Page 88 of The False Vow

Eliot lifted his chin, his eyes finding me from beneath the dark brim of his bowler hat. He was waiting just past the estate’s threshold, the storm pouring around him, dripping off the umbrella he held aloft. A crack of lightning in the distance briefly illuminated him; he looked spectral, washed in yellow-white, his gaze widening to absorb the flash.

“Miss Lovett,” he said. “Hello.”

Coming up the drive behind him, her own umbrella in hand, was Clio. She’d taken her time exiting her carriage, and for good reason—she was dressed in a stunning gown of rich umber, her black hair caught up in a beaded ebony caul, her hands obscured by matching gloves. Glittering strands crisscrossed her tresses; it looked as though she’d fallen into a dark spiderweb.

The last time I’d seen her, I’d stabbed her in the leg. I let my gaze fall to her skirt as she moved to stand next to Eliot, but her gait seemed steady and altogether unimpaired. If she’d retained any lasting damage from the wound on her thigh, she was covering it well.

“Miss Lavoie,” I said, stepping back to welcome them both inside. “I heard you were injured during your last stay with us. I hope you’re faring well—shall I fetch you anything?” I moved to take her umbrella. “A walking stick, perhaps?”

Her grin was vinegar. “No need, Miss Lovett,” Clio returned as she passed the umbrella to me. “It was only a dog bite.”

Apprehension plucked in my chest. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Clio said, “a mangy little bitch. Must have gotten in through the kitchens.” She tilted her head inquisitively. “I rather think she should be put down, don’t you?”

Her voice was low; I dropped my own to match her. “Oh, I don’t know,” I replied softly. “I would avoid her, lest she bite you again.”

Our stares collided. By now, Eliot and Noé had gathered around us—when Noé cleared his throat, I came back to myself.

Pivoting away from Clio, I handed her umbrella to a servant, then summoned the butler, who’d just returned from escorting Mireille. “Bernard will see you to the dining table,” I said brightly. “Though I’m sure you both know your way about the house.”

Without further delay, they set off. After the two of them, the rest of my bridesmaids arrived in one steady stream, hurrying through the entrance and shaking the water from their coats like a pack of particularly well-dressed dogs. Manon was third, followed by Delphine and Nathalie. Anais and Adélard were last. I avoided the Cloister Master’s eyes on instinct when I went to welcome him, but his found mine all the same. He looked at me like I was an item at the auction house which had slipped away from him.

I shivered. Both Drakes, it seemed, had a penchant for collecting witches.

Rather than take our meal in the formal dining room, I’d requested that a table be set up in one of Fortblanche’s exterior-facing corridors, where the view of the cliffs and ocean was best. I let Noé take the lead as the two of us, along with Anais and Adélard, made our way there, using the brief window of silence to compose myself.

“Miss Lovett.”

My steps faltered as we neared the dining area. A figure stepped out from where they’d been leaning against one of the wide stone windowsills, their hand already extended to summon me nearer. Eliot.

He looked from Noé to me but did not lower his arm. “A moment, please.”

To my side, I felt my fiancé stiffen. Laying a hand briefly on his wrist, I nodded at him, then moved away from the group toward Eliot.

He waited until the rest of our party was out of earshot to speak again. “Are you all right?”

I stared at him. Eliot’s manner was twitchy; though he was facing me, he kept glancing out the window, rubbing a palm over his jaw as if attempting to massage away some itch. I was surprised he’d called me over. From our relationship, I knew him to be prideful—there was no shame in it; so was I. Once he’d fixed on a decision, he rarely turned back, as much out of fear that he’d be caught doubting himself as confidence in his choice. It was one of the reasons that his leaving me had hurt so much.

But now he’d wavered. Why? “How do you mean?” I asked.

Eliot exhaled. “Noé told me about his father’s plan,” he said, lowering his voice. “I just wanted to apologize.” His eyes flicked away from me again, then came back. “Whatever our disagreements, I would never have let Clio go at you like she did during the Maiden’s Race if I’d known.”

So it was exoneration he was after. That made sense—it must be eating at him, the single strike against his impeccable character. “But you’re still marrying her,” I replied. When Eliot frowned but did not deny the accusation, I asked, “How has your business with Lucie been going? I read a rather interesting article she wrote in the papers.”

By his flinch, I knew he was aware of the one I meant. A Treatise on the Equitable Use of Silkwitches. Thinking of it made my stomach feel hard and burnt. “Always ready with a harsh word,” he said. “I assume it’s proceeding as smoothly as your plan, seeing as Bastian is alive and well.” He stepped closer, out of the window’s shadow and toward me. “Enjoying your time with my friend too much to do him in?”

Thunder rumbled over the cliffs. His advance had brought us quite near to one another; on instinct, I tensed, readying myself for the surge of connection which usually unbalanced me in our interactions, but it never came. Maybe it was because we were no longer carrying our coins.

After a moment, I answered him. “More than you know,” I said. Digging the letter Mireille had passed me from my bodice, I held it up in dismissal. “I have to read this.”

Eliot balked. His eyes widened, his lips parting as if he were taking in a possibility he had never before considered.

I let out a breath of relief when he moved away, heading to join the others. Once his footsteps had faded, I broke the seal on the envelope and slid out the note within.

It was short.

What matters is not the person behind the veil, but where she came from.