Page 21 of The False Vow

“Good.” Kneeling down, I took the paper from his lap and flattened it against the armrest of his seat. “What of Sybil’s enemies?” I inquired, skimming the rest of the entries. That strange moniker—a friend—kept leering out at me, a scowl in the dimness. “You courted all of us silkwitches during the Vainglory. Did any of them speak to you about a grudge?”

“Sybil disliked you—or at least, you intrigued her. She asked me about you multiple times during our talks,” Noé replied. “The society witches all despised her, due to who her mother was. Anais in particular had some very choice words, but then again, she has those for nearly everyone.” He paused. “Lear and Sybil’s partnership.”

I glanced up. “What about it?”

There was an insinuating quality to his expression which I didn’t like. “Didn’t you say it went sour?”

My defenses raised. “Eliot never laid a hand on her.”

“I’m not implying that he did.” Noé’s counter was smooth. “I highly doubt he would ever lay a hand on anyone, in fact.”

“Then why bring up his name at all?”

“Because it is relevant to our discussion,” Noé snapped. “Because he had a relationship with Sybil, and whether he was the one to kill her or not, that may lead us somewhere.” Breaking off, he rubbed at his temple. “Sisters, Tamerlane. Must we be enemies?”

My temper settled. His tone was frustrated, but weary; we were back on level ground. “Absolutely,” I said, turning my attention to the guest list again. “I loathe you.”

He laughed, short and harsh. “You loathe yourself, for choosing me over Eliot Lear.”

“Your constant assumptions about me and the nature of my thoughts are one of the things I loathe most about you,” I replied without lifting my gaze from the paper in front of me. “What about Eliot’s father, Reginald?”

“Absent. Parliament was in session.” Noé supplied the information without hesitating. A beat passed in silence before he went on. “You are quite hateable yourself, you know.”

His voice had dropped. I tightened my grip on the guest list but otherwise held my position. “I am perfectly aware of the fact,” I said. “Most people in my life hate me.”

Another laugh. “I don’t think many people know you well enough to hate you as I do,” Noé responded. “I hate you very specifically.”

It was too blatant an insult to ignore. Giving in, I looked up at him, lording over me from his armchair. “Do go on.”

He tipped his chin down. “Well, I detest your obstinance, which is the reason we’ve gotten into this mess.”

Was that all he had? “My obstinance is vastly preferable to your indolence.”

“Yet I would gladly suffer both over your needling.” Noé shifted nearer, his elbow on the armrest of his chair. “You pick at those around you like a vulture. I am not even certain whether you see people, or only sad collections of flaws.”

“In your case, it is the latter.” I raised myself up on my knees. “You are a man with the self-indulgent meanness of a child. You do what you want—you say what you want—without a smidgen of care for those around you.”

“I speak honestly,” Noé rebutted. His gaze seared into mine, our eyes leveled. “I am true to myself, unlike you. You shy away from your best qualities because you are frightened that Eliot will hate you for them.”

I had to hold back a scoff. “And what are my best qualities?”

Noé did not falter. “You are duplicitous, and prying, and downright vindictive.”

My skin went hot with rage. Without thinking, I stretched an arm across him, toward the book which he’d balanced on the opposite armrest upon my entrance into the library. It was old, bound in bottle-green leather, a ribbon slipped between the pages to mark his spot.

I shoved it to the floor. The tome hit the ground with a thunk, splaying open as if wounded.

“Sisters!” Noé’s voice rose—he sounded truly angry. Standing, he swept the book up protectively and tucked it beneath his arm. “Tamerlane, this is a first edition.”

The intensity of his ire surprised me. I felt a curl of guilt but brushed it quickly away. “Have your father buy you a new one.”

“There are only so many in existence to buy!” Again, his volume pitched higher. I half wondered whether, had it not clearly been of such value to him, he’d have hurled the book across the room. “That is what makes it a first edition.” Stopping short, he turned away, tugging on his curls. “You are—you are impossible.”

Oddly, the jab provided me a measure of relief. “Agreed,” I said, rising. “We are obviously ill-suited to one another. Attempting to collaborate will only hinder our progress toward finding Sybil’s murderer. I suggest we work on the matter separately and reconvene at a later date.”

I could just make out the edge of Noé’s smile, dimpling his cheek. “Oh no,” he replied icily. “We are doing this together.” Exhaling, he shifted to face me once more. “Drink your coffee, Tamerlane. We have much to discuss.”

—