Page 82 of The False Vow

By contrast, I’d barely slept. His body had been a hot coal resting next to me all night—even when I had not been touching him, I’d felt him, the uncomfortable warmth he radiated like the glare of the sun through sheer curtains. As soon as dawn’s arrival had given me an excuse to do so, I’d leapt from the sheets, eager to put as much distance between the two of us as possible.

Pausing, I addressed him, picking up the conversation where I’d left off a minute ago. “Tell me the schedule again?”

Noé yawned. He’d watched my latest fit of pacing without commenting on it, his eyes tracking me all the while. “We have a private rehearsal this afternoon,” he said. “Your bridesmaids won’t be in attendance for that—it should be a simple overview of the ceremony, though who knows what tricks my father has up his sleeve. Then a formal dinner with our bridal parties in three days’ time, followed by the hunting expedition I mentioned before. I believe you have a final gown fitting while I’m away, and then—”

The wedding. He didn’t need to name my deadline for me to feel it, wrapped like a wire around my throat. Less than a week to go before I’d be forced to present Bastian with Sybil’s killer, or else be carted off to the cloisters for good.

As if sensing my unease, Noé spoke up. “Shall I write to Adélard?” he asked. “He may be able to help us broker another meeting with Dorian.” His gaze drifted. “So long as I assure him that you’ll be in attendance, I have no doubt the Cloister Master will make time for us.”

His voice was dark. I shook my head. “I’ve no desire to speak with Dorian any further.”

The words came out sharper than I’d intended. Across the room, Noé shifted higher against the bed pillows. “Why, Tamerlane,” he said, grinning. “Is that a hint of protectiveness I hear in your tone?”

He dropped his smirk when I glared at him.

“You really think it was one of Dorian’s witches who hurt me?” Noé asked. “After he made such a fuss about alliances and the like? The behaviors seem contradictory.”

I sighed. “Who else could have managed it?” I rebutted. “Whoever was behind the attack, it was clearly magical in nature. And regardless, Dorian will be less likely to talk if we press him than if we don’t. Better to let him come to us if he chooses.”

Noé frowned. I could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced by my argument, but he relented all the same. “And in the meantime?”

I smiled. In the course of my pacing, a memory had surfaced: Bastian and I speaking in the automobile, just before he’d left me to venture into the cloisters. You mentioned a pair of lost gloves.

It hadn’t been as substantial of a clue as I might have hoped for, but the Weaver King had provided me with a lead during our talk. And all leads were worth following.

“In the meantime,” I said to Noé, “I am going to speak with Manon Blanc.”

—

The Blanc family town house was nestled in the heart of the Isle d’Eylau’s fashionable quarter. It rose up on the other side of my carriage window, hunched in front of the vehicle like a guard dog: three stories of pale butter-yellow stone carpeted all over with crawling ivy, white-trimmed windows, and a front door painted emerald green. When I’d been a thief, it would have been the kind of home I’d have leapt at the chance to steal from; now even the objectively impressive dwelling appeared humble to me, plain in comparison to the Weaver King’s own.

I’d walked in halls far grander than these before.

Disembarking from my carriage, I advanced toward the entrance. While most of the maidens who’d competed in Noé’s Vainglory had been society witches, born of Weaver lines, silkwitch magic was not hereditary. The Envies, Balmoore’s three sister goddesses, bestowed their blessings randomly, meaning that anyone—sorcerer’s relation or common girl—could technically inherit a gift.

Manon Blanc was one of the latter. Alexandre Blanc had been but a sailor when he’d met his husband, Étienne, the son of a wealthy businessman looking to step into his father’s entrepreneurial shoes, and agreed to captain the maiden vessel in Étienne’s fledgling shipping fleet. Business had prospered, as had their love; Blanc Shipping owned or operated over half the ships which moved in and out of the Isle d’Eylau’s harbor each day.

A maid answered my knock, opening the door and ushering me through to a narrow entry hall on its other side. A minute later, another figure appeared. Alexandre Blanc eyed me as he came down the stairs, his forehead furrowed.

“Good morning, sir.” Curtsying, I smiled up at him. I’d dressed carefully before departing Fortblanche, selecting only garments which I knew looked expensive and ensuring my engagement ring was slipped, clearly visible, atop my glove.

The effort seemed to have paid off; Alexandre relaxed as he took me in, though I noticed his gaze stray briefly to a door on the right side of the hall. From behind it, I could hear the low murmur of voices.

“I’ve come in the hopes I might speak with your daughter,” I said, drawing his attention back to me. “I am Miss Cecilia Lovett. Miss Blanc and I participated in Noé Alaire’s Vainglory together this past summer. She is to be part of my wedding, as I’m sure you know. There are a few final details I should like to discuss with her.”

Alexandre’s eyes brightened. He had an expressive, cheerful face, his features retaining the wind-lashed quality of an experienced sailor, though by the cut of his suit I guessed it had been many years since he’d been at sea. “Miss Lovett—ah, yes,” he replied genially. “Manon has told us much about you. Though I am afraid she is with a caller at the moment—”

“Miss Lovett?”

Alexandre winced as, from behind the right-hand door, a voice called out—sweet, airy, and familiar. There was the rapid patter of footsteps; a minute later, Manon rushed into the entry hall, a maid and a disgruntled-looking young man following reluctantly after her.

She took my hands, grinning widely. More than delight at my visit, there was, I thought, a certain desperation in the other silkwitch’s gaze, as if she’d been trapped in a wolf den and had simply leapt at the first opportunity for escape. My attention drifted to the young man behind her: formally dressed, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, his other itching at his throat. I could just make out a Weaver sigil stitched into the collar of his shirt, the spinning wheel emblem like a spoked eye.

“Oh, how wonderful to see you.” Manon effused, squeezing my wrists tighter. “Please, do come in.”

I gave her a smile in return. It was a risk visiting with a girl who had already attempted to kill me once, but I recalled the regret in Manon’s voice when I’d overheard her speaking with Anais following the Maiden’s Race. How, when I reappeared in Fortblanche’s library after she’d pushed me, she looked at me not with disdain but relief.

Manon was desperate—all silkwitches were. But I did not believe her a true killer.