CHAPTER ONE
If a young lady did not wish to be murdered, it was advisable that she not spend her evenings meeting with strangers on dark street corners.
Mallory knew this. She was an expert onnot getting murdered—a skill she tended to value higher than, say, embroidering pincushions or playing scales on a harpsichord or the proper way of holding a salad fork. Mallory knew how to hold a salad fork, thank you very much, and it was in a tight fist while you sent those sharp little tines straight into the thigh of a would-be attacker. Or the eyeball. Or the gullet. The human body had plenty of vulnerable places to choose from, and she didn’t like to limit herself.
Mallory waited, adjusting her grip on her artist portfolio. She heard the distant whinny of a horse. The grind of carriage wheels a block over. A colony of bats squeaking overhead. Though the shadows reached for her, she remained haloed in the light of the street’s single oil lamp, so she would be easy for her clients to spot.
Easy to murder, a voice whispered, and in response she idly scratched her leg with the toe of her boot, feeling the handle of the dagger she kept hidden there. It might have been more respectable to keep it hidden beneath her skirts, but if she was under attack, she hardly wanted to waste time digging through layers of muslin and wool. What was she going to do? Ask her attacker to kindly pause while she searched for the weapon in her garter?
Boot heels clipped on the cobblestones as two gentlemen meandered past. She stood straighter, expecting her clients. One man was dressed entirely in black, while the other wore every color under the sun. She eyed them warily, but they merely tipped nonexistent hats to her as they vanished into the night.
The clock tower in the city square chimed the eleventh hour. Her foot tapped impatiently.
Finally, from the moon-spotted shadows, two new figures emerged on the other side of the street. Mallory studied them as they entered the lamplight. The man was light-skinned, broad and portly, wearing a stylish capotain hat and ruffled cravat. Either high society or pretending to be, in hopes he would eventually get admitted into their exclusive circles.
His companion was a petite girl in a shapeless crimson robe, the trailing hem gathering filth from the street. Her hair had been shaved nearly to the scalp, making way for the delicate tattoo of a bow and arrow above her left ear.
Mallory’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. She’d had many odd characters on her tours. The scholars who peppered her with earnest questions about the mansion’s history and the Saphir family’s current political affiliations. (Luckily, Mallory was adept at making things up, because really, how should she know?) There werethose who were intrigued by anything to do with the occult—not because it was strange or taboo, but because it was fascinating. The guests who came for a thrill, so they could proclaim drunkenly to their friends back at the tavern that they had survived the House Saphir. And then there were the romantics. The ladies who were determined to swoon and the suitors who were determined to “protect” them with needless acts of chivalry.
But a priestess of Tyrr? This was a new one.
“Welcome, Priestess,” said Mallory. “You’re a long way from the nearest temple.”
The girl giggled shyly. “I’m only an initiate. I take the vows next week.”
“My sister has decided to devote her life in service to the gods,” the man said dryly. “I cannot fathom why.”
The girl kept smiling, though there was an edge to her expression. “That’s because you can’t fathom devoting your life to anyone but yourself.”
The man shrugged.
Mallory hated to admit it, but a part of her agreed with him. Devotion to the seven gods had become a popular pastime among society’s elite after the fall of the veil nearly two decades ago—but she didn’t see the appeal. As far as she could tell, the gods were taking no more interest in the affairs of humans now than they had back when the veil was still in place.
“This is where the tour begins, is it not?” asked the man.
“The House Saphir tour?” she said. “The one full of torture and dismemberment? Yes, you’re in the right place. Though usually this tour appeals to heathens and outcasts, whereas you both appear so very… respectable.”
The man’s cheek twitched, evidently unsure if she was complimenting or insulting them.
“You must be Sophia and Louis Dumas,” said Mallory, shifting her weighty portfolio to her other hand. “What brings you here tonight?”
“I feel it is my duty to introduce my sister to something of the world before they lock her up in that temple and never let her out again,” said Louis.
“Priestesses are notprisoners, Louis. And there will be plenty of travel. One of my foremost responsibilities will be visiting townships to preside over treaties and peaceful negotiations, attending ceremonial hunts, blessing the weaponry of our great—”
“Yes, yes, what an exciting life you will lead,” Louis interrupted, while shooting Mallory asee what I mean?look. “This is our last night in Morant. We had our fortunes told by a quaint little witch on Rue Tilance, and she suggested we take this tour before we depart. She spoke highly of the guide.”
Mallory smiled thinly. Thatquaint little witchwas her older sister. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“She had the most fascinating wares in her shop,” Sophia said, studying the iron gate that towered above the street. “Louis bought an authentic god-relic—one of Wyrdith’s golden feathers. We were guaranteed it would bring him good luck in the coming year.”
“A rare treasure indeed,” said Mallory, pretending to be impressed. “What did you pay for it?”
Louis puffed up his chest. “Only twelve lys.”
“A bargain.” Mallory turned her head so he wouldn’t see her proud grin. That was well worth the cost of the gold foil andhours that Anaïs had spent figuring out how to apply it to those damned crow feathers.
She glanced up as the moon winked from behind a cloud. Her final guest, a Monsieur Badeaux, was officially late. “We are waiting for one more gentleman to join us, then we shall begin.”
