“Come on,” she breathed, sitting up and gripping his hand. “You need to stand. The fire…”
Though he groaned and hissed in complaint, he allowed her to help him stumble to his feet. She suspected a broken rib or two from how he hunched to one side, but he accepted her support, and together they hobbled away from the house. The others met them halfway across the garden. Fitcher and Constantino flanked Armand, taking his weight onto their shoulders as Mallory fell into her sister’s arms.
When they were safely away, they stopped to watch the flames devour the House Saphir. The blaze grew so bright that Mallory had to shield her eyes, squinting into the fire as the house was consumed. It was not a slow death. Mallory listened for the screams of Count Bastien Saphir I, but the roar of the fire was too loud. Nevertheless, as the inferno ran out of fuel, as the house succumbed and caved in on itself, there was a moment when the flames burned vibrant blue. As they eventually died down and smoldered, smoke and ash dancing on the wind, she knew that the spirit of Monsieur Le Bleu was no longer in this world.
Mallory wasn’t sure when the wives joined them, but at some point she noticed their figures, hazy in a half circle by the garden, watching the house burn. Lucienne toasted the ashes of the house with a bottle she must have had stashed away somewhere. Then, one by one, the ghosts flickered from existence: Lucienneand Béatrice linked arms as they quietly vanished. Julie cast a mournful gaze at Armand, who could not see her, before the wind stole her away. Gabrielle was watching Mallory and Anaïs, smiling a soft, proud smile, as the rain and mist claimed her.
Only Triphine remained, clutching her blue shawl. At first, Mallory did not understand why she hadn’t vanished with the others. But then she remembered that this time, it washerspell that was tethering these spirits, not Bastien’s. The magic she had worked, the ritual she had enacted, had not involved Triphine, who had been killed miles away, in Morant. Her spirit was not tethered to this house. Not like the others. Not like Le Bleu.
“All that wine, wasted,” Constantino murmured, drawing her attention away from the lonely ghost. The first words to be spoken in what felt like ages.
Armand, dirty and bedraggled and so very, very handsome, peered at him. “I own a winery,” he said simply. “There’s more wine.”
Constantino smiled.
A shocked wail invaded their little coterie. Yvette, Pierre, and Gideon stumbled from the forest, where they had been sequestered and sheltered after drinking the drugged ceremonial wine. Their mouths were agape as they stared at the smoldering ruins of the château.
“What… whathappened?” Yvette panted, dropping to her knees in mournful prayer.
Exhausted, dismayed, hardly able to believe she was still alive, Mallory felt a giddiness burble up inside of her. She knew her timing was terrible. She knew it wasn’t appropriate. She knewany member of high society would chastise her for such dreadful behavior.
And yet, she started to laugh.
Armand turned to her, surprised.
Then his eyes crinkled at the corners, and soon, he was laughing, too.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“I think I have scurvy,” said Triphine, feeling around the inside of her mouth. “This tooth feels like it might be getting loose.” She leaned dramatically against the fireplace mantel. “This one will be the death of me for sure.”
“Would only that were true,” Mallory muttered.
Triphine sent her an irate look. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said,I wish there were something I could do,” adjusted Mallory. “Perhaps you should try that new tea Armand has been working on. Supposedly it can help fevers, chills, sore throat, stuffy nose, dizziness, heart palpitations, itching, delirium, skin rashes, numbness, body aches, inescapable crabbiness… and,interestingly, toothaches. It’s almost like it was made specifically for you.”
Triphine squinted at her a long,longmoment, before giving a quiet harrumph. “Maybe I will.”
Mallory shook her head, watching the ghost float up the staircase and disappear into her bedroom. With Bastien gone and thespell for which Triphine had been sacrificed completed, her spirit was no longer trapped in this world. No longer tethered to her wedding ring. She could have gone to Verloren with the others after all.
But she’d chosen to stay, and Mallory was beginning to think that, despite all her complaining, Triphine was actually quite happy here.
Mallory would never admit it, but she was actually quite happy to have her.
She returned to arranging the cabinet of merchandise she and Armand had ordered, including salamander figurines and potted plants grown from cuttings from the Saphir estate’s own conservatory. The firstofficialtour of the House Saphir, Morant, was scheduled for that evening—a half hour past sunset—and while she wasn’t exactly nervous, she wanted everything to go well.
The house had changed significantly since she had given the tour to Armand and the investigators. She and Armand had worked tirelessly to fix the holes in the roof, the broken windows, the crumbling plaster. With Yvette’s help, they had eradicated every cobweb, expelled every bat, evicted every rodent. They had cleaned and waxed the floors until they shone like mirrors. Replaced the broken lanterns, repaired and rehung the torn drapes, filled the common spaces with secondhand furniture—much of it purchased with a bottle of Saphir wine and a Wyrdith card reading.
Mallory was getting pretty good at reading the cards, in fact. It was one of the many roles she had easily slipped into. She was her mother’s daughter. Mallory Fontaine—medium, apothecary, fortune teller.
Well, Armand was much more adept at the art of preparing herbs, roots, and flowers for medicines and spells than she was, so perhaps he was the true apothecary. Either way, it was a service that the people of Morant were happy to pay for.
The investigators had come for her when she and Armand had first returned to Morant. But what could they possibly arrest her for? All those people who called her a fraud? Just rumors and lies.
Mallory Fontainewasa witch, a master of petty magic. The same as her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother—the famous Gabrielle Savoy herself. It had taken some time to prove her legitimacy, but now, even Investigator Louis Garneau was one of her regular customers, requesting a monthly dose of emerald brittlegill potion. She thought it best not to inquire why.
It was not a bad living that she and Armand had carved out for themselves, and they even had some money tucked away, thanks to the sale of the vineyards and winery—a merchant from Chablac had been thrilled to purchase such historic land. Perhaps someday they would hire a larger staff. Pierre and Gideon had both chosen to find other employment in Comorre, to stay close to their families, and it was a lot of work for Yvette alone. It could be nice to have a chef, or a maid, or even a gardener. Though Mallory and Armand were in no hurry. If the house was in a bit of disarray, the garden a tiny bit overgrown… well, they weren’t running a bed-and-breakfast. They were running a haunted house, and a little mayhem was good for business.
