Anaïs, who had entered the room on Mallory’s heels, plucked something from Mallory’s hair and showed it to her—a delicate purple flower.
“Wisteria?” asked Anaïs.
Noticing that Madame Cellier was still loitering in the stairwell, attempting to spy on them, Mallory slammed the door shut. She turned back to Armand. “I asked you a question.”
“Following you was not necessary.” He set down the love potion. “That investigator said that your shop was on Rue Tilance, and here you are.” He gestured to the label beside the potpourri. “This claims to have white nettle in it, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually inkroot nettle. I wouldn’t advise anyone to bathe in it twice weekly, as these instructions recommend.”
Mallory’s frown deepened. “What do you want?” She tipped her chin toward his bandaged arm. “I’m not covering any medical expenses. You signed a waiver when you purchased your ticket for the tour.”
He stared at her. “No, I didn’t.”
“It was an implied waiver.”
“That isn’t a…” He gave his head a shake. “I don’t need you to cover my medical expenses. I’m a count.”
Mallory considered this, then stumbled forward, faking a bad limp as she hobbled to one of the chairs beside the table on which sat the worn deck of her mother’s Wyrdith cards. She groaned as she sat down. “Actually, I was quite hurt in the fall from that window—which you definitely pulled me out of, don’t try to deny it. I need a splint. Surgery. Lots of medicines. They might have toamputate. Is this a good time to discuss compensation?” She gave him a sad smile. “Given that you fed my hard-earned coin to that voirloup, I think it’s only fair.”
Armand opened his mouth as if to speak, but when no sound came out, he turned his attention to Anaïs instead. “You must be the sister.”
His expression was dubious, and Mallory knew he was wondering if the two of them were actually related. Of the Fontaine sisters, Anaïs was the oldest and the prettiest—with her long straw-colored hair, heart-shaped face, and impish little mouth. Where Anaïs was soft, Mallory was sharp—sharp nose, sharp eyes, sharp tongue—with dull brown hair that was long and unruly and unwilling to hold a curl on those rare occasions when her sister attempted to style it.
Plus, Anaïs generally liked people. Something Mallory could hardly fathom.
“Anaïs Fontaine,” she said with a curtsy.
“Enchanté. I am Count Armand Saphir. It’s a pleasure to—”
Anaïs guffawed—a shrill, abrupt sound that completely ruined the grace and manners she’d established with her fine curtsy. “I’d sooner believe you were some suitor come to propose marriage to my sister.”
“Hey!” said Mallory as Armand’s face flared pink. “He could be desperately in love with me. Stranger things have happened.”
Anaïs looked pointedly from Mallory to Armand and back again. “No, sister. Stranger things havenothappened.”
Armand cleared his throat. “I am not here to propose marriage.”
“Well, good,” snapped Mallory. “I would obviously decline if you did.”
“Obviously,” he muttered.
“So whyareyou here, Monsieur…” Anaïs prompted.
“Saphir.”
She gave a mirthful laugh. “You’re sticking with that, are you? Next you’ll be telling me that the two of you battled a silver-eating voirloup last night.”
Mallory leaned her elbows on the table. “Whyareyou here?”
“As I tried to explain last night, I require your help.” He took the seat opposite her. “The reputation of the Fontaine sisters is well-known in Morant. Descended from a long line of powerful witches. Able to summon the spirits of the dead. Talented in the arts of dream interpretation, enchantments, and herbalism.” He hesitated, glancing at the shelf of herbal tinctures with the mislabeled nettles. “Though I suppose we can’t be good at everything. Still, I believe you are particularly suited to assisting me with a… difficult situation.”
“What kind of difficult situation?”
“My great-great-grandfather, Bastien Saphir, the first, more colloquially known as Monsieur Le Bleu…”
“I’ve heard of him,” Mallory muttered.
“He has returned.”
Mallory frowned. Anaïs made anooohnoise and sank onto a settee.
