Page 76 of The False Vow

Dorian spoke to me like I was a roach. Best crushed under his heel, or else not seen at all. “He’s taught me many things,” I answered. “Including the odds of six against one. Take care of your flock, as you call them, or they may learn that lesson, too.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned toward the exit.

“We look forward to hearing from you. Goodbye, Mr. Drake.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

We left Dorian’s establishment as we’d entered it: together, and utterly clueless.

Noé slumped against the alleyway wall. A few paces to his left, the hidden entrance we’d come through had closed again, the mean flare of the attendant’s eye the last thing I’d seen before the door had sealed over. Now my fiancé rubbed at the bridge of his nose, groaning.

“Dammit.” He cursed. “That was utterly useless. He gave us nothing.”

I leaned my shoulder against the brick beside him. Moisture crawled through the fabric of my capelet, making me shiver. “He gave us more than he realized.”

Noé arched a brow.

“The veils his girls wear,” I clarified, glancing over at him. “He swears they didn’t adopt their outfits until after the Vainglory had ended.”

“Yes,” Noé affirmed, drawing the word out. His expression was questioning, his body shifting to match mine so that we were positioned parallel to one another. “Which means what—he’s lying? That much seems obvious.”

I shook my head. “Which means he didn’t originate the disguise,” I corrected. “Did you notice he asked for a description of the veil the woman was wearing? Almost as if he wished to compare it to another version he knew of. There could only be two reasons for him to pose that question. Either the veiled lady is one of Dorian’s silkwitches, which he denies, or—”

“The idea wasn’t his originally,” Noé finished. “He stole it from someone. Who?”

I shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” I said. “We can only hope, now that you’ve agreed to be his friend, he’ll write and tell us himself.” My mind was picking apart the interaction we’d just exited, only half of my focus on Noé. There was something else Dorian had said which had bothered me. What was it?

To my side, Noé’s eyes flashed. He looked so sleek in the darkness, so wolfish. He had the dreadful beauty of a figure half glimpsed through a window, before one’s mother whisks the curtains closed and cautions one to stay away. “Shall we go back in?” he asked. “Press him again?”

I snapped out of my haze. “No,” I replied. “I doubt we’ll be able to get anything more out of him tonight. Particularly not so long as we remain on his turf.” Sighing, I passed him Mireille’s monocle, which I still carried in my dress pocket. “Hold this, will you?”

He slipped it into his coat. When I went to pull my arm back, he took me by the wrist, his thumb nudging against the heel of my hand. The gentle pressure was like a trigger—at once, I found myself pulled back to the pair of us just after our encounter with Henri Claudel, waiting for our ticket to be called. The words he’d said to me then, which I’d yet to recover from.

I’ve decided to quit…My fiancée told me…I do hate to disappoint her.

I didn’t know what to do with the confession. I had lectured him about his smoking habit—multiple times—and yet…I’d never anticipated he would actually give up his vices because of me. If anything, the flaw had been convenient—it had given me something to latch on to, a grievance to nurse, a tangible reminder of why I hated him.

Now he’d gone and gotten rid of it. What was I to do about that?

Noé cleared his throat. “I didn’t choose you because of Lear,” he murmured. “You do know that, don’t you?”

I blinked. Of all the remarks Dorian had made, that was the one he was fixated on? “Of course,” I answered, glad for the distraction. “You chose me because I was the best investment.”

I said it lightly. Still, my fiancé’s expression didn’t change. “I really dislike the way he speaks to you.”

His gaze was so intent—bladed, almost. Suddenly, I was unsure whom he was referring to. Was it Dorian who had his attention, or Eliot?

“Words do no harm,” I replied. “We should be going.”

Tugging my capelet more tightly around myself, I pushed off from the wall. According to the instructions Noé had given him upon our arrival, our driver—Philippe—should be waiting for us at the mouth of the alleyway, where the passage joined up with the street. I headed in that direction, picking my way over the slick cobblestones.

I’d only made it a few steps when a small strangled noise issued from behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder. Noé was standing several feet to my back, clutching at his heart. His expression was downcast—muddled, almost, as though he weren’t entirely sure why he’d called out.

My lips pulled in a frown. “What’s happened?”

At my voice, he glanced up. “Nothing,” Noé said, collecting himself. “I thought…” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

Odd. I debated questioning him further but decided against it. The alleyway’s murk was beginning to wear on me—and honestly, I was frightened of being drawn into conversation with him again. Lately, all our talks seemed to end with me tied up in knots, uncertain of what I was thinking or feeling. “All right,” I relented, facing forward.