Page 83 of The False Vow

She tugged me back toward the room she’d exited from, pausing to curtsy hurriedly at her caller. “Mr. Dupont, the pleasure was mine,” she breathed. “Papa, will you have Marie fetch us some tea?”

Alexandre did not appear pleased by the request. “Manon—”

Dropping my hands, she stepped close to her father, pitching her voice so that I could barely make it out. “I will see three more tomorrow, and I will not offer one word of protest,” she muttered. “Please, Papa?”

In the face of her begging, Alexandre caved easily. Casting a final look toward the poor young man, he shook his head, his mouth twisting in a resigned smile.

Sighing, he threw his hands up. “All right.”

Manon squealed. She bustled back over to me as her father moved toward her caller, an apologetic expression on his face. “Come, Miss Lovett. We will sit in here.”

We passed through the door she’d come out of. I’d expected to be led into a sitting area of some kind, but instead, a library rose up around me. Bookshelves lined three walls, the fourth set with a large bay window overlooking the street below. A reading area was arranged in the room’s center, featuring a pair of armchairs and a low leather couch in bottle green. To their backs, a fire crackled merrily.

The entire collection of books was perhaps a quarter of the size of that which the Weaver King kept in his estate, yet the space felt friendly—cozy in a way that Bastian’s did not. Whenever I visited the library at Fortblanche, I couldn’t shake the impression that the books were all being held captive, like strange foreign animals put on display. By contrast, these novels were well worn and well cared for, as much occupants of the house as Manon herself.

Turning in a circle, I took it all in. “How incredible.”

“Isn’t it?” Skipping ahead of me, Manon spun, palms lifted to show off the space. “Papa had it built for me. He grew tired of apologizing to his friends for the number of books I borrowed from their collections, so he commissioned one himself.”

Her voice was affectionate. Listening to it, I softened. “He must love you very much.”

Manon blushed. “Yes, he and Father both,” she said, ducking her head. “I’m very fortunate.”

Bashfully, she indicated one of the armchairs, slipping into the other seat herself. The cushions were soft, a rich green velvet like moss, freshly watered. I resisted the urge to groan as I sank down into them.

“Miss Lovett.” I glanced up at the sound of my name. Manon’s expression had grown somber, her fingers plucking anxiously at her caul. “Before our tea arrives, I must apologize to you—sincerely.”

Biting her lip, she buried her face in her hands.

“I’ve thought of our last meeting every day since it occurred. Cecilia, you cannot believe the guilt I’ve felt over what I did to you—what I attempted to do to you. I hardly sleep anymore; even when I wake, I feel the memory of it gnawing at me, like a rat curled up in my stomach.” She dropped her fingers, removing the spectacles she was wearing. “I am so, so dearly sorry,” she murmured.

Her voice was earnest enough that even if I hadn’t overheard her conversation with Anais, I’d have believed her. I smirked. “Honestly, Manon, I do not begrudge you for it.” Though I had brought a knife, currently stowed in my boot in case she tried again. I was growing disconcertingly used to the idea of people trying to kill me.

“Anais told me of the bargain my father-in-law offered you,” I continued, meeting her gaze. “No silkwitch should be made to suffer a life in the cloisters.”

Manon’s brow creased. “But I—”

“I require no apologies,” I said before she could continue. “Truly.” I paused. “What I do need, however, is a favor.

“When you left Bastian Alaire’s estate after being dismissed from the Vainglory, you took something that did not belong to you.” I arched a brow. “A pair of gloves.”

The other silkwitch started. For a moment, I could see her debating whether to deny my accusation. Her nose wrinkled, her face screwing up with consternation.

Finally, she cursed. “Rochefort.”

Her tone was dark—yet my heart leapt at it all the same. “Marie-Louise is not the one who told me,” I returned levelly. “My informant is unimportant. What matters is the accuracy of their statement.” Crossing my arms, I assessed her. “Judging by your reaction, I’d say they were telling the truth. You did steal the gloves. Would you care to explain why?”

Manon’s cheeks colored. “I didn’t intend to steal them,” she said defensively. “I found them, with my Wit.” Her eyes skated past mine, turning downward toward her lap. “You know the nature of my gift—I have the ability to smell hidden things. I first scented the gloves the morning after the Midway Ball, though I didn’t realize that was what they were at the time. Someone had stowed them inside a vase near the ballroom. I noticed them in particular because there was a powerful aroma of secrecy coming off them—as if the person who had put them there desperately did not want them to be found.”

A vase. That was curious. Anais claimed to have left them in the billiards room. Had someone moved them? “And yet you took them regardless,” I prompted when she dropped off. “Why? Did you mean to return them to Anais?”

Manon’s brow creased. “Ani?” she echoed. “No. I—well, if you must know, I was hoping to find out who’d hidden them. I thought if I did, I might be able to use the items as a kind of…encouragement. To ensure they played fair with me in the competition, you see.”

My lips twitched. “As leverage, you mean,” I said. “Impressive.”

And also unexpected, considering it was Anais who had lost the gloves—and made rather a fuss about it in the days following the ball. If Manon had recovered them, why hadn’t she given them back to her beloved?

Clearing my throat, I asked, “Will you show them to me?”