Sophia grimaced in embarrassment.
Mallory was beginning to understand why Sophia might want to run off and join an order that pledged their lives to the god of archery and war, a god who did not care if you were male or female or something else altogether. If Louis was going to make comments like this all night, she would spend her evening fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
That was a lie. She would roll her eyes without hesitation and without apology.
But it might cost her a tip at the end of the night, and no amount of chauvinism would change the weight of his coins in her purse.
She sighed. “I am Morant’s foremost expert on Monsieur Le Bleu and the Saphir family, and currently the only tour guide operating at this mansion. If your delicate sensibilities would prefer to spend the evening in the gambling hall, I will not keep you. But if you wish to see inside the house, then I suggest you decide quickly so we can move on.” She paused, before adding, “Also, the fee is nonrefundable.”
Monsieur Dumas cast a disapproving look at his sister, as though he didn’t want her gettingideasfrom such a headstrong woman, which made Mallory wonder how much he knew about the patron god his sister had chosen to serve.
“As I was saying. Once the house was complete, Monsieur Le Bleu began to spend nearly all his time here in Morant. Which is where our tale truly begins.” Taking hold of the handle shaped like a sea serpent, Mallory pulled the door open with a dramatic, creaking groan. “Welcome to the House Saphir.”
CHAPTER TWO
Shadows reached for them as they stepped through the doorway. The foyer was thick with the smell of dust and mildew and rat droppings. Mallory was used to it, but Sophia wrinkled her nose and Louis pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth.
Mallory picked up the lantern she kept on the vestibule table and lit the candle inside, illuminating the foyer. An ornate geometric pattern in white and blue tiles spanned from the doorway into the drawing room. A mahogany staircase curved upward, each balustrade carved into an ominous hooded figure. An arched doorway straight ahead guided visitors into the corridor to the dining hall and ballroom. It was a dizzying way to be received—which was quite by design. This was not a house intended to make visitors feel comfortable. It was intended to make them feel awed, honored, and entirely unbalanced.
Mallory lit the occasional candle as they passed through theground floor of the mansion, explaining the purpose of various rooms as she went: The parlor where guests had once been greeted with a glass of House Saphir’s famous wine, served ice-cold in the summer months—the epitome of luxury. The solarium where some broken pots still remained, the last vestiges of what must have been a lush jungle encased in glass. Mallory explained how Bastien Saphir had loved oranges and thus insisted on keeping a live orange tree in the center of the room, so he would always have the fruit at hand. She pointed out the empty birdcages that still hung from the ceiling, having once displayed golden canaries and melodic nightingales for the enjoyment of Saphir’s guests.
They passed through the dining room with its paneled walls and ornate chandeliers that now boasted as many cobwebs as crystals, while Mallory spoke of the lavish parties, the fine soirées, the endless feasts that Saphir had hosted for Morant’s elite.
“With a reputation for generosity, he was said to be the most upstanding of gentlemen. Invitations to his home were highly coveted.” Mallory approached a wall where a painting was concealed behind a swath of black velvet. “He was also devilishly handsome.”
She pulled back the velvet. The glow from her lantern danced across a portrait of a gentleman wearing a richly embroidered blue-and-gold cape over a matching doublet. The portrait had been commissioned when Bastien Saphir was in his midtwenties, and his features were startling in their severity—as if a sculptor had taken a chisel to his jutting cheekbones and sharp jaw. A tidy beard and mustache were as black as ink, as was the long dark hair tied at the nape of his neck. Most striking were his eyes. Evenin the dim lighting, they were alarmingly blue, a distinctive family trait.
An unladylike sound filled the room—the noise of someone sticking out their tongue and blowing out air.
Mallory had been expecting it, and she tried not to cringe.
“If he’s devilishly handsome,” said a high-pitched, nasal voice, “then I’m the queen of Lysraux.”
Mallory didn’t answer. It would have made her guests uncomfortable, given that they hadn’t heard a thing. Rule number one when it came to interacting with ghosts—never, ever engage with them when a living person was nearby. Do not look; do not react.
Most people already thought she and her sister were peculiar. No point making it worse.
Instead, she surreptitiously scanned the room.
Triphine was sitting at the head of the dining table, her feet propped up beside a candelabra, her slight figure dressed in a nightgown and pale blue shawl, the edges of her physical form shimmering slightly. All ghosts shimmered, their bodies trapped somewhere between corporeal and ephemeral. Triphine had been beautiful in life, and was just as beautiful in death—with the delicate bone structure of a duchess descended from Gai-Yin royalty. Her luster was only slightly marred by the blackish-red blood that covered the front of her chest, compliments of the sword that had impaled her.
“I always pictured him as a pirate,” Sophia said quietly, still staring at the painting, unaware of the ghost’s presence. Her voice had a dreamlike quality to it as she took in Le Bleu’s secretive grin. “I thought he would be… rougher looking. Less genteel.”
“Apirate,” said Triphine haughtily. “Where do you find these people?”
“It’s a common misconception,” said Mallory. “The Saphir family owned many merchant ships for exporting their wine, and so had a lucrative trade business on the side. Though Monsieur Le Bleu did occasionally travel by ship for work, he was no pirate. Come, I will show you the ballroom.”
“Oh, you’re going to ignore me again, are you?” said Triphine, standing to follow as Mallory led the couple through a set of double doors. “That’s exceedingly impolite, Miss Fontaine. You know I was struggling with a horrid cough last week. Could feel the sickness all through my chest. Was bedridden for days. And you’re not even going to ask how I’m feeling?” She let out a stream of wet coughs to punctuate her irritation.
Mallory walked faster, hoping the clack of her boots on the ballroom’s parquet floors would drown out the ruckus of Triphine’s complaints. She busied herself lighting a few of the wall sconces while Sophia and Louis took in the space. There was a raised platform where musicians would have played, and heavy curtains to hide stage performers. Tall arched windows and walls lined with glittering mirrors. It would have been glorious in its day, but now their reflections were eerie and faint in the flickering candlelight, the still air dank and suffocating.
Triphine clutched her shawl against an imaginary chill. She alone did not cast a reflection. “You know, I had something important to tell you, Mallory. But if you’re going to ignore me, then I won’t say a word, and you’re going to wish I had!”
Mallory doubted that. Triphine had her uses, but she was also a constant thorn in Mallory’s side.
“What happened there?” said Louis, pointing to a corner of the room, where black scorch marks marred the floors and walls. Some of the gilded wallpaper was missing, revealing blackened wood beneath.
“Some children sneaked in years ago,” said Mallory. “Thought it would be amusing to light a few candles and try to summon the spirit of Le Bleu back from the dead. Instead, they nearly burned the place to the ground. Luckily, a few neighbors saw the smoke and managed to put out the flames in time.”
