Page 89 of The False Vow

Where do the tunnels of Fortblanche let out?

I considered the message for a long moment, then tucked it back in my bodice and went to meet my guests.

By the time I caught up to them, they’d settled around the dinner table. It was positioned just as I’d requested, in the center of the hall. In addition to the gas lamps stationed at even intervals along the corridor walls, three candelabras ran down the table’s center, casting the whole space in quivering yellow light. Rain beat against the windows, gusts of sea wind making them judder in their frames.

I stopped by Nathalie Moreau’s chair as I made my way around the table. She’d arrived alone, no mouse on her shoulder this time—though I wagered a few of her pets were watching us from within the walls. Bending down, I addressed her. “Is Good Sister available for another mission?”

The dark-haired silkwitch hesitated. She was seated between Delphine and Manon, both of whom had glanced up at my approach. I ignored them, as well as Mireille across from them, focusing solely on Nathalie.

“She is always available,” she replied after a minute. “It depends on whether she is interested.”

I thought of Dorian’s note tucked within my gown. “I need her to track the veiled lady’s scent through the tunnels. I want to know how she got in—and where she came from.”

Nathalie glanced over at Delphine, who had turned back to her wine and was studiously feigning disinterest in our conversation. Dipping her head even closer to mine, she murmured, “That scent would be months old at this point.”

“She seems a very talented mouse,” I said. Clio had noticed us now, too, and was frowning down from the opposite side of the table—I needed to move on. “Can she do it?” I asked.

The other girl delayed a moment longer, then nodded. “She’ll try.”

Good enough. Straightening, I continued on toward my seat, sinking into my chair to the left of Noé, who was positioned at the head of the table. Once I’d settled in, he raised his glass.

“Cheers, everyone,” he said. “My bride and I are delighted to welcome you to Fortblanche this evening—and, in only a few short days, to celebrate our marriage alongside you.” Did I imagine it, or did his gaze catch on Eliot as he heaved his cup higher? “To friendship.”

The rest of the group echoed the sentiment. A minute later, servants appeared to present the first course: a beige soup served in patterned porcelain bowls. Everyone sipped without speaking, none of us brave enough to disrupt the silence.

My mind drifted to the detour I’d made earlier in the evening—the reason I’d arrived late to the entrance hall. Now seemed as good a time as any to bring it up.

Sighing, I set my utensil down and broke the quiet. “Miss Tremblay,” I said, finding Anais where she sat at the far end of the table, next to Adélard. “I should mention—one of Mr. Alaire’s parlormaids happened upon a pair of lost gloves this morning. Stuffed in a vase, of all places. I believe you misplaced a pair during the Vainglory, correct?” I smiled. “I’ve had the servants put them with my things, in my bedroom. I can fetch them for you before the night is through.”

Anais’s face lit up. Across the table from her, Manon frowned but said nothing. Done. If any of my bridesmaids had been the ones to hide the green gloves, they would now know I had them—and where they could be found.

A throaty harrumph from farther down the table broke the stillness. Frowning, I turned to search for its source. Eliot was seated directly opposite me, on Noé’s right-hand side, Clio beside him and Mireille next to her. Had the noise just now come from one of them? Or—

Ah. I paused as my gaze fell on Adélard, who was jabbing at his soup in a bored fashion. The liquid made unpleasant, chunky ripples every time his spoon plunged into it, like wet mortar.

I cleared my throat. “I do hope the food is to your liking, Mr. Drake?”

Adélard relented his cutlery assault. “This soup is oversalted,” he replied, locking his eyes with mine. “Has your cook made this recipe before?”

I smiled. “I couldn’t tell you. Though if you say it is oversalted, I am certain you are correct. We’ll have it taken back to Cook for sorting out.”

He hummed as I summoned a servant. “You know,” he said, “I employ several of Balmoore’s finest chefs at my cloisters. The girls there dine in splendor every night.” His stare crawled down my face to my collarbone. “Not all of them—but my favored ones.”

My skin prickled. Maintaining my smile, I ducked my head. “Perhaps someday soon you and I may dine together, and you may show me.”

Adélard’s eyes flashed. Setting his spoon down, he leaned forward just as, across from me, Eliot gave a loud cough.

Everyone’s chins snapped toward the younger man. He was hunched over his soup bowl, head downturned, rubbing at his neck as though trying to dislodge something from his throat.

Next to me, Noé’s features turned calculative. “All right, Lear?”

Eliot set his arm down. “Just attempting to survive this meal,” he replied, meeting his former friend’s stare. “Mr. Drake is right. It is poorly seasoned.”

Adélard looked pleased to have someone second his criticism. He sat forward in his chair, evidently preparing to launch back into his speech, but Eliot cut him off before he could.

“So,” he said, bringing his hands together in a neat clap. “Why don’t you two tell us more about the wedding?”

Noé and I exchanged glances. There was a dark malevolence to the other boy’s tone which I mistrusted—a deliberate calmness like a sheet of ice. It was distinctly unlike Eliot. The person I’d come to know during the Vainglory was either stiff and thorny, or else bleeding his emotions like an open wound; above all, though, he was diplomatic, especially when in public.