“Have you met them? Are they… kind?”
“I saw them briefly at dinner last night. I shall endeavor to arrange an introduction, if you think that would help?”
Triphine tightened her grip on her shawl, a grateful smile playing at her lips. “You’re a good friend, Mallory Fontaine.” Then her brow twitched. “Except for all those times you’ve been a lousy friend. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
Mallory chuckled and ventured off to explore the House Saphir.
She felt like she should have already been intimately familiar with its halls and the great expanse of rooms, having studied everything from blueprints to personal accounts of dignitaries who had been invited to stay as guests generations before. But she soon discovered that descriptions of its grandeur paled in comparison to reality. Decrepit as it may be now, Mallory could easily envision what it once had been.
The second story of the home was composed mainly of guest rooms and salons for recreation. A billiards room was followed by a parlor filled with card tables and high-backed chairs. A trophy hall was lined with the heads of stags and wolves and even a grizzly bear that watched her pass by with dead black eyes. She descended to the ground floor and discovered a gallery of sitting rooms, each with a grand fireplace, an intricate painted ceiling, dark wood paneling, and elaborate wallpaper. Though morningsunlight was streaming through the east-facing windows, the rooms never exuded the bright airiness one would expect from a country manor. This was a mansion built for shadows and secrets and quiet conversations by firelight.
Mallory loved it.
She pictured herself giving tours here, recounting what gruesome tales might be resurrected from these walls. She imagined visitors following in her wake as she pointed out the desk where Lucienne wrote her scathing complaint letters to Lysraux’s king over unequal usage of the royal hunting grounds. Or the sofa where Béatrice had spent whole afternoons reading the latest gossip rags. Or the solarium where Gabrielle had tended to the caged birds Saphir enjoyed having shipped in from Dostlen and Sarogi.
And here, in this salon, the sword. Theactualsword that Le Bleu had used to kill his wives, now reduced to ornamental décor, just as Armand had said. It was exactly the sort of disturbing detail that Mallory lived for.
She moved on, discovering the music hall, a study, a—ooh, the library. Mallory’s feet stalled as she took in the massive room that was filled with the comforting smell of leather and parchment and ink. The shelves towered up to a second level, where a narrow balcony provided access to yet more tomes, many accessible only by rolling ladders. A large desk sat in the center of the room, and a couple of damask-upholstered chairs had been placed beside the enormous arched windows. The room was warm and intimate, with whole cases of books protected behind leaded glass cases.
A painting on one wall caught Mallory’s eye. She drew back—sure it was a portrait of Le Bleu, his blue eyes studying her with cruel curiosity.
But when she caught her breath, she realized her mistake.
It was not Le Bleu at all, but a much more recent portrait of Armand. Tamping down her nerves, she approached the painting, which was much too small for the ostentatious frame that surrounded it. Armand had been depicted in the gardens, framed by topiaries and the trailing branches of a weeping willow. His pose was regal and stern. Too regal and stern. It was almost difficult to see the boy who had posed for this painting as the same who had made her hot chocolate the night before. Here, he really did look like his great-great-grandfather, just as Triphine had said when he came on the tour. The comparison went beyond the arresting color of their eyes. It was the pitch-black of his hair, a little too long and too unruly to fit contemporary trends. The edges of his jaw. The full lips, almost unnaturally red—severe in this portrait, though she recalled how pleasant they were when he smiled, a smile that never expanded across his face, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to smile at all.
If it were not for his clean-shaven jaw and the distinct shape of his eyes, passed down from Triphine’s lineage, it would have been nearly impossible to distinguish him from the murderer.
Murmured words drew her attention to the doorway. Mallory listened, picking up on the stern, clipped tone of the housekeeper, Yvette. And a moment later, Armand, though he was more reserved, almost hushed.
Mallory crept closer to the library door and cracked it open a few inches. She could see Yvette with her back to the door. Beyond her, Armand was bent over a writing desk, messy stacks of papers spread before him, one hand buried in his hair.
“—strangers into this house,” Yvette was saying, “as though it were a museum ofoddities.”
“They are talented in petty magic,” said Armand, sounding exasperated. “I have witnessed Mallory’s abilities for myself. She can help us.”
“Oh,bah. I have a cousin in Morant, and do you know what people say about them? That they are frauds. Swindlers who prey upon the gullible and desperate.”
“People are always willing to vilify that which they do not understand, but I have seen what they can do. Mallory vanquished a monster right before my eyes.”
“Nothing but trickery, my lord. I do not trust them.”
Armand sighed, irate. “You’ve given your grain of salt, but you needn’t concern yourself with this. I’m not afraid of looking like a fool. I’m far more afraid that Monsieur Le Bleu will murder again—and this time, the blood will be on my hands.” His voice wavered. “I need help, and I do not know who else to ask.” Picking up a stack of papers, he loudly thumped their edges on the desk to straighten them. “If you will excuse me, I must attend to the accounts.”
Yvette let out a snort of derision. “Two more bodies on the payroll is hardly going to help withthat.” She stomped toward the library.
Mallory spun away, pretending to be inspecting a shelf of books when Yvette entered and came to a hasty stop.
“Oh, good morning!” said Mallory, practicing the startled, doe-eyed expression Anaïs excelled at.
“You were eavesdropping,” she said sharply.
“Eavesdropping?” She feigned insult, pressing a hand to herchest as Armand appeared in the doorway. “I have been doing nothing of the sort. I’ve merely been admiring this wonderful collection of books.”
Yvette threw out a frustrated hand. “You see, my lord? She is a liar and a sneak!”
“I would rather consider her a scholar,” Armand said mildly, studying the shelves in front of Mallory. “Is it engineering, agriculture, or geography that interests you most?”
Mallory scanned the book spines.The Great Aqueducts of Otellien. The History of Sheep Herding in the Ruckgrat Mountains. How Stivale Tamed the Ocean.
