Mallory startled at the realization that much of this fuss was over her and a dress, of all things. “I prefer my dresses with some stains on them anyway.”
Armand smiled in gratitude before nodding at the housekeeper. “I’m sure Julie is doing her best. And as you know, we can’t afford to lose anyone else.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mallory did not care to fall asleep. She lay in bed beside her sister, waiting for Anaïs’s body to sink into the mattress, for her breathing to slow and steady. Only when she was certain her sister would not stir did she slip from the blankets and pull her riding cloak over her nightgown.
“Where are you going?” Triphine asked. She had found a book somewhere and had it laid out on the windowsill so she could read by moonlight. The plate of biscuits that Mallory had brought up from the dining hall lay empty beside her—nothing more than scattered crumbs.
“I want to see more of the house.”
Triphine made a horrified face. “It’s the middle of the night.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t you realize this place ishaunted?”
Mallory bit the inside of her cheek, certain that Triphine did not notice the irony of this statement. “I’ll be fine. Watch over my sister.”
She slipped into the hall, then made her way out of the north wing. As she crept down the grand staircase, she caught the unexpected aroma of ripe oranges, juicy and tangy, on the air. She froze. The walls around her seemed to pulse. Like a heartbeat, thrumming. Like lungs taking in slow, rattling breaths.
The foyer’s chandelier trembled. In the darkness, Mallory thought she saw thick, dark liquid dripping down from the extinguished candles. As if they were bleeding.
Mallory blinked, and the illusion vanished.
She shivered. The scent of oranges was gone. The house fell still and silent, though there persisted the undeniable sensation that she was being watched. Followed. Studied with silent, malicious curiosity.
Mallory did not know if the house was greeting her or trying to frighten her away. She might have laughed if it hadn’t felt like the air had been squeezed out of her.
She hurried through the vestibule. As she approached the entry doors, they opened of their own accord. She hesitated again. Beyond the doors, the central courtyard stretched in front of her—a circular cobblestone path wide enough for multiple carriages surrounded the courtyard’s most prominent feature. The fountain—that warrior and his steed, the beasts and monsters spread out on the pedestal below.
Bracing herself, she hurried over the threshold, lest the doors try to slam shut on her, but with the air of a gentleman, the doors waited until she was off the front steps before they slowly closed in her wake.
Mallory picked her way carefully over the uneven stones. The water burbled in the darkness, the pool glistening with moonlight.The anniversary of Le Bleu’s death was mere weeks away. If she and Anaïs were still there, she would let nothing stop her from coming to this fountain’s edge in the middle of the night to see the spectacle of the fountain running with blood.
She placed a hand on the edge of the stone basin, damp from the spray.
This was the very spot where Count Bastien Saphir I had been killed. Gabrielle’s brothers had caught him, forced him to his knees, and took his head from his neck with one swing of a sword. As the tale went, he’d been laughing up until the end, and his decapitated head had continued to laugh for nearly a full minute before death claimed him.
Mallory listened for that telltale sign of his haunting laughter. The sounds of the night were different in the countryside—more wind, no carriage wheels. The hoot of an owl, the chirrup of crickets in the gardens. But mostly, the water striking the pool below.
It was not such a terrible place to haunt for eternity. The artistry of the fountain’s sculpture was astounding. The house itself was magnificent, even in its current state.
Mallory peered up at the ornate details of the sculpture. Her attention fell on a salamander carved into the design, a plume of marble fire spewing from its mouth. There was a crack running beneath it—one of many fractures that had taken a toll on the fountain over the years. From her vantage point, it appeared as though the salamander could break off at any second… or with just a little assistance.
Mallory bit her lower lip. If she and Anaïs were ever able to return to Morant, that would be a terrific prop to display on hertours. A magical creature carved of white marble, taken from the very fountain where Le Bleu had met his demise. She could sell replicas of painted clay, tell her tour guests that they, too, were authentic.
She glanced back at the house, scanning the dark windows. All was still.
If Anaïs were here, she wouldn’t hesitate. She could not resist a pretty bauble, and often turned little thefts into something of a game. She would point out that the salamander was such a small detail. Surely, no one would even notice it missing.
Mallory peeled off her cloak and dropped it onto the edge of the fountain, then hiked up her nightgown and stepped barefoot into the water.
She hissed. It was colder than she’d expected, the shock of it like a knife into her heel. The pool was deep enough to come to her thighs, and Mallory was already shivering when she brought in her second foot. She hastened toward the sculpture, holding her nightgown bunched around her thighs with one arm.
The sculpture was more enormous than it appeared from afar, and as Mallory reached the base of the pedestal, she realized that, even on tiptoe, the salamander was tauntingly out of reach.
She released her nightgown, letting the hem fall into the water. She hooked one arm around the head of a wyvern and pressed her foot on top of the curled tail of a sea serpent. The stone was slippery with algae, but she managed to stabilize herself as she pulled her body up. Her hand grasped the stone salamander.Success.
But when she pulled, the beast remained stubbornly attached to the fountain.
“Oh, comeon,” she muttered, yanking harder. It did not budge. She let out a frustrated groan. Maybe if she had a stick, she could wedge it into the crack in the stone and—
