Page 84 of The False Vow

Manon hesitated.

Noting her reticence, I pressed, “You mentioned a rat in your stomach. Aiding me might help to kill it.”

The suggestion seemed to provide the final push she needed. Lips pursed, Manon stood up, crossing to the bay window and the window seat fitted beneath. She dug beneath the cushion for a moment, then pulled her arm back.

Drooped over her fingers were a pair of gloves. They were silk, dyed the light spring green of budding clovers. Upon a closer look, I saw that one of them had a tear in it—a rip which began between the thumb and forefinger and extended for several inches.

But…I frowned. “These are not Anais’s.”

Manon’s brow furrowed. I accepted the gloves when she extended them toward me, running my fingers over the fabric. Was it possible that I was mistaken? And yet, I could hear Marie-Louise’s voice in my head so clearly, back when she’d first told me about Anais and the missing accessories. She had quite a nice pair—white silk, reaching just above her elbows.

White silk, the Owl had said. But the gloves I held in my hands were green.

“Of course they don’t belong to Ani,” Manon said matter-of-factly. “Is that why you brought her up? I’d have given them to her if they did—her mother stitches her name on the inside of hers, anyhow. She’s been doing it for her since she was a child.”

I regarded the unfamiliar accessories for a second longer before closing my hand over them. “Is that so?” I asked. “I suppose I was mistaken. It is only that I’d heard Miss Tremblay also lost a pair of gloves during the competition, and assumed the ones you found and the ones she was missing were the same.”

Manon’s eyes narrowed. I was not sure if it was my explanation she was suspicious of, or my interest in Anais. I hurried on before she could vocalize either.

“You know,” I said, “after you tried to kill me, Anais bargained for you. She told me of the offer Bastian made to you and the rest of my bridesmaids, but in exchange she asked that I forgive your attempt on my life. That I refrain from pursuing any sort of justice against you.”

My words had the desired effect. Manon’s expression slackened, her cheeks flushing with pink. “Why would she do that?”

“You’d have to ask her yourself,” I replied. “But I needed that information—about the ultimatum Bastian gave you—badly. She could have asked for almost anything in return for it, and I would have acquiesced, but she decided to aid you instead.” Pausing, I inclined my head. “I merely thought you should know.”

The other silkwitch fell silent. She did not request the stolen gloves back as I turned and made my way toward the door, though I felt her gaze linger on me, steady and pensive, as I exited.

Back in my carriage, I peeled back the lip of one glove, then the other. There was nothing stitched on the fabric inside—no name, nothing indicating their original owner. Whoever these belonged to, that person was obviously not Anais Tremblay. Which begged the question…

If they weren’t hers, whose were they?

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I stowed the strange gloves beneath my mattress upon returning to Fortblanche. My visit with Manon had taken up most of the morning; back at the estate, I was greeted by an afternoon downpour, and the wedding rehearsal I’d been dreading all day.

We met in the receiving room, where I’d first been presented to Noé and his judges during the Vainglory—a moment that seemed so distant now. I was the last to arrive. At the other end of the long throatlike hall, three figures were gathered, cast in the eerie, dim light filtering through the arched windows.

Noé spotted me before the others did. “Hello there.”

His father turned at the sound of his greeting. “Ah, Miss Lovett!” Bastian called out in a decidedly more cheerful manner. “You’re here—good, good. We can get started, then.”

He beckoned me closer. Beside him, an unfamiliar man stood, older than the Weaver King and his son put together and wearing a long white robe. I recognized him as a priest from the tattoo in the center of his forehead: three red triangles interlocked, like children holding hands, meant to represent the sister goddesses. I’d seen the same on the representatives at the temples my parents had dragged me to in my youth.

“This is Pupil Lucien,” Bastian said, nodding at the robed man. “He will be officiating the bridal ceremony and has generously offered to oversee the rehearsal.” The Weaver King winked. “Though he certainly does not need the practice. The Pupil has presided over dozens of weddings, including my own—oh, some eons ago now. Is that not so, Lucien?”

The priest smiled, bowing his head politely. “I see the passage of the years on my own face, though not on yours, sir. The Sisters have been kind to you.”

Bastian chuckled and waved off the compliment. In the quiet that followed, I studied Lucien more closely. His hands were pale, with long, spindly fingers. I imagined them tying a strand of magesilk between Noé’s and my fingers, forcing me to repeat the vows that would bind my magic to him forever, and shivered.

“Well!” Bastian brought his hands together decisively, shaking me from my reverie. “You certainly do not need me disrupting things. I’ll sit quietly, just over there—you may pretend I am one of your guests.”

His teeth flashed jovially, as if the notion amused him.

When he brushed by Pupil Lucien, he paused, taking the other man by the elbow, and murmured, “Ensure she knows her role.”

His tone had shifted lower—an instruction, not a jest. Over the Weaver King’s shoulder, the priest’s gaze flitted to mine, calculating and opaque.

I felt a chill move through me as he nodded, patting Bastian once on the back. Breaking away, Noé’s father moved to sit in a wooden chair placed along the receiving room’s wall. He set his hands in his lap, crossing his legs at the knee as if he were settling in to observe a performance, his expression once more his standard mask of mirthful apathy.