Page 94 of The False Vow

My heart lurched as I spied Clio and Eliot climbing into it. Instinct propelling me forward, I streaked through the rain to grab the other silkwitch by her shoulder.

She stumbled as I spun her toward me, her other hand falling from the side of the carriage, where Eliot had been helping her up. “You,” I spat.

Clio looked venomous. The servant who’d been holding her umbrella had jumped back at my approach; now raindrops soaked the shorter silkwitch, plastering her caul to her scalp. “Me?”

“It was you in the turret with me,” I said. Why didn’t I guess it earlier? The sight of her had jarred the realization out of me—and not a moment too soon. “You used your Wit to track the gloves’ location, didn’t you?” I accused. “Do you have them with you still?”

Clio slapped my hand away as I pressed closer. “What gloves, you moron? I’ve taken nothing.”

She sounded confused, genuinely offended. I only laughed. “I should have killed you during the Vainglory, you dreadful little wretch.”

“Get off her.” A figure pushed between us as I reached for Clio again—Eliot. He braced a palm on my collarbone, holding me back. “Clio’s stolen nothing,” he confirmed. “She’s been with me all night. What is the matter with you?”

I could feel his anger in the tremble of his fingers against my skin. In any other circumstance, it would have shamed me; this time, though, I only wrapped my hand around his wrist and pulled him closer. “She’s lying to you, Eliot,” I said, desperate. “Please. Trust me.”

Our eyes met. For a moment, I thought I saw him waver, the memory of our old alliance tugging between us. My pulse sped up. Perhaps—

But then Eliot spoke. “Trusting you, Cecilia, is the worst mistake I’ve made.” Shaking his head, he dropped his arm, leaning closer. “Don’t touch her,” he breathed, “ever again.”

My stomach clenched, guilt washing over me as he backed away. Half hidden by the curve of his shoulder, Clio grinned at me, white teeth flashing in the night.

I kicked at the gravel as their carriage drove off, Nathalie’s following closely behind. Every impulse urged me to summon Philippe and drive after them, but—what could I do? Eliot would never let me near Clio so long as he was around. I could wait until she was alone, of course, and use my Wit to gain access to wherever she was staying, but…

She’s been with me all night. Eliot’s words stilled me. Was I wrong in assuming that Clio was my attacker? It made sense—with her Wit, she would have been able to tell immediately that I’d lied about where I stashed the gloves—but I supposed there were other ways a person could have gotten that information.

I shivered, rubbing at the soaked sleeves of my dress as I headed back into the estate. Maybe I was losing my touch.

Maybe I wasn’t as clever as I thought.

My bedroom, when I arrived, was empty. I didn’t realize I’d been anticipating Noé’s familiar shape sprawled out beneath the bedcovers until I registered the lack of it, the sheets flat where I’d expected them to fold around his figure. Without looking at a clock, I was unsure of the time, but I knew at least an hour had passed since I’d left him for the turret. It was getting late; where was my fiancé?

I lingered for a moment at my threshold, uncertain what to do. Then I turned and started back down the stairs, winding toward the body of Fortblanche.

The storm was finally abating. The manor’s corridors were murky and quiet, smelling vaguely of rain where damp had worked its way between the cracks in the stone walls. I hadn’t seen Bastian all evening; earlier, Bernard had informed me his master would be dining out, and I wasn’t sure whether or not he’d returned. I wondered if he’d left Fortblanche purposefully, to establish distance in case one of my bridesmaids managed to kill me.

Abruptly, my steps hitched. The library doors were cracked open; through their gap, I could see that a gas lamp was burning, turned down low.

I entered. In the dimness, the library’s furnishings were little more than suggestions, girls in dark party dresses watching me ominously. A clock ticked at the back of the space, counting off the seconds as they passed.

My fiancé was asleep on the green leather sofa in the room’s center. His suit jacket was draped over him like a blanket, one of his arms lolling over the side of the furniture, the book he’d been reading fallen to the floor. An uncorked bottle of white wine sweated in an ice bucket to the book’s side, an empty glass beside it. He must have fallen asleep while reading.

Crossing to him, I went to pick up the book, nudging the wine bucket aside with my shoe. The was something wedged beneath the bottle, I noticed: a flimsy cardboard packet, crumpled at the bottom of the bucket as though Noé had wanted to discard it.

It was his pack of cigarettes. On impulse, I fished it out. The cigarettes within were flattened, tobacco spilling from them like dirt. Aside from the one he’d smoked while we’d been talking, no more of them had been lit.

Inside me, a coil of tension, curled tight since I’d left him to pursue the glove thief, unclenched.

I prodded at his shoulder, and he woke. His muscles seized beneath my fingers at first, as if reacting to an intruder, but after a moment his features cleared.

Blinking, he lifted himself onto his elbow. “Tamerlane.”

He spoke my name like a question. I met his gaze. “You weren’t in my room.”

“I…” he started, then drifted off, as if unsure how to address my accusation. Though he was awake, his gaze retained a muddled quality, like he could not reconcile my presence in the library with reality. Averting my eyes, I dropped my hand from his shoulder just as an exhale slipped from his throat.

He reached out and grasped my fingers.

“Are you all right?” he asked, taking in my sodden state. “You’re soaked through. Have you been outside? You ran off in such a hurry—I tried searching for you, but no one knew where you were. Did you find what you were looking for?”