“Er—yes, I think so. Thank you, Julie. Would you let Claude know you’re finished? We are having them relocated.”
“Of course.”
“By the way, Lord Armand,” said Anaïs, “I took the liberty of doing a fortune reading for you.” She set her book aside and waved her hand at the stack of Wyrdith cards on a small table. The cards that had once belonged to their mother.
“Fortune reading?” asked Armand.
“I hope you don’t mind. Whereas my sister is skilled at communing with the dead, my talents lend themselves more to divination. And I must say, this reading wasveryilluminating.” Anaïs flipped over the top three cards, fanning them out. Mallory knew immediately these had not been selected by chance—and certainly not by magic. Anaïs had chosen these three specifically. The Forked Road. The Witch. The Lover’s Moon. “It would seem you are being pulled in two different directions,” Anaïs went on, summoning her dreamy fortune-telling voice. “But there is a new magical presence in your life, one that might lead to…romance.”
Armand’s posture went rigid.
While Julie, leaning against the statue in an attempt to better see the cards… accidentally pushed it off the pedestal.
The statue crashed to the terrace. A cloven hoof broke off in shards.
Julie jumped away, pressing the polishing cloth to her mouth. “Oh! I… I’m so sorry!”
Armand shut his eyes. “It’s all right, Julie. Just… work on the others. Please.”
Biting her lip in mortification, Julie stepped over the fallen statue and scurried to the next pedestal.
Armand forced a smile at Anaïs. “Thank you, but I am really far more concerned with the ghost of my ancestor than I am with, er… romance.”
“Suit yourself,” said Anaïs, shuffling the three cards back into the deck. “But I am available if you would like further guidance.”
Biting back her mortification, Mallory pulled out her sketchbook. “Should we get to work?”
“Yes,please.” Armand grabbed a small iron table and dragged it into the tree’s shade, followed by two chairs. “I am yours to command. Whatever I can do to assist you, I will.”
“My first order of business is to determine what sort of spirits we are dealing with.” Mallory found her charcoal pencil and selected a blank page in her sketchbook.
“A murderous count,” said Armand.
“Right. Got that. But there are different… identifications of ghosts. Apparitions, phantoms, poltergeists, revenants… and each one requires a different tack when it comes to their exorcism.”
Mallory could sense both her sister and the maid listening, but she kept her attention on Armand, searching for any hint that he suspected she was entirely making this up. Mallory had spentnearly half her life with the ability to see and communicate with ghosts, and had educated herself on a compendium of magical beasts and creatures besides. As far as she knew, a ghost was a ghost was a ghost.
But Armand believed her to be an expert, and she had to impress upon him that exorcising the spirits from this house would be no easy task if she and Anaïs were to enjoy his hospitality for as long as possible.
“I suggest we begin with the wives. What can you tell me about Lucienne?”
Armand ran the tip of his pinkie finger across his lower lip as he considered, then began to recount his own experiences, since childhood. A figure in a large ball gown occasionally seen drifting through the halls. Countless tales of bottles of wine being moved, or half-full glasses suddenly empty. A boisterous giggle and the clinking of goblets, as if she were always in the midst of a lavish party.
Unlike Béatrice, who was shy and quiet, moving like a whisper through the house. Armand had only caught a glimpse of her once, when he walked into the music room and saw a girl in a gray dress slink off in the other direction. He had heard her plenty of times, though. She had a passion for the pianoforte in life, and her somber melodies could often still be heard drifting through the corridors.
Mallory pretended to be taking notes, but while he spoke, she found herself distracted by the line of his jaw. The swoop of a defiant lock of hair. The elegant fingers that tapped out a pattern on the table whenever he stopped to think.
Julie had stopped polishing. The maid was craning her neckto try to see the sketchbook, but as soon as Mallory caught her snooping, she turned away and rubbed harder at the statue.
“Does that help at all?” asked Armand.
Startled, Mallory looked up from the portrait she’d idly started to draw of Armand, half-finished. “Yes, that’s very helpful. And… Monsieur Le Bleu?”
His expression darkened. “As I said before, his presence has only been felt here these past seven years, and it has brought about a horrible change in the mood of the house. He is…” He swallowed. “He is cruel. Not to me, necessarily. But the way he taunts people. Makes them see things. Dark things. Corpses hanging from the ceiling. Heads removed from their bodies. Linens soaked in blood…” He grimaced. “I am sorry. This is not pleasant to talk about.”
“We are not delicate maidens who swoon at the mention of bloodshed.”
“No,” said Armand. “I know that. I apologize. I don’t think I’ve ever met a lady quite like you before.” He glanced at Anaïs, before amending. “Ladies like you, I should say.”
