“You mentioned heathens,” said Monsieur Dumas in a joking tone. “I imagine this tour draws plenty of unsavory characters.”
“On occasion,” said Mallory. “But then, you are taking the tour, are you not?”
Louis frowned. “What are you implying?”
“Only that it’s rare to truly know a person’s character, whether they are complete strangers or our dearest relations. Most people, if asked to imagine the circumstance of their own murder, will picture a stranger. Perhaps a random attack in some dark alley. But study enough murders, and you’ll come to realize that it’s far more common for the victim and the killer to know one another, sometimes intimately. It’s usually the husband, but…” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Murder between siblings is not unheard of.”
Sophia’s brow pinched in mild confusion, like she couldn’t imagine why Mallory was telling her this, even as her brother sputtered in offense. Before he could defend his honor and proclaim that he did not have any intention of killing anyone (though isn’t what they all say?), Mallory held out a palm.
“While we wait, the cost of the tour is six galets each, paid up front.”
“Six galets?” said Louis. “That fortune teller told us—”
Sophia nudged him hard in the ribs, cutting him off. With a grumble, he dug the payment from his coin purse.
“Fabulous,” said Mallory, tucking the money away. “As our final companion is running late, perhaps we will begin without him.”
She faced the mansion, which sat like a crouched monster in the shadows off the street corner, illuminated by the faintest hint of lamplight and a touch of silver from the waxing moon.
The chains on the gate were an illusion. They were bulky and ominous, crafted of iron and rust, and were generally enough to deter curious passersby from trespassing on the abandoned grounds. But if anyone bothered to look closely, they would see that the padlock on the chains was broken, and had been for some time.
Mallory had absolutely nothing to do with that. She swore.
“Is it…legalfor us to be here?” asked Sophia as Mallory unwound the clinking chain.
“Not to worry, I conduct these tours all the time,” Mallory said, pretending that was a proper answer.
Sophia did not press further.
The hinges screamed as Mallory pushed the gate open and squeezed through. Louis made a face as the lichen-covered metal left streaks on his jacket, though Sophia did not seem to mind the same smudges on her robes.
A straight pathway led through the garden to the mansion, but Mallory walked slowly, allowing the tourists to take in the dried-up fountains. The crumbling garden walls. And—before them, the mansion. Narrow but tall, with three floors for living and entertaining, plus an attic that was mostly servants’ quarters. The exterior was entirely white limestone, but soot, dirt, and trailing vines of ivy and wisteria had been doing their best to devourthe façade for decades. Leaded and stained-glass windows that had been the height of fashion a century ago were now filthy, broken, or both. The massive entry doors—an arch of dark oak—were carved with medallions of demonic boar heads. A fitting welcome, Mallory thought, to the house that claimed such a sordid past.
“Let us begin,” said Mallory, walking backward on the cobblestone path. “What do you know about Monsieur Le Bleu?”
After a hesitation, Louis responded, “He murdered people.”
“Wives,” Sophia added, her voice quietly reverent. “He murdered his wives.”
Mallory tucked her portfolio beneath one arm and began her recitation.
“His name was Count Bastien Saphir, but most people know him by his moniker: Monsieur Le Bleu, thus named because his hair and beard were so black that in certain lights, they were said to appear almost blue. Of course, the surnameSaphirmay have had something to do with it as well.”
She paused between two weed-infested garden beds. It was difficult to picture them as they had once been, with manicured boxwoods and colorful geraniums.
“He was born in his family’s country estate outside the village of Comorre, forty miles northwest of here, and grew up an only child, the sole heir of the family winemaking fortune. For generations, Saphir’s estate Ruby Comorre was one of the most expensive and sought-after wines on the market. As it is fortified with brandy, it can be preserved for years, even decades—and many say the flavor improves with time. This has made it particularly desirable with merchants who trade with countries as faras Isbren and Gai-Yin, where it is a rare commodity among the nobility. Connoisseurs also appreciate that the additional alcohol gets you drunk faster.”
She climbed the front steps to the house. “But Bastien was bored with country life, so when he was twenty-one years of age, he bought this parcel of land, here in the heart of Morant, for the construction of the mansion before you. He spared no expense, as you can see from the gold-plated sundial on the south terrace and the decorative medallions that ornament the upper floors—each one unique and hand-carved by a local artisan.”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Monsieur Dumas, whose scowl had been deepening as Mallory had set the stage for her horrific tale. “Are you going to give theentiretour?”
Mallory stared at him. “That was my intention.”
“But you… You’re…” His puzzled expression turned to one of distaste. “I thought you were the secretary, or… You know. The one who would greet us and take our hats and coats. Not theguide.”
Mallory’s jaw twitched. “You were mistaken.”
“But this tour is about…murder.” He dropped his voice. “It isn’t ladylike to speak of such things.”
