The duchess threw a wrist against her forehead. “While I do appreciate the invitation, I am thoroughly exhausted from the day’s travel. Every bone is aching. And my poor head—”
“I’ll bring you some dessert if you stop whining.”
At the mention of dessert, Triphine noticeably perked up. “Deal.”
Mallory grinned. Though ghosts rarely wanted to exert the energy required to interact with the mortal world, most of them seemed more than willing to exhaust themselves over some of the finer delights of the living—a morsel of aged cheese, a sip of brandy, the sensation of running one’s fingers through soft sable fur.
Julie, the maid, stood on the other side of the door. “Good evening. I am to show you to the banquet hall?” Her eyes brightened. “Oh, my. Don’t you both look lovely?”
Mallory frowned. She knew she should have said no to the hair ribbon. No one with hair ribbons was ever taken seriously.
The maid led them along a corridor, through an arched door, down a spiral staircase. Passing through a series of elegantly decorated if musty-smelling salons, Mallory couldn’t help thinking of the wives who had walked these halls a hundred years ago. What had they thought when they first passed through these rooms and saw the splendor that greeted them? Had they been proud to be the mistresses of this grand estate? Had they been relieved to know that with or without marital love, they could at least enjoy their husband’s remarkable wealth?
Had they had any idea what sort of man they’d married? Had they walked these halls in wonder—or in fear?
Even after the bloody business with Count Bastien Saphir I, the family had never lost their station in society. Their noble title had not been revoked. The management of the estate had been handled by a testamentary guardian until Bastien II came of age, and the family’s particular brand of Ruby Comorre had maintained its popularity for the better part of the last century, as it was made with grapes that flourished only in their small region. What was a little murder when there was wine to be had?
The maid paused in front of a set of oak doors carved with entwined serpents. She gestured for them to enter.
The banquet hall was bedecked in dark wood and crystal, with stars and blue salamanders painted on ceiling beams and a fireplace that was so absurdly big, the average-sized logs burning in it looked like twigs.
Armand stood and bowed. Anaïs curtsied. Mallory—who had already curtsied once that day and wasn’t about to make a habit of it—did not.
The table was large enough to seat forty or more, but they were ushered down to the far end. As they were seated, Mallory took in the place settings. Monogrammed dishes and crystal goblets etched with the Saphir crest. There were so many strange little forks and spoons. Mallory hadn’t the faintest idea what a person could want with them all.
Anaïs leaned close and whispered excitedly, “I think this is real silver!”
Mallory knocked her away with her shoulder, while Claude, the butler, stepped forward to fill their goblets with deep-rust-colored wine.
“Have you found your rooms to be accommodating?” Armand asked.
“Quite, thank you,” said Anaïs, smiling her prettiest smile. It made Mallory want to poke her in the ribs.
“Please let me know if there is anything that can be done to make you more comfortable,” said Armand.
An excruciatingly awkward silence followed while a course of onion soup was brought out. Mallory couldn’t recall the last time she’d smelled anything so delectable. As soon as they were served, she scanned the assortment of spoons, picked one at random, and bent over her bowl—only to freeze when the housekeeper loudly cleared her throat.
Armand bristled and sent Mallory and her sister an apologetic grimace. “Yvette is very devout,” he whispered, before lowering his gaze. “The Seven we praise,” he said softly, his expression more annoyed than reverent.
“The Seven we praise,” repeated Anaïs.
Clutching her spoon tighter, Mallory shot her a disgruntled look. They’d never prayed to the seven gods in their lives.
Her sister kicked her under the table.
Mallory sighed. “Er… yes. The Seven. Love them. All the praise. This smells fantastic. And here I thought Count Saphir didn’t know how to entertain guests.”
Armand’s wince was subtle, but she noticed it all the same. “It is difficult to entertain with so small a staff.”
Mallory breathed in the steam, aromatic with garlic and rosemary. She dunked in the spoon and took a sip. Anaïs followed suit. They both moaned in unison. It had been a long time since they’d properly feasted.
Actually, she wasn’t certain they’d ever properly feasted, but food had definitely been more plentiful back when their mother was alive.
Armand tried to conceal a smile as he started in on his own bowl, and Mallory was grateful he didn’t feel the need to accostthem with meaningless conversation. For a while, the only sounds were those of silver on porcelain and quiet, probably unladylike slurping.
As soon as the soup was gone, it was replaced by a course of raw oysters and boiled sea snails, served alongside slices of baguette. Mallory noted that they were each given their very own dish of salted butter, a rare luxury. She wished she’d been served twice as much.
When Mallory’s wineglass was nearly empty, Armand gestured for it to be filled.
