A thump came from overhead.
Everyone stilled, nervous gazes rising to the ceiling with its tin panels and chandeliers that had not seen candles in decades.
Mallory cleared her throat. “Well. It is haunted,” she said with a light laugh.
“Mallory,” said Triphine. “That wasn’tme.”
“Monsieur Le Bleu’s first marriage was to Duchess Triphine Maeng,” Mallory interrupted, ignoring Triphine’s affronted harrumph. “Their wedding ceremony took place right here in this room. Nearly three hundred guests were in attendance. But she was not only his first wife.” Mallory paused dramatically. “She was also his first victim.”
Sophia shivered. Her brother, checking his teeth in one of the mirrors, did not.
“Fine, ignore me,” Triphine said. “But if you’re going to talk about me like I’m not even here, then you’d better at least tell them about my flowers.”
“Le Bleu was the most eligible bachelor in Morant. The wedding was quite a spectacle.” Mallory opened up her drawing portfolio, revealing the first page—a charcoal sketch of the ballroomthey now stood in, bedecked with elaborate flower arrangements on every wall. “The décor for the event was well-documented. The florist hired to decorate the house earned undeniable fame for the extravagant arrangements made of tropical fruits and fragrant flowers, the kinds of which most of the guests had never seen before. They were brought to Morant under special glass domes to retain the heat and moisture from their natural habitats.”
“They werebeautiful,” Triphine crowed. “The wedding of the century, they called it.”
“Did we pay to hear you talk about flowers?” grunted Louis. “Get on with it.”
Sophia smacked him on the arm.
“Fourteen months after the wedding,” Mallory continued, “Triphine gave birth to Bastien the second. He was the only child Le Bleu would sire. Almost immediately following the birth, rumors began to circulate that Triphine had fallen ill. That childbirth had been too much for her. She was overcome with fatigue, eating poorly, spending weeks at a time in bed, too frail to venture into society.”
“My mother always said I had a weak constitution,” said Triphine. “But I was actually feeling quite invigorated after a few days of bed rest. Still, Bastien wouldn’t let me leave. Kept saying I needed more rest, to be strong to raise our child.” She snorted. “Manipulative bastard.”
“Less than three months after the birth of their son… Duchess Triphine Maeng-Saphir was dead. No doctor had been called to see to her ailments. No coroner came to view the body. The sacred rites of Velos were not to be followed—no anointmentsor prayers, no adorning her with flowers, no preparation for a proper burial.”
Sophia gasped, apparently more appalled at the lack of ritual than she was at the thought of murder.
“Bastien claimed to have conducted the rituals and buried the body himself,” said Mallory. “He claimed it was out of fear that Triphine’s disease was contagious and he did not want to risk the lives of his servants or the townspeople. As he was so very good at playing the part of the mourning widower, no one thought to question him.”
“Lying scumbag,” Triphine muttered.
Mallory let her voice drip with irony. “If ghosts could talk, perhaps Duchess Triphine could tell us the truth of what happened to her. But as it is, we are left to our own speculations.”
“Oh, har har, very funny.”
Mallory gestured to the ballroom’s wide expanse. “Rumor has it that Triphine still haunts these rooms. To this day, you might catch a glimpse of her wandering the halls in her pale nightgown and blue shawl. They say that at times her spirit will reach out to those who come to visit.” Mallory stretched out her hand, as if she would tap Monsieur Dumas on the shoulder, though he was halfway across the room. “And that she asks for one thing. The same question. Over and over aga—”
A shriek pierced the heavy air. Sophia, deathly pale, pointed at something behind Mallory.
A shadow fell across the floor.
She saw him, a figure reflected in the mirror. A man, tall and slender, with black hair and a long jacket, looming from the darkness, not two steps behind her.
Fingers grazed the sleeve of Mallory’s dress.
Her mind lurched.
Intruder. Murderer. Le Bleu.
On instinct, Mallory reached behind her and caught hold of the hand. She twisted his arm, throwing her weight into the movement as she drove the figure to the ground. The floors shook as he landed with a grunt, the air knocked clean out of him.
Mallory stared down at… a boy.
Maybe an intruder. Maybe a murderer. But not a particularly threatening one, and certainly not the ghost of Monsieur Le Bleu.
He pressed a hand to his chest as he attempted to draw in breath.
