Page 93 of The False Vow

Another flurry of footsteps issued from beyond it. What was their owner doing? The turret room had only a single entrance—the very same one which I was currently positioned in front of. The chamber featured a window as well, but we were so high up, several stories above the cliffside. Surely, no one would risk an escape via that route…

Suddenly, I thought of Delphine Barbier, swooping down at me in the form of a raven, and revised my thought. Maybe some would. Depending on the silkwitch, maybe they could.

My resolve strengthened. Drawing a breath, I focused on my Wit, urging my magic forward. Then I laid my shoulder against the door and shoved.

The armchair flew back as if pulled by a string, colliding with the far wall. There was a shriek—high, girlish—from the person within the room as I threw open the entrance and burst in.

All was dark. In the dimness, I could see that the chamber had been ransacked: The second armchair was tipped over near the place where I stood, and several books which I’d left in the room earlier were lying upside down on the floor. My heart dropped as I noticed that the chair’s seat cushion, which I’d stowed the gloves beneath, had been removed and hurled across the room. The accessories I’d hidden there were gone.

But where was the person who’d stolen them?

As if in answer, a force shoved me hard from behind. I fell to my hands and knees, crying out as a large object toppled against my back, flattening me face down on the ground. The other armchair. The glove thief had pushed it on top of me.

Grunting, I tried to flip onto my stomach and lift it up, but the chair was heavy—twice my weight, at least. Its wooden frame was like an anchor, pinning me to the floor. I couldn’t move—couldn’t even turn my head to see my attacker.

I was trapped.

The person behind me seemed to realize it in the same moment I did. They’d been moving backward toward the door—but now, without warning, they paused. I felt their presence draw nearer, their steps slow and wary, like a scavenger waiting for its prey to die.

Desperate, I called out to them. “Who are you?”

Silence answered me. Cold sweat beaded along my neck as, seconds later, I heard them take another deliberate step in my direction.

I closed my eyes. “Please,” I said, and then uttered the words which I’d refused to speak since my uncle cut off my hair all those years ago. “Please don’t hurt me.”

This time, there was a response. The person laughed.

My gut went cold. My mind reached for something—a pleasant memory—anything to comfort me as I waited to be killed.

Then: a shriek, followed by a panicked peeping noise. I startled as something—a small body?—thumped against the wall. In the wake of the sound, my attacker retreated, their footsteps hurrying out of the chamber and down the turret stairs.

Quiet returned. I breathed a sigh of relief as a second later, a damp pink nose nudged against my face. “Good Sister,” I murmured. The mouse must have been the cause of the shriek I’d heard. I could picture her, sinking her dainty teeth into my attacker’s calf. She saved me. “Can you fetch your mistress?”

The creature nuzzled me as if in confirmation. She remained by my side for a moment longer, her plump body warming mine, before she, too, darted away, and I was left to the silence and the dark.

Chapter Forty-One

It was a long while before Nathalie came for me.

My pulse jumped at the sound of footsteps on the turret stairs, the rest of me having gone numb from being crushed beneath the armchair’s weight. I curled my fingers—about the only part of my body I could move—as helpless as a trapped rabbit waiting to be freed.

From behind me came a feminine gasp as my visitor sighted me—then, a moment later, a grunt. I drew in a deep, hungry lungful of air as, at last, the chair shifted off me, thudding on its side to the floor. Legs shaking, I pushed myself hurriedly upright, turning to face my savior.

Nathalie’s arms were crossed, Good Sister observing me from her perch on the witch’s shoulder. The mouse let out a cheerful peep as my gaze swept over her, her pale whiskers twitching energetically, as though she were relieved to see that I was unharmed.

Her companion was less enthusiastic. “What happened to you?” Nathalie asked. “Everyone’s leaving. I was about to get in my carriage before Good Sister found me.” Frowning, she looked me up and down. “Are you all right?”

I grabbed her wrist. “Did your mouse scent the person who was in here with me earlier?”

Nathalie jolted at my touch. “What?” she asked. Then, conferring with Good Sister, “No. She says the girl shook her off too fast. The impact disoriented her—darling!” She lifted the mouse from her shoulder, cupping her in her palm. “You’re injured?”

I ignored her cooing. Damn. Instead of requesting that Good Sister trail the veiled lady’s scent through the tunnels, I should have brought her the green gloves and asked her to find their owner. I’d considered it before dinner, but the former lead seemed more promising, and I was confident the trap I’d laid would be enough to flush out the person who’d hidden the accessories.

Stupid. That’s what I was. Stupid and overconfident—and now, because of it, I’d lost one of the only pieces of physical evidence I’d accrued during my search for Sybil’s killer.

It hit me then, for the first time since I’d accepted Bastian’s bargain: the possibility that I might fail.

Nathalie was watching me silently. She didn’t pry for information as I showed her out of Fortblanche, to the front drive where her carriage was still waiting. Aside from it, there was only one other vehicle left—a sleek, dark coach I recognized.