Page 86 of The False Vow

“Indeed?” the priest replied. His discomfort was palpable—I wondered if Bastian could sense it, too, from where he was seated near the wall. “Well, perhaps you both may improve upon your responses prior to the wedding day. Now, continuing onward…”

—

The rehearsal progressed quickly after that. It had taken everything in me to keep from flinching as Pupil Lucien looped a piece of twine around my finger, beneath my engagement ring—a stand-in for the magesilk which would be used on the actual wedding day—and tied its other end around Noé’s. We had not practiced the vows, only discussed their generalities; I had a feeling Bastian did not want me to hear them prior to the ceremony, in case I found some loophole in the oaths which would prevent the binding from taking place. It reminded me of our drive together—the advice he’d given me then.

Games are like weapons…There is the blade you show people, and the one you keep hidden. The second is far more important than the first.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded without incident. Toward evening, Noé knocked on my door.

I glanced up from where I was seated at my desk. We’d spent the hours since the rehearsal apart, a fact I’d been glad of. It had taken me a long while to shake off the feel of his hands, gripping mine.

He pushed the door wider when I beckoned him in. I raised a brow as he crossed to lean against my desk, questioning his nearness, but he disregarded me. “We haven’t spoken since your trip into town this morning,” he said. “How did it go with Manon?”

Ah. My anxiety dissipated. “Well,” I replied. Standing, I crossed to fetch the green gloves from beneath my mattress and presented them to him, summarizing my conversation with Manon. When I finished, he frowned.

“I thought you said Anais’s gloves were white.”

“Precisely,” I answered. “It is odd, isn’t it? She loses a pair of white gloves, and then a set of green ones turns up in a different place—hidden there, according to Manon.”

“It is certainly odd,” Noé admitted. “But do you really think it has anything to do with Sybil’s death?” He paused. “None of the other maidens reported missing garments after the Vainglory. Perhaps these belonged to the veiled lady Nathalie Moreau saw?”

I pursed my lips. “It is a lot of strings to tie to one lady,” I said skeptically. “And a lot of accessories, as well.”

Sighing, I stowed the gloves back beneath my mattress. Noé was right—despite the strangeness of the whole affair, there was nothing to suggest that either Anais’s missing gloves or these new ones related to Sybil’s murder. It was the veiled woman whom both Nathalie and Bernard had reported sneaking around Fortblanche that night. The same woman whom Bernard had seen with a key—possibly, the very same key which Bastian was so desperate to find. She was who we should be focusing on. Why couldn’t I put the former lead out of my head?

When I turned back around, Noé was watching me with a playful expression. “So, it is my hands for you, is it?”

I rolled my eyes. “It was a pointless exercise. Let’s not discuss it further.”

“Tamerlane.” The sound of my true name caught me; begrudgingly, I looked over at him. “I meant my promise to you at the end of the Vainglory,” Noé said, meeting my gaze. “I have no desire to bind you. After we wed, I will find a way to destroy my seal.”

My neck prickled. “If we solve Sybil’s murder,” I said, moving to settle into my desk chair again. “You really mean to wed me?”

Noé’s expression did not change. “You know that I do.”

He said it with so much steadiness—such severity—that I did not doubt him. He’d told me since the beginning, hadn’t he? That he would do anything to bring his father down. He had no lines; he had no rules.

He was like me.

Still, I leaned closer. “Why did it have to be me?”

Noé’s nose wrinkled.

Rapping a knuckle against the desktop, I clarified. “Last night”—my voice briefly hitched at the mention of our carriage ride home from Dorian’s, but I pushed through—“you said you would have chosen me as your bride regardless of anything. I want to know why.”

A stillness had come over him. He hesitated before answering a second later, “It had to be you.”

My temper flared. “It didn’t,” I protested. “My Wit is useful for your…plan…” I drifted off, hesitant to reference Bastian’s death directly with the Weaver King dwelling in the same estate as us. “But there are other witches who could have aided you just as well.” I scooted to the edge of my seat. “There is another reason,” I insisted. “Something specific to me which allowed you to set your plot into motion.” He blanched; I shifted closer, pressing my advantage. “It isn’t fair to keep things back from me. What if denying me the knowledge endangers me?”

Noé regarded me for a long moment. My movements had put us in quite close proximity; my skirts brushed his trousers, the fabric connected. “You are not in danger,” he replied. Then: “No other girl would have suited. It had to be you, Tamerlane. I don’t wish to discuss it further.”

My skin heated. I broke in before he could redirect the conversation elsewhere. “You shouldn’t call me that.” I flushed when he closed his mouth. “Someone could overhear you,” I justified.

Noé’s jaw ticked. After a beat had passed, he said, “I can’t call you Cecilia Lovett.”

He stated it as if it were fact. I blinked, thrown by the force of his conviction. “Why not?”

“I just…” He scrambled. “It doesn’t suit you.”