Page 87 of The False Vow

His voice wobbled. It was the first time I could recall that I’d heard him sound anything less than fully certain. “Eliot picked that name for me,” I said.

Noé laughed. “Then Eliot does not know you at all.”

Our eyes met again. Without fully understanding why, I stiffened, certain he was about to say something more and yet unsure what that something was.

Then a shudder passed through him, and he seemed to remember himself. Straightening, he cleared his throat. “I disturbed you,” he said, nodding toward my desktop, where the book I’d been reading before his knock was splayed open. “I’ll leave you be.”

I returned his nod, watching as he strode toward the door. When he reached the threshold, I called out.

“But you’ll return later,” I said. “Yes?”

He turned. My skin heated as I took in his perplexed expression, his cocked head. Why had I asked that? What did it matter to me whether he returned or not—whether he spent the night in his own quarters or mine? It certainly never had before.

Still, I felt my heart squeeze as he relaxed again. “Of course,” Noé replied, one hand gripping the doorframe. “I’ll see you soon, Tamerlane.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Noé held true to his word.

The night passed without incident, the two of us lying side by side, together and yet untouching, in my bed. Since Clio’s attempt on my life, there had been no other midnight visits from my fellow silkwitches. If not for Mireille’s attack in the alleyway, there might have been no justification for Noé remaining in my room with me.

But the attack had occurred. There was a valid reason for our sleeping arrangement, a purpose. Noé benefited from keeping me alive, so that I might help him kill his father after we wed; I benefited from being alive. The hours we spent together under the cover of dark were nothing more than a way to ensure my safety.

If I repeated the excuse to myself enough, I could almost believe it.

I didn’t make any progress toward finding Sybil’s killer the next day, nor the one which followed. The morning after that, Fortblanche woke early, the entirety of the estate alive with preparations for our pre-wedding dinner, which was set to commence around dusk. It reminded me of the Vainglory—the servants buzzing about, the usually lonely corridors filled with noise, so that even when you walked alone, you could hear the echo of someone who’d gone before you.

A storm was kicking up as I made my way to Fortblanche’s front entrance in the evening, where Noé and I were supposed to be waiting to greet our guests. Despite having spent most of my day alone in my room strategizing, I was running late—a result of the detour I’d made prior to Mia arriving to dress me.

Noé glanced over at me as I arrived in the entry hall. I’d barely fallen into place beside him—me, dressed in a gown of cream satin with lacy rosettes stitched along the bodice, him in a gray suit with an ivory ascot—when a knock came from outside.

Mireille Laurent was the first silkwitch to arrive. Her elegant appearance and sleek lavender gown were somewhat undercut by the large bandage across her nose, a gauzy strip which mostly hid the bruising from where the carriage door had smacked her in the face in the alley outside Dorian’s club. It was a struggle not to smirk at her as our gazes met. Petty as it was, a part of me couldn’t help but be glad I’d left her with a token of our fight.

Perhaps she’d think twice before coming after me again.

She pressed something into my palm as I went to take her hands. A letter, I saw as I glanced down. It was in a black envelope, sealed with a daub of glossy ebony wax. I recognized the symbol stamped onto it: an open eye, ringed with sharp lashes.

Moving forward as if to embrace me, Mireille murmured in my ear. “From my benefactor.”

Dorian. My defenses rose. I grabbed the other silkwitch by the elbows as she went to move away. “Bold of him to write so soon after attempting to take my fiancé’s life,” I muttered, tightening our hug. “Dare I hope for an apology note?”

I could feel Mireille stiffen. “I talked to the rest of the witches,” she hissed under her breath. “They swear they played no part in what happened that night.”

I nearly laughed. “And you believe them?”

She pulled back. Noé was standing off to the side, watching our interaction with interest, but he made no move to butt in. “Do you trust your Wit?” Mireille asked.

It was an unexpected question. She’d locked her gaze with mine, so I could see the honesty in hers—the bluntness. When I nodded, she smiled grimly.

“So do I. And mine is telling me that whatever the bit of magic which infected your fiancé was, it wasn’t a silkwitch’s work.”

With a jerk, she separated from me.

“Just read it,” she said.

Another knock sounded through the hall before I could protest. With a brief glance to Noé, I folded the envelope in half and stowed it in my bodice, passing Mireille off to Bernard to be escorted to the dinner table.

The doors swung open. This time it was not one of my bridesmaids who stood behind them.