The barn swallow was perched on the rail, cleaning its feathers, ignoring her.
Mallory pulled herself back to her feet. One hand pressed against the pillar as she peered over the Saphir estate. The feux follets were long gone, but the view remained. And itwasglorious, even if her aversion to high places kept her from fully enjoying it. The distant forest with its wash of gold and red leaves. The perfect symmetry of the gardens. The vineyards in their neat, endless rows. The rolling hills on the horizon. And—there, far in the distance, a haze of blue.
The ocean.
The air left her in a startled breath. Mallory had never seen the ocean before.
She grabbed her satchel and pulled out her sketchbook. She pushed one of the weathered chairs to the center of the tower, giving herself enough distance from the ledge that her pulse wouldn’t become erratic or her mind dizzy.
She started to draw.
Lost in a fount of inspiration, she did not know how long she’d been sitting there, trying to transfer the exalted beauty of the world before her onto the pages of her portfolio, when a feminine voice intruded on her privacy.
“She’s rather good, isn’t she?”
Mallory’s fingers unwittingly snapped her charcoal pencil.
Lucienne and Béatrice were watching her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Béatrice!” Lucienne scolded. “You frightened her!”
“I didn’t mean to,” Béatrice said meekly.
“She must be ghost-sensitive,” said Lucienne. “You know how some people are.”
Mallory tucked the broken pencil back into her satchel. The interruption made her realize that she’d been bent over her book for so long, her upper back had become cranky and stiff, and she used the excuse of rolling out her neck to steal another glance at her company.
Lucienne was swirling a glass of honey-colored wine while Béatrice perused a month-old edition of theRoyal Gazette. Unable to hold up the publication for long, she had it laid out on a dusty table, using her corporeal energy to occasionally flip to the next page.
“What is that putrid odor?” asked Lucienne, waving her free hand in front of her face. “The house smells like a funeral parlor today.”
“I believe it’s from those herbs she was burning,” said Béatrice, in a wisp of a voice. Not looking up from the paper, she added, “I do believe she may be trying to get rid of us.”
“With some foul-smelling foliage?”
“It’s familiar, isn’t it? Like the exorcism spell Gabrielle used to cleanse the house.”
Lucienne let out a bellow of a laugh. “Perhaps we’d be more inclined to follow the smoke into Verloren if it didn’t smell like horse dung.”
Mallory bit her lip, hard, and found a blank page in her sketchbook.
Lucienne and Béatrice stared at her. It was hard to resist the urge to stare back.
Losing interest in Mallory, Béatrice turned another page of her periodical. “It sounds like the Harvest Ball was well attended this year, but the duck liver foie gras was disappointingly bland. Andoh, listen to this. Prince Torben and Princess Bernadette called off their engagement.” She clicked her tongue. “Is that the second or third betrothal he’s backed out of?”
Lucienne swirled her glass. “I don’t know how you keep any of these royal families straight anymore.”
“They’re saying that without that alliance, Tulvask may be on the verge of civil war.” Béatrice turned another page and made a face. “Oh, dear. Madame Couturière claims that metal codpieces were quite popular at the hunting festivals in Mara this year. I would think that is a trend we could do without.”
“So…” Lucienne said, still eyeing Mallory. “She is a witch? Or is not a witch?’
“Madame Couturière?”
“No,her. Armand’s guest. I’m fairly certain she’s a fake. Or at the least, she is pathetically incompetent.”
Indignant heat shot up the back of Mallory’s neck as she sketched the scene before her. The vaulted tower ceiling. Two figures framed beneath an arched opening, haloed by the gloaming light.
