You invited her here,” he said. “You don’t wish to ask her yourself?”

Dorian smiled. “You came with her. Is she your pet, or are you hers?”

Noé chuckled. There was a long hesitation in which none of us said anything at all, until, finally, my fiancé spoke. “Why are your girls veiled?”

The former judge paused. Noé’s tone was non-accusatory; he spoke with a soft, almost amused cadence, like he was asking Dorian to explain a joke. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell what he meant by it. “Dor,” Noé went on, looking his friend in the eyes. “It’s…odd.”

To my great shock, Dorian flushed. “Veiling them makes my guests feel more comfortable,” he replied. Defensive. Noé had played on his pride—clever. “You know how the public can get about witches. They believe if a silkwitch can’t look them in the eyes, they won’t be able to use their Wit to hex them, or do whatever other superstitious nonsense the fishwives whisper they might.” He lowered himself back into his chair, reaching—sulkily, I thought—for his wine. “It’s good for business.”

Noé appeared unimpressed. “And what kind of business are you running?” he asked. “Henri Claudel seemed excited by it when I ran into him out there. But you know I’ve always felt him to possess poor taste.”

Dorian wiped a dribble of wine from his chin. “You never liked Claudel,” he chided. “I have told you a dozen times at least—your friendship with Eliot Lear has soured you. Henri is a nice enough fellow, but because Lear thinks him tactless, you refuse to involve yourself with him.” He paused. “I wonder,” he mused. “Is that why you picked Miss Lovett as your victor? Good enough for Lear, good enough for you—yes? You know I always preferred Lavoie.”

Noé didn’t reply. His eyes were blank, a dead gray like a winter dawn.

Finally, Dorian conceded. “This”—he started, motioning again to the chamber—“is a mutually beneficial arrangement. Whatever tragedies I suffered as a result of your Vainglory, the competition at least proved to me how many desperate silkwitches exist in our nation, willing to go to almost any length to avoid a life in the cloisters. I merely offer girls of that kind a leg up.”

Settling lower in his chair, he worked his thumbnail into the wood grain.

“The witches you encountered here are all husbandless,” he said. “They’ve agreed to hand over a portion of the hair in their dowers to me, and to work here until they reach twenty-one, in exchange for my services as a matchmaker. Even mostly…retired…from society as I am, the Drake feelers still have quite a long reach. Whenever I hear of a Weaver in search of a wife, I make sure my girls’ names are on all of his friends’ lips. And in return…” He grinned. “You’d be astounded how fascinated most non-Weavers are by silkwitches, even as they fear them. They’ll pay exorbitant amounts to see one close-up—more to experience the effects of their Wits, if they so desire. And all under the capable supervision of a sorcerer, able to contain the girls if they act out…” A hesitation—he glanced up to wink, sly and jaunty. “As far as engagements are concerned, it’s no sure bet, but not everyone can win Noé Alaire, I suppose.”

His cold eyes slid to me. I recalled Henri’s question to Noé in the front chamber—witch or stitch, he’d asked. Now I thought I could deduce the meaning of it. The witches—the chance to see them, to interact with them—they were the first part of Dorian’s enterprise. And the stitch…the magesilk Dorian Wove from the hair he collected, I assumed. A stitch of thread. In a horrid sort of way, it tracked.

I met Dorian’s gaze. “And what of your own engagement?” I asked. “You aren’t married, I see.”

Dorian chuckled. “Oh, I’m the top prize,” he replied, spreading his hands. “My girls know that whoever amongst them impresses me the most stands a chance at becoming a Drake herself. It’s proved to be an exemplary motivator.” He glanced toward Noé. “Lou”—he named his longtime silkwitch fiancée, whom I’d never met—“broke off our betrothal after the whole to-do with Tremblay. I rather think she regrets her choice now. Her twenty-first birthday is coming up soon, you know. Only a few months until she goes to stay with my uncle.”

He sounded positively gleeful about the prospect of it. His delight sickened me to my core. “You’ve made your own Vainglory,” I said.

Dorian nodded. “Precisely.”

My lip curled. Before I could reply, Noé broke in. He’d finished with his examination of the room and was wandering back in my direction.

“Speaking of the Vainglory,” he said. “One of your girls was sighted in Fortblanche the night of the Midway Ball. In the tunnels first, then in the house itself later on by my father’s butler. On both occasions, she was described as wearing a veil.” His brow arched. “What was she doing there?”

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “One of my girls?” he echoed. “She can’t have been. This place didn’t exist during the Vainglory.”

He gestured at the dingy space around us. Noé and I exchanged glances. “Come on, Dor,” he said. “Her disguise matches the outfits your girls wear exactly. You expect me to believe it’s mere coincidence?”

Dorian scowled. “Believe what you wish,” he rebutted. “I’m telling you the truth. Inspiration didn’t strike me until nearly a month after the ball you’re referring to. Ask Adélard—he’ll tell you. I was staying with him in the cloisters when the idea came to me.” He paused. A reflective look crept over his features, candlelight catching on his furrowed brow. “What sort of veil was the girl wearing? Out of curiosity.”

My neck prickled. The former judge’s tone had shifted. Previously, he’d been distracted, clearly irritated by our questions; now, though, there was a wariness to him. Whether the lady in the tunnels was one of his or not, something about our description of her had caught his attention.

I wanted to know what it was.

“A red one,” my fiancé answered, “like the kind your witches have. Beyond that, I’m not sure. I didn’t see her myself, unfortunately.”

I interjected before he could divulge anything else. “Have you seen girls in other kinds of veils before?”

Dorian’s demeanor hardened. For a long moment, he said nothing, only watched me with a piercing, keen-eyed expression like a marksman lining up his shot. I got the impression that suddenly, I was being taken seriously.

He wet his lips. “Why are you inquiring about the Midway Ball?”

His voice was soft. I stiffened at it, grateful when Noé answered in my stead. “My father’s attempting to tie up loose ends,” he said. “As you’ve likely seen in the papers, Lucie Dabos has been hounding him about her daughter’s death. He wants to ensure there are no holes in his narrative which she might be able to exploit to turn the public against him. And”—here, Noé’s speech took on a meaningful tone—“he’s still missing his key.”

Dorian’s mouth dipped in a somber frown. It was the mention of the key, I knew, which had uneased him. If the records Bastian stored behind the moonless door were released, what they revealed would harm all Weavers, not only the Alaires.