CHAPTER TEN
“Here we are,” said Yvette—a woman whose skin was almost as gray as her hair. “Your suite.”
“Thank you ever so much,” said Anaïs, smiling beatifically. It was her nature to woo an enemy with kindness, and Yvette’s gruffness and distrust certainly indicated an enemy. But in this case, Anaïs’s charm only made Yvette’s scowl deepen.
Mallory didn’t much care one way or the other if the housekeeper liked them. She was too busy taking in the details of the hallway—the elaborate wallpaper, the ornate sconces, the worn carpet with a border of belladonna flowers along its edges. She was desperate to explore the manor. The gardens. The cemetery. To see the infamous fountain run red with blood. It might not be fairy tales of godmothers and talking animals, but these were the stories that had dug their claws into her when she was growing up and had never let go. Where her sister had dreamed of princes and ball gowns and being carried off by the fairy folk to theirland of enchantment, Mallory had dreamed of haunted attics and eerie cellars, specters in the windows and ghoulish laughter echoing down the halls.
But the trek through the château had been brief and hurried, with no consideration given to Mallory’s abundant curiosity as she craned her neck this way and that, attempting to take in the grandeur of the house. They had bustled straight to the second story of the north wing, where the housekeeper threw open a door and stepped aside for them to enter.
The room had once been glorious, but now the pink-and-turquoise rug was threadbare in places, the taffeta curtains were unraveling at the hems, and there were signs of water damage around one of the windows.
Did Mallory care about any of that?
Not the tiniest bit.
She didn’t care about the musty scent, or that the wallpaper was faded, or whether or not the writing desk in the corner was missing one of its drawers.
It was the finest room she’d ever been in, and she was in love.
“Historically, these rooms were given to the lady of the house,” said the housekeeper. “But after the… well…”
“Murders?” Mallory supplied.
Yvette sneered. “They are for guests now.”
A chill shot down Mallory’s spine as she realized where she was standing. The very room where the wives had slept. Not Triphine, who had lived and died at the house in Morant. But Lucienne and Béatrice. Even Gabrielle…
“And my sister and I are to share a room?” asked Anaïs.
“Is that a problem?”
“Oh, no, we don’t mind. It’s only… the house is so big. Space can’t be limited.”
“Space? No.” Yvette folded her hands tight in front of her apron. “But help? Very much so. Beds must be made, water brought up. And fires don’t light themselves.”
“And thank the gods for that,” Anaïs proclaimed, trying to lighten the mood.
“Anaïs and I are happy to make our own bed,” said Mallory, “for what it’s worth.”
It wasn’t worth much, judging by the woman’s expression. “Dinner is served promptly at nine o’clock in the banquet hall. I will send Julie to escort you.” She curtsied and departed.
Triphine, who had followed in the wake of their little group, made her way around the room, touching the finishings while her mouth twisted to one side. “This place smells like mothballs. And why are these cushions upholstered in wool? We always had velvet cushions in Morant. I’d expect goose down, but I bet you two galets that mattress is half stuffed with straw. Hope you weren’t planning on getting a good night’s sleep while you’re here.”
While she prattled on, Mallory joined her sister at the window, which offered a view of lush, rather overgrown gardens.
“The staff seems disinclined to like us,” said Anaïs.
Mallory waved a hand through the air. “We’re here to make money, not friends.”
Anaïs smugly settled a hand on her hip. “Perhaps, but don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“Notice what?”
Anaïs dramatically fluttered her lashes. “We are the witches here,Lord Saphir.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what you said, down in the courtyard. Not Monsieur, butLord.”
