Page 114 of The False Vow

Eliot. I glanced anxiously at Noé, who pressed gently down on my shoulder, his message clear, though unspoken. It’s fine.

To our side, Eliot cleared his throat. “All right, all right,” he said while I watched on, my fist clenched beneath the table. “Ahem. As many of you know, I have claimed Noé Alaire as a friend—no, a brother—since childhood. And though, like brothers, we have had our fights”—he paused, brow raised; a laugh went through the crowd—“in truth, there is not a soul in this nation whom I love more dearly. Which is why…” His voice grew solemn, his stare falling to Noé’s. “I must apologize to you today.”

My fingers relaxed. The emotion in Eliot’s eyes was genuine; beside me, Noé tensed.

“I must apologize, for I have deceived you,” Eliot went on. “Months ago, I brought a girl called Cecilia Lovett into your halls—a ward of my great-uncle, I told you then. I gained her entrance into your Vainglory, coached her into earning your affection and your hand in marriage.

“I lied to you,” Eliot said. He spoke confidently, without a single pause or hitch; at his words, I felt my heart split open. “For her name is not Cecilia. She is Lovett Tamerlane, and she is a liar and a thief.”

Chapter Fifty

His eyes were dead, fixed unwaveringly on mine. When I saw the emptiness in them, I understood.

The meeting at the Diplomat. His words to me, just before we’d parted: Your wedding day—it will not be the celebration you think.

It hadn’t been a threat. It had been a promise. A warning.

And I’d failed to heed it.

Around me, chaos erupted. Eliot was still speaking—panic had clouded my mind, so that all I could make out was the constant, low buzz of his voice—but in the audience, guests were beginning to get to their feet. I looked past them all toward the back of the room, where Bastian was standing, one elbow leaning against the ballroom bar. In contrast to the rest of the crowd, the Weaver King looked unsurprised, even amused, by Eliot’s disclosure. In one hand, he held a slim flute of champagne, freshly filled.

When he saw me staring at him, he smirked and lifted it toward me, and at the motion—at his smile, coy and slippery—I knew.

He’d planned this. Somehow, at some point, he and Eliot had conspired, and this was the result.

I started at the feel of Noé’s hand gripping my wrist. My mind collapsed back into my body; turning away from the Weaver King, I looked over at him.

My husband’s face was drawn, his skin pale. Still, it was in a steady, focused voice that he asked me, “Who do you trust?”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“Of the silkwitches,” Noé said evenly. “Who do you trust?”

His calmness cleared my mind. “Anais,” I breathed. I said it without thinking—when my brain caught up, I was startled to find I stood by my words.

Noé nodded. Reaching over me, he took Anais by the arm, turning the other silkwitch toward him.

His voice was stern and clear. “Get her out.”

Anais’s features contorted. Hissing, she ripped away from Noé’s grasp. “I don’t even know her.”

The loathing with which she said it made my stomach flip. Undeterred, Noé dug his fingers more firmly into Anais’s bicep. “Anais. You know me. This is not a matter you wish to test me on.” He leaned closer, his tone like steel. “Get. My wife. Out.”

Something seemed to pass between them—a bit of history, an understanding, exchanged like a note. I could barely believe it when, a second later, Anais relaxed—then begrudgingly nodded.

Noé released her, pivoting back to me. He took my face in both hands, tilting my forehead to press against his. There was a tremor in his fingers, a quiver subtle enough that I could sense it only in the places where his skin touched mine: the sole sign he was afraid.

“Library doors,” he murmured. “I’ll meet you there. Think of your extrapolations, Lovett. There is always a way out.”

He dropped my chin before I could say a word in response. Rising, Noé cast one final look toward me—strained, desperate—then turned and shouted, “Lear!”

Eliot glanced over just as my husband’s fist collided with his cheekbone. The crowd, already whipped into a frenzy, exploded as the two of them toppled to the ground. Somehow, the violence was clarifying; at least, I understood its purpose. Noé was creating a distraction—giving us a chance to escape.

I couldn’t afford to waste it. Anais and I stood in the same moment, turning to face one another. Glaring at me, she spat, “Let’s go, Lovett.”

We dove into the crowd. At first, Anais tugged me toward the main ballroom doors, but I pulled her instead to the terrace—nearer to us, and emptied of guests thanks to the drizzle which had kicked up during the course of our dinner.

Rain pattered against our hair as we burst onto it, coating my wedding gown with moisture. Breathing hard, I sprinted the length of the terrace, to a pair of double doors at its far end which I knew led into the billiards room.