Page 34 of The False Vow

“Fine.” Unbothered, Anais agreed. Our pact made, she moved to the edge of her seat, like a child preparing to divulge a secret.

“Dorian and I met in the billiards room, just off the ballroom itself,” she admitted. “And the interruption was nothing, really. I thought I heard a door open—panicked at the thought of being caught—but no one came in, so it must have been one farther down the hall.”

She stopped. Prompted by her silence, I ventured, “And?”

Anais gave an innocent sort of hum. “That’s all.”

I laughed. “That’s all?”

“You asked me two questions: where Dorian and I met, and what interrupted us.” Sitting back, Anais arched a brow in challenge. “I’ve answered them. If you wished for more, you should have been more specific when we struck our bargain. Unless you’d like to make another deal?”

I’d ceded far too much ground already. “The information you’ve provided is fine for now,” I relented.

Anais smiled, evidently pleased with herself.

“The other girls,” I said abruptly, after quiet had begun to fester between us. “You think they are truly vicious enough to kill me?”

Anais’s expression grew somber. “I think that if Manon has cracked, the rest have already done so days ago,” she replied. “Bastian’s offer is a good one—your death for a life at Noé’s side will seem, to many of them, a worthy trade. Manon’s attack will only be the first—”

“Manon’s what?” We both went rigid as a new voice broke in—brusque, alarmed, and worst of all, familiar. Too late, I sensed a presence behind me, approaching from farther down the second-floor walkway.

“What kind of offer,” Noé asked, drawing closer, “has my father made, exactly?”

Chapter Fourteen

I turned over my shoulder. Noé was barefoot, dressed in a loose tunic and linen trousers, a clothbound book in his hand. Of them all, it was the first detail which infuriated me the most. In the hours since dawn, I’d survived an unexpected tea party, Eliot’s surprise betrothal, and a murder attempt, and yet my fiancé had not even bothered to put on socks.

“Speaking with my fiancée again, Anais?” Noé asked. “You seem to be seeking Miss Lovett out quite a lot lately.” He clicked his tongue. “Go on, then. Tell me what my father’s done.”

Anais and I exchanged scrupulous glances. Before I could think of a response, the other silkwitch stood, the innocent smile she’d worn when we’d spoken earlier slipping back in place. It disguised her viciousness completely, pulling up like a hood over her features.

“I would, darling, but I make it a point not to intrude upon family matters,” she chirped, rose-cheeked once more. “You look well, Noé. I’ll leave you two be.”

She moved as though to kiss my cheeks, one hand reaching out to retrieve the flask I’d rejected and tucking it subtly behind her back. Straightening, she gave Noé a final doting smile and—proof of her sins now secured—fluttered away.

My fiancé and I eyed one another in the silence she left behind. Sensing my opportunity, I made to get up from my armchair as well, but Noé’s voice caught me before I could.

He gave a dark chuckle. “Do not even try it.”

I froze with my skirts half gathered. Noé was standing to my back, out of sight from my current position, but the menace in his tone was enough to give me pause. Cursing, I pivoted to face him, rising as I did so that we were on even ground—me, him, and the chair placed between us, keeping us apart.

Slowly, he approached. His brow furrowed as he took me in, his expression befuddled, even concerned. “Tamerlane,” he said softly. I was glad for the ridge of the chair’s back preventing him from advancing too near, like a guard dog crouched before me. “What did I just overhear? Why are there a half dozen silkwitches in our library? Father made no mention of a gathering…” He paused. “Did Manon Blanc do that to you?”

His fingers lifted to trace something along my cheekbone—a cut which I’d procured in my fall and hadn’t yet noticed, most likely. I swatted his hand away. “I’m fine,” I replied. If I showed him weakness, this conversation would never come to an end. “And Manon did nothing—she was acting only on behalf of another.”

I spoke the excuse lightly. It didn’t seem to have much of an effect. “Another?” Noé echoed.

I hesitated. I’d never heard his voice so low as just then, repeating my words back to me. The hand I’d batted back had fallen to his side; there was something about his demeanor which reminded me of an ebony cat, curled up in a fireplace—a black pit within a purpling cherry. Darkness cupped inside of darkness, absent of any light.

It unsettled me—enough so that I gave in. “Your father,” I admitted. “It seems as though in addition to the deal he offered me, he has extended another to the rest of your maidens: my life, for your hand in marriage. They have until the wedding to make their plays.”

I felt vaguely ridiculous, speaking it aloud. Like some waifish heroine out of a romance novel, the sorry target of a murder plot formed out of jealousy. In a way, I would have preferred to be one of the other girls. At least there was some respect to be earned in a clever killing, more so than a tragic death. Instead, the Weaver King’s scheming had made me into a martyr-bride, doomed to be buried before I could speak my vows.

Really, it was insulting.

Noé was quiet for a long moment. He shook his head once, a sharp crease forming between his brows—and then, almost before I could process the motion, he was turning on his heel and striding briskly away.

I watched him go for several seconds, his pale figure stalking past the bookshelves, before calling after him. “Where are you going?”