They lingered behind. Anaïs turned back once, alarmed, butMallory offered a casual wave and hoped her sister interpreted it asdon’t you dare go far.
With a subtle nod, Anaïs followed the others beyond the cemetery wall and disappeared into the trees.
Mallory felt suddenly trapped with this high wall and iron gate, and nowhere to run or hide. This would not do.
“Mallory, I—”
“Where is Le Bleu buried?”
The words vanished from Armand’s tongue. “Le Bleu?”
“You said he is not in this graveyard.”
“Oh—no, he is not here. He was originally intended to be buried there, beside his wives.” He pointed to a smaller crypt beside the enormous mausoleum. “But his son—my great-grandfather—did not think it was proper after what he had done. So it was decided that he would be buried outside of the walls instead.”
Mallory recognized it for what it was—the ultimate sign of disgrace.
“Can I see?”
“I suppose.” Armand chuckled quietly, giving a bewildered shake of his head. “You do have the strangest curiosities. You know that?”
“I have the same curiosities as everyone else. I’m just not afraid to say them aloud.”
His lips quirked gently. “Yes, I know. It is one of the things I admire about you.”
Before Mallory could unravel those words, he ducked out through the gate. When he headed in the opposite direction from the house, she hesitated for only a moment before she followed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Armand headed south along the cemetery wall. Following in his footsteps, Mallory searched the trees for movement, listening for crackling branches and scurrying footsteps. But if they were being watched, if her sister or Fitcher or Constantino or even Gabrielle in her guise of a common barn swallow were near, she saw no signs of them.
The cemetery was mostly built atop a hill, and soon they were descending on the other side, along the edge of a shallow ravine where a creek burbled among moss-covered stones. They had been trudging silently through the foliage for a few minutes when Armand pointed. “There.”
Mallory spied the headstone beside a young alder tree. A short, nondescript fence surrounded the grave, which had long ago been overtaken with weeds. The stone itself was simple—nothing like the elaborate marble edifices in the cemetery, plainer even than those given to the farmers and the maids. Itwas crumbling—one corner broken off, the stone leaning at a dangerous slant.
When Armand did not move closer, Mallory gathered her courage and brushed past him. The hair stood on the back of her neck as she did so, her body overcome with a sense of vulnerability. She had not realized how instinctively she’d avoided turning her back to him, and now she felt his presence behind her like that of a prowling monster.
She was even more aware of the knife in her boot. She’d practiced reaching for it, extracting it. Her reflexes were primed. But would it be enough?
“Perhaps this is what his spirit is so angry about,” she said, stopping beside the fence. “That he wasn’t buried in his lavish crypt.”
Armand made a low noise in his throat and Mallory shivered. He had followed her, and was so close she imagined she could feel the vibrations of his chest. “Let him be angry. He deserves no better.”
Mallory lifted her attention from the grave. Scanned white birches interspersed with slim poplars. Bushes heavy with winter berries. The birds had begun to chatter in the faint morning light. Was Gabrielle among them? She had the strangest sense that they might be trying to warn her.
She exhaled and faced Armand. “You once told me that it horrifies you, knowing that you were related to a monster like him.”
His attention lingered on the crooked grave. “I assume it would horrify anyone.”
There was no veil over the words, no hint of exaggeration or shame. She had to believe he was being truthful.
Still, he seemed to struggle over whether or not to say more.Mallory waited, attempting to breathe through the thundering of her pulse. Finally, he added, “As a child, I would scare myself. Whenever I got angry, I would worry that it was my nature—something deep inside me that I couldn’t stop and couldn’t avoid. If my anger could overtake me, then who knew what I might be capable of? Who knew if I could become a monster, too?” He grimaced, tugging at a loose thread on his sleeve. “My solution was to stop being angry. Whenever something was upsetting, or irritating, I would take that emotion and shove it down as deep as I could. I would smile through it all. Remain calm and stoic, no matter what I faced.” He hesitated, his voice quieting. “I would never let the monster free.”
Mallory recalled the face he’d made in the stables, when he’d caught her preparing to run away. The absolute rage that had overtaken him. The way he’d almost delighted in wrapping his hands around her throat.
There was a monster inside him—but it was not his own anger he needed to fear.
If she told him the truth, would he believe her? Gabrielle had said it was pointless. Armand was not in control. There was nothing he could do—not until they completed the ritual necessary to cast the spirit out.
