Page 92 of The False Vow

And yet…the longer I spent away from him, the more convinced I became that I had promised myself to an illusion—to a single facet of a gem. When the Vainglory ended, I had known him for less than a month. Were we truly as alike as I’d thought back then? Or were we only two lonely people who had glimpsed our own isolation reflected in one another?

He had always been so good, so noble. I just wanted to be that way.

I just wanted him to tell me I was redeemed.

I didn’t know how to respond. “I…”

Noé exhaled. “How long are you going to pretend that you do not feel it?” he asked. “For a while, I convinced myself that the…impulses…which have governed me since our meeting were my burden to bear, and mine alone. That any hints of reciprocation I thought I sensed from you were nothing but the hysterical imaginings of a desperate, deluded mind.” His shoulders lowered; I felt the tug of his movement like a tide. “But I do not believe that any longer. I think that you have been gripped by the same fever as I have. That you feel it here.” His finger tapped my chest, just below my collarbone. “In your heart.”

My entire being was gathered beneath the tip of his fingernail. As steadily as I was able, I looked up at him. “I do not have a heart.”

He chuckled, his chin tipping down to take me in. “Oh yes,” he whispered. “You do.”

Bending his neck, he leaned closer. I could feel the warmth of him, a chilly heat like winter fire, and I had a decision to make, and I did not know what it would be—

In my head, something snapped—a clipped jerk like a string being cut. At once, Noé disappeared, my vision filled with the image of a peeling green door. As I watched, it creaked open before lolling closed again.

The picture flickered, a failing candle flame, then went out altogether, leaving only darkness behind.

Blinking, I came back to myself. I’d wondered—hoped, really—that given the opportunity, one of my bridesmaids would make a play for the gloves Manon had passed me after I’d mentioned them at the table, thereby revealing their own connection to the accessories. I hadn’t meant to provide them with that chance so soon, but that wasn’t what bothered me.

At dinner, I’d said I’d left the gloves in my bedroom. Yet in reality, I’d moved them hours earlier, from my own chambers to the turret where Eliot and I used to meet.

The door which had signaled me just now—it wasn’t the one which led to my room, the place I’d claimed the gloves were. It was the turret door.

And someone had just opened it.

Chapter Forty

I sprinted back to the dining table, Noé close behind me.

The area was all but empty when I arrived. Every chair but one had been pushed back, wineglasses and plates of food scattered randomly about. Anais, the corridor’s sole remaining occupant, stood as Noé and I entered. I noticed that unlike the rest of the drinks which littered the table, her cup appeared freshly filled; a bottle stood next to it, ready to replenish its offerings whenever they ran low.

Her gaze flicked to mine through the quiet. “Where have you—”

I cut her off. “Where has everyone gone?”

She blinked. “How am I to know?” she asked in an irritated tone. “The pair of you were absent for ages. People assumed the meal was over—Adélard said he needed to speak with Mr. Alaire, but I wanted to wait.” Crossing her arms, she frowned at me. “Shall we go fetch my gloves?”

I didn’t bother informing her that the gloves in question were likely being fetched by someone else. Dammit. With nearly my entire bridal party absent, it was impossible to judge which of them had accessed the door that had alerted me just now—or how they’d known the gloves’ real hiding spot, rather than the false location I’d supplied. Which meant if I wanted to identify the person who’d entered the turret room, I would have to catch them before they left.

Turning, I touched Noé’s shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

His fingers caught my wrist. “I don’t suppose you’ve any desire to tell me what’s got you in such a rush?”

There was no time. With every second that passed, I feared I’d feel another tug on my Wit as the turret door opened again, signaling my target’s escape. “Later,” I replied.

Leaving him and Anais behind, I raced through the house. The door to the turret room was shut tight when I arrived. Taking the knob in hand, I knocked—sharply, once.

“Eliot?” Is it him that I sensed? Perhaps he wished to talk.

There was no answer. From the other side of the threshold, I heard a sudden scurrying noise, as if I’d startled someone who was not expecting to be disturbed.

My stomach dropped. Not Eliot, then.

Emboldened, I unleashed my Wit and turned the knob. There was a click as the lock undid itself, but when I went to push the door open, it refused to budge.

Grunting, I tried again, flexing my magic. The door shuddered, creaking half an inch inward—then stuck. Peering through the crack, I saw that an object had been shoved in front of it, preventing the entrance from fully opening. One of the space’s two armchairs, from the looks of it. Its tall back was pressed up against the wood like a soldier, guarding the room from view.