“Yes, well, I didn’t realize I’d be feeding my rent to a hungry half-man, half-wolf creature, did I? Extraordinary circumstances and—”
“Out!”Madame Cellier screamed, so loudly that Hugo scuttled into the rafters.
“Excuse me?” said Mallory.
“I have had enough. Enough of you being always late, taking advantage of my generosity. Enough of your lies. Enough of your questionable morality.” She sneered. “Never knowing what awful rituals you’re performing up here. What black magic might be at work within my very walls!”
“I mostly just embroider, actually,” said Anaïs, holding up an embroidery hoop with a vibrant half-finished floral motif as evidence.
Madame Cellier’s nostrils flared. “I want you both out of here by nightfall. I will not deign to permit your wayward—”
A loud thumping silenced her—a knock at the front door, two stories below.
Madame Cellier jutted her finger at Mallory. “Nightfall.”
She spat one more time, before pivoting on her heel and marching down the stairs.
Mallory and Anaïs exchanged looks.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean that,” said Mallory.
“Naturally, if you’ve got thirty lourdes to change her mind with. Mally, what happened? Where is the money? And why do you look like you lost a fight with…”
“A voirloup?”
Anaïs shook her head. “Can’t you ever be serious?”
Mallory pulled her bloodied chemise over her head, quickly changing into a cleanish one, followed by the green-and-gray dress that Anaïs had made out of the tablecloth that had once covered their mother’s card-reading table. She fastened the buttons of the high collar until the lace scratched her chin.
What was she going to do? She could pay half the rent now. Maybe she could start hosting séances at the House Saphir. Two galets to speak to one of Bastien Saphir’s dead wives? She wondered if she could get Triphine to go along with it. If not, she could certainly coach Anaïs on what to say…
The second she thought it, she remembered.
Her heart jumped into her throat. “What time is it?”
“Half past nine,” said Anaïs.
“And what time does the jeweler open?”
“No idea. Nine, probably. Why? Do you have jewelry to sell?” Her expression turned scolding. “You told me to stop picking pockets, you hypocrite!”
“I haven’t been picking pockets.” Mallory rushed to the window. A carriage stood on the cobblestone road—black lacquer and embellished with gilt moldings. It didn’tlooklike something the investigators would arrest her in…
“Anaïs! Mallory!”
They swiveled their heads toward the door. Madame Cellier thundered back up the steps, hands on her hips as she glared at them with distrust. “You have a visitor. He claims to be your count.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Count Armand Saphir was waiting in their shop, uncorking a bottle ofTrue Love Potpourri—guaranteed to have you crossing paths with your soul mate within thirty days of usage, or your money back!
He gave it a sniff. His nose wrinkled with revulsion.
Unlike Mallory, Armand had apparently taken the time to bathe since their death-defying adventure the night before. His black hair was tidied, his skin free of sweat and blood. He did not wear a jacket this time, and she wondered if the fine blue jacket he’d worn the night before had been salvageable. Judging from the bandages on his left arm, where his sleeve was rolled up past his elbow, she doubted it.
“Did you follow me?” demanded Mallory.
Armand turned toward her, startled. He blinked, examining her as carefully as he’d been examining the vials of potpourri,before he said quietly, “You have something in your hair.” He pointed to his own scalp.
