Page 53 of The False Vow

Noé paused. I felt him looking at me but did not acknowledge his stare. “Was he cruel to you?”

His question was soft, spoken without emotion. Still, the back of my neck prickled under its force. “I…” I swallowed. “I find it pointless to dwell on the past. People who linger there too long end up finding their memories distorted. They confuse themselves for victims, when in truth they may have been villains.”

“And is that what you think you are? A villain?”

“I think I have hurt people who have tried their best to love me.” My voice was hot; I did not know what had sparked the sudden defensiveness which welled in me, but now that it had, I could not put it out. “I think some flowers cannot shed their thorns.”

The quiet was unwieldy. Giving in to it, I turned to face Noé. We’d reached the bottom edge of Fortblanche’s circular driveway; ahead of us, the house rose up, a stony illusion swathed in gray cloud.

My fiancé’s expression was somber. Unlike in the bar, I could not deduce the meaning of it; it was as though he’d backed away from me, closed himself within a shell.

“Do you truly think it a disgusting habit?” he asked abruptly. When I frowned in confusion, he clarified, “Smoking.”

Ah. I recalled my sharp words, just before he’d exited the pub, and nearly winced. “Why would it please me to watch you poison yourself?”

My answer seemed to cheer him, though I couldn’t fathom why. Blinking, he ran a palm over his mouth, as if hiding a smile. The automobile had stalled; we remained where we were, frozen in place.

I broke the quiet before he could disembark. “May I ask you something? As your…” I couldn’t think of the proper word. “Coconspirator.”

Noé looked back at me. By the arch of his brow, I could tell my request had caught him by surprise—it had me, as well. There was something oddly confessional about the tight confines of the automobile’s booth. It made me want to question him, out here where his answers would remain safe, drowned beneath the hum of the engine. “Go ahead,” he said.

I did. “The bargain you struck with me at the end of the Vainglory,” I replied. “I suppose I am trying to understand the—the logic of it.” I shook my head. “What you said to my brother in the pub about your father…the magic he possesses. If you continue aiding me, and I succeed in exposing the origins of Weavers’ gifts, you will lose any chance of claiming that sort of power for yourself. Your wealth, your family’s influence…all of it would be thrown into jeopardy.” I hesitated. “It seems counterintuitive.”

“Counterintuitive.” Noé repeated my word, then smiled. Dropping the expression, he shifted in his seat. “If you bring down the Weavers, it means my father is already dead,” he said. “I don’t care much for what happens after that—to myself or society.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, his words lacking any reluctance or qualification. The directness of his answer startled me. “That is a…remarkably selfish view.”

“Or unselfish, depending on how you look at it.” He cocked his head to the side. “I’ve no love for the Weaver system. If it fails, all the better, in my opinion. I think it abusive and ugly—I told you as much, the first time we walked together during the Vainglory.”

So he had. “But that’s not why you’re helping me,” I stated.

Noé breathed a laugh. “No,” he agreed. He rubbed his forehead as if in contemplation. “My father took something from me, when Ophelia died at the end of my first Vainglory,” he went on. “I want to take something back. For a year, I thought I might never get the opportunity, but then Lear brought me you. Your Wit—and all the potential it holds.” He sighed, sitting straight forward again. “You’re imbuing me with more layers than I possess, Tamerlane. I’m quite a blunt weapon. I desire an outcome—I bend the world to make it happen.”

His voice was confident. Still, I found I did not quite believe him. There was something he was keeping back from me—some part of his plan I wasn’t yet seeing. “You would martyr yourself—martyr your father—to avenge one girl?”

He smirked. “I’m a romantic.”

The mirth in his eyes unsteadied me. Before I could form a response, he leaned forward, bridging the space between us. I froze as the tip of his finger traced the edge of my caul, just barely.

“Lovey,” he murmured, looking at me. “It is odd to think of you as a child.”

The buzz of his skin on mine was strange. I could not tell whether I wanted to lurch away or hold myself in place, studying him. “Innocent?” I asked, following along with his change in subject.

He dropped his arm. “Vulnerable.”

My chest tightened.

“You know,” Noé went on, “there is a part of me that pities your brother. The whole time while we were speaking, I couldn’t help but compare him to a sheep—a ram. He thinks himself a leader, in charge of his flock.” His eyes swept over my features. “He has no idea that for years, he dwelled so near to a wolf.”

We were both silent. I felt a sort of twinge when, at last, Noé lowered his chin, breaking our stare. The sensation was subtle and deep, hidden beneath my belly.

“You are far more dangerous than he,” Noé said. “Don’t forget that, Tamerlane. You are the deadliest creature I know.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

My skin itched as we approached the front doors.

Our journey to the pub and back had taken several hours. We were late into the afternoon now, nearly on the cusp of evening. Already, the sunlight had ripened to a deep gold, like bread baked in an oven.