Page 122 of The False Vow

My focus returned to me. When I spoke again, my voice was hard. “I have business with the Weaver King.”

Eliot appeared to anticipate the response. He smirked slightly, his curls stirring in the breeze. “My intention was to help,” he said abruptly. I peered at him, curious. “It may not matter, but—with you, it was always to help.”

It took me a beat to place what he was referring to. The nearer we are to one another, the more we will wound each other, no matter whether our intentions are to harm or help.

My chest squeezed. “So was mine.”

Neither of us seemed to know what to say next. Nodding, I started back toward the house—then, only a few seconds later, paused. Glancing over my shoulder, I spoke again.

“Tell Bastian that his plan has failed,” I said. “And to Clio…”

I hesitated, debating.

“My message is this: She took her shot, and missed,” I finished after a beat had passed. “Now I’m coming to take mine.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

The Isle d’Eylau was quiet at night.

Marie-Louise and I had been traveling for two days. We’d departed Cyril’s family estate the evening following my meeting with Eliot, once we’d finished shaping the contours of our plan. The journey had gone smoothly; now the uneven jags of the capital rose up around us, rows of peaked-roof buildings all turned to sharp teeth in the dark.

The streets were silent, the gloom broken only by the occasional throb of a streetlamp, greasy and yellow above us. Seated across from me in the carriage, the Owl shifted on her bench. Her pale eyes were luminous in the dark, twin lanterns pointed directly at me.

She blinked. “This scheme of yours,” she said. “You’re certain of it?”

I returned her stare. “I’m certain.”

Nodding, she picked her reticule up from her lap and dug into it, angling an object within out of her way. I did not need to see it to know it was a small pocket mirror, molded in the shape of a rose with delicate silver gilding on the back; she’d been consulting it for the entirety of our journey. Her brow furrowed as she peered into its depths, her lips pursing in concentration.

Watching her, I inquired, “Still no sign of Bastian?”

She jolted, then looked up. “Not since he departed Fortblanche last night—shortly after Mr. Lear returned to speak with him,” the Owl replied. She set her bag back in her lap, her forehead creasing with mild annoyance. “Wherever he has gone, he’s ensured there are no mirrors about him.”

Nor any doors, I’d wager. Eliot must have delivered my message—likely, the Weaver King had anticipated my return and hid himself somewhere neither I nor any of my allies could reach. Not that I was too concerned.

I knew one girl who could tell me where he was.

“And Noé?” I asked. My voice rose an octave as I spoke his name. I forced it back down, embarrassed.

“Still at his father’s estate,” Marie-Louise answered. She did not appear to have noticed my slipup, or perhaps she was just being kind. “And still healing nicely. His injury doesn’t seem to have resulted in any infection.”

That, at least, was good news. “I’ll need a door.” Focusing, I glanced out the window, then back at her. “How far to Cyril’s family’s apartment?”

“We’re nearly there.” Twisting around, Marie-Louise tapped on the divide to consult the driver. The carriage swerved; fifteen minutes or so later, we were pulling up in front of a modest but well-maintained townhome in the capital’s fashionable district. The night air was crisp and earthy when we stepped out of the vehicle, freshly washed with rain.

A maid admitted us inside. The townhome’s primary bedroom stood on its second floor—an expansive, well-furnished suite with a balcony attached. It was there that Marie-Louise and I headed, locking the entrance behind us and turning our attention to the glass-paned double doors which looked out onto the terrace.

The Owl took my arm as I positioned myself in front of them, my Wit humming eagerly behind my ribs. “Mr. Alaire has removed many of the mirrors from Fortblanche, but the one in your chamber still stands,” she stated simply. “If you find yourself in need of aid, go there.”

I nodded in understanding. Releasing me, she backed away, but I turned over my shoulder, catching her eye. “I like Cyril, by the way.”

The other silkwitch’s face lit up. Blushing, she smiled. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

“A perfect match.” I returned her grin, then twisted to face straight again. “I’ll be back soon,” I said. “Goodbye, Marie-Louise.”

She gave no reply. Steadying myself, I drew in a deep breath, funneling the whole of my energy into the double doors in front of me. Darkness clung to their other side; concentrating, I peered through it, imagining a silver thread looped around the exterior knobs. A glowing path like a stitch in a length of cloth, binding two ends—two places—together.

My Wit tugged. Secure in the connection, I reached forward and twisted the knob—