“The police know about us. The séances, the potions… Two investigators were on the tour last night. They would have taken me already if the count hadn’t persuaded them not to. So either we go with him now, or we prepare to spend tonight in prison.”
Anaïs paled as she took this in, one hand pressing against her temple.
After a long silence, she said faintly, “Mother’s cards. Your art supplies. My embroidery kit.” She inhaled sharply. “We can be ready in five minutes.”
CHAPTER NINE
Mallory expected the full day’s ride to Comorre to be spent in the tedious throes of pleasantry with their new employer, a drudgery she had never excelled at. But when they carried their single trunk out to the waiting carriage—relieved to see no signs of the investigators in either direction—Armand climbed up into the driver’s seat himself.
Settling herself onto the plush carriage bench, Mallory frowned at her sister. “Ever heard of a count who did his own driving?”
“Perhaps Monsieur Le Bleu killed his driver,” Anaïs suggested, unconcerned, as she pulled out a fashion periodical she’d swiped from Madame Cellier and started flipping through the pages.
Even without the threat of small talk, the ride felt endless. Mallory had traveled little in her life, and her body was not accustomed to the constant bouncing that made her bones feel like they would shake right out of her skin. She tried to sketch for a while, but her attempts were horrendous, and the combinationof the rattling wheels and her own frustrations had given her a headache by the time the farmlands of the Lysraux countryside were replaced with sprawling vineyards.
Meanwhile, Anaïs seemed perfectly content. When she tired of the magazine, she started in on her embroidery hoop, only half minding her stitches as she took in the passing scenery, cooing over every new sight.Oh, look! A pair of wild swans! Are those figs in that tree? What a quaint little farmhouse! Oh, Mally, they’re harvesting the vineyard! And over there! A castle!It must have been the fiftieth castle they’d passed, but Anaïs seemed every bit as delighted as she’d been with the first.
It was possible they needed to get out of Morant more often.
Eventually, Anaïs insisted that Mallory pause from her sketching to tell her everything about the night before. Mallory recounted the story as well as she could—investigators, voirloup, and all—then showed her sister the card that had been given to her by that mysterious boy.
“Fitcher’s Troupe,” murmured Anaïs. “This is your backup plan? When you can’t actually do what you’re supposed to do?”
“We,” Mallory corrected her. “He believes we are both witches.”
Anaïs handed back the card. “I give it three days before he sends us packing. But I intend to enjoy the luxury of the countryside while I can.”
Mallory flipped back through her sketchbook, which was filled not only with portraits of Le Bleu’s wives, but also a veritable bestiary of creatures she had yet to meet face-to-face (somewhat disappointingly). There was a velue—a disastrous beast with thehead of a serpent and a body covered in poison-tipped spines. The croque-mitaine—a sort of goblin that liked to eat the noses and fingers off curious little children. And even a cheval mallet—a savage, spectral horse that lured desperate travelers from the road, most of whom were never seen again.
Mallory studied the illustration, then added a half-crushed skull beneath the cheval mallet’s front hoof. The picture was shaky, not her best work, but the skull was an improvement.
The art kept her mind off other things, anxious things. Like how she soon might encounter Count Bastien Saphir I—not to mention his wives, who loomed as large in Mallory’s mind as the murderer himself. Lucienne Tremblay and Béatrice Descoteaux. Triphine would not be there, as she seemed incapable of leaving the house in Morant, though it had never been clear if that was by choice.
“We should be nearly there,” said Anaïs, pulling back the curtain. “These could be the Saphir vineyards.”
Tidy rows stretched out to the horizon, vines tied up with stakes and twine, heavy with bunches of late-season fruit, the small grapes bruise-purple and drooping toward the earth.
In the distance, on the crest of a golden hill, was a château.
Mallory’s pulse jumped.
It wasthechâteau.
She shoved her sister aside to get a better look. “There it is.”
Anaïs laughed and crowded in beside her. “I knew you were excited.”
Mallory had seen the house in so many paintings, so many illustrations, she would have recognized it anywhere. A sprawlingchâteau, surrounded by sloping vineyards, its stone cast in a grayish-lavender light as the sun descended over the hills. It stole her breath away.
The château was a monument of limestone walls, narrow windows with diamond leading, arched dormers set in a black slate roof, and an army of brick chimneys marching off in every direction. It was columns and pediments, elaborate modillions, and arched niches bearing statues of winged demons and mythical beasts. It was imposing and magnificent and… apparently, falling apart. Roof tiles were missing. Trellises set against the walls were rotting. Though the stonework had once been white, now it was smudged sooty gray.
As they neared the mansion, Armand descended to open the heavy iron gate, its detailing as intricate as fine lace. The gravel drive changed to cobblestones. Enormous chestnut trees full of spiky fruits shaded the path. They passed a series of gardens divided by tall hedgerows, which began wild and forested with dense foliage and unruly trees, but became increasingly formal as they neared the house, their geometric configurations apparent despite a proliferation of weeds and overgrown perennials. Walking paths surrounded marble fountains, boxwood borders, fruit trees and topiaries and beds of thorny roses and aromatic lavender.
After an eternity, they entered the front courtyard.
Thecourtyard.
Mallory’s heart pounded so much it hurt.
