Page 69 of The False Vow

“Exactly.” My rebuttal had been bitter, but Bastian nodded at it, pleased. “Exactly. You do not have time to consider your situation—that’s the key to all of it. We’ve been careful to structure it that way.” He looked over at me. “My ancestor was the first to bind a silkwitch, as I’m sure Noé explained to you,” the Weaver King said. “After he made the discovery, Aristide—my relative—shared it with the men in his lineage, as well as a few especially close allies. He understood, even at that early stage, that a single man with the power of a witch would be an exception; a group of them, however, could become something more.” He paused. “Aristide built the sorcerer lines out of nothing,” Bastian said. “Once their society was large enough, they closed ranks and solidified their narrative. My ancestor knew that, more than the magic he took from his silkwitch bride, it was the secrecy of the binding ritual which gave him true power. If anyone else were to find out the truth—well then, anyone could become a sorcerer. His influence over the public would collapse in an instant.”

His speech broke off. “And the cloisters…?” I asked.

“The cloisters support our narrative,” he answered, seemingly coming back to himself. “Too many witches running about unmarried, and one of them would be bound to realize that her Wit held far more potential than what society told her. Of course, the Virtuous Parliament is ignorant of that logic, but they allow the institutions to remain in Weaver hands because the management of silkwitches terrifies them, and Drake allows a cut of the magesilk which his girls produce to flow into the general market.”

I couldn’t stop my nose from twitching. At the sight of it, Bastian smiled.

“Such revulsion,” he said. “Adélard is an odd man—a man with odd tastes is perhaps more accurate—but he, at least, has a collector’s appreciation of silkwitches. He likes to polish you up, to ensure you are looking your best when he places you on his shelf.” His expression darkened. “There are worse villains to face. Women like Lucie Dabos, for instance. Do you know, she attended the opera the same night we did, not so long ago?” He frowned. “Now, she does not have a collector’s eye at all. She’s more like a banker—she only enjoys the arts if she feels she can extract a profit from them.”

His chin angled in my direction. I forced myself to meet his gaze. It should have unsettled me, his mention of Lucie, but curiously I found myself unsurprised. His son, after all, had noted the Councillor’s presence at the opera house. Why should Bastian alone have remained ignorant?

I suddenly felt as though he knew everything. That every move I’d made since my engagement to Noé had been watched and tracked by him, and this was the result. “Her attacks on me have increased in frequency since you and I last spoke,” Bastian resumed. “I thought you might find her latest one interesting.”

From the folds of his jacket, he withdrew a rolled-up newspaper and passed it to me. I found the article he was referring to easily. It was an opinion piece, Lucie’s name in the byline. The headline ran: A Treatise on the Equitable Use of Silkwitches.

I skimmed the column…Find it shocking that I must once again assert the deep injustice of allowing our nation’s most valuable assets to remain concentrated in the hands of a few wealthy men. The continued prosperity of Balmoore hinges upon the production and distribution of magesilk, yet these numbered elite have been given leave to set the prices which govern the whole of our economy. I ask you, should access not be fairly divided amongst the people?

My throat tightened. The next paragraph veered into a tangent; a few lines down, Lucie returned to her main argument. Weavers would, and have, argued that they must retain sole management of the witches and their hair, as only they possess magic sufficient enough to subdue such creatures while they retain use of their Wits. Yet are there not mundane ways to ensure obedience? Unlike sorcery, the Weaving of silkwitch hair does not require any magical skill—only knowledge of the process, which the Weaver lines refuse to share. Perhaps they fear that if given the opportunity, the free market would prove itself to be a far more capable—and productive—warden.

“You believe that women like Lucie Dabos are your allies.” Bastian’s voice caught me off guard—so low that I wondered, for a moment, whether he’d slipped the words into my mind. “Yet she is not of your kind. Without the Weaver lines to limit the amount of magesilk entering the market, she and her flock would milk you like cows for your magic.”

I shifted away from him. His eyes were dark, pounded metal, his brow arching as he observed me. “Which is the better fate?” he asked. “To become a bride, elevated and valued, or a cog in a great industrial machine?”

I shivered. So this was why he’d brought me here. “You oppress us and steal our gifts,” I countered. But my intonation was weak, and I knew he would not be convinced by it.

Sure enough, Bastian merely shrugged. “Long ago, your people and mine collided,” he returned evenly. “My ancestors won the battle, and out of that victory, our respective situations were formed. Is it really fair to blame the champions for the other side’s loss? Perhaps you should turn your judgment on those who allowed themselves to so easily be duped.”

He sighed, twisting Mariéprix.

“I’ll share something with you, Miss Lovett. Reformers fight for your kind in the way that industrialists fight over resources. They see how greatly the sorcerer lines have benefited from controlling you, and they wish our fortunes were theirs. If you controlled them, they would cut you down as they attempted to do centuries ago, before the marriage accords.”

I gave no reply. Sensing his opportunity, Bastian hunched still nearer.

“I know you have experienced it,” he said. “What of Eliot Lear? His emotions toward you have shifted in recent days. As soon as you stepped out of his shadow, you became a threat to him, yes?”

My heart clenched. Changing the subject, I asked, “Did you give his fiancée a key to my room?”

Bastian blinked at my pivot, then smiled, leaning back in his seat. “Ah,” he said. “Yes, I did. She asked for it—and I assumed if you were clever enough, you would evade her attacks.” He flashed me a jaunty grin. “Well done.”

I did not thank him for the congratulations. Moves and countermoves. I couldn’t understand all the layers of the Weaver King’s strategy. Was the deal he’d made with my bridesmaids truly another test, as he claimed, or was that explanation merely an excuse? Did he want me to win, or did he want me dead?

“How many games are you playing right now?”

Bastian chuckled enigmatically. “Games are like weapons—you should never have just the one,” he replied. “There is the blade you show people, and the one you keep hidden. The second is far more important than the first.”

He winked.

“But we have wandered too far off topic,” he said. “I wanted to ask how your search for Miss Dabos’s killer is progressing.”

I gathered myself. Bastian listened quietly as I relayed Noé’s and my findings, only moving occasionally to twist at his ring. All in all, there wasn’t much. I grew even more conscious of the fact as I spoke—how truly little I had to tell.

Bastian looked contemplative when I finished speaking. For a moment, he appeared lost within himself; then he blinked and returned his attention to me. “The veiled lady,” he mused. “Bernard did mention a woman like that to me. I looked into her after Miss Dabos’s passing but couldn’t find anything substantial.” His mouth twitched. “You say Miss Moreau’s creature believes she is a silkwitch?”

I nodded. “But not one of the girls who competed in the Vainglory,” I replied. “I wondered if—perhaps—she was another witch you were acquainted with?”

He lifted a brow.

“Your workrooms are active again,” I elaborated. “I’ve seen your artisans at their spinning wheels, though I have yet to give them a single strand of my hair. I can’t help but wonder where they are getting their supply.”