Her heart pounded as she took the final steps. The candle flame wavered, and she feared it would go out, but it held strong. The incense curled beneath her nose, filling up every corner.
She set the herbs on the base of the candlestick and pressed her palm to the door, telling herself that it was only a door—the ancient wood rough beneath her touch.
Beyond it, only a cellar. There should be nothing within but crates of apples and onions. Casks of wine. Rat droppings and cobwebs.
And possibly a very angry, very murderous ghost.
Everyone knew what had happened beyond that door. After killing Lucienne and Béatrice, Bastien Saphir had dragged their bodies down these stairs. Cut the ring finger from each of their hands. Hung their bodies on metal hooks like a butcher might hang a carcass of swine.
She imagined what Gabrielle Savoy must have felt to open this door and see the mutilated corpses of the wives who had come before her. Very few things, no matter how gruesome, truly upset Mallory, but now, standing here, the terror was stifling. This was not some cautionary tale. The suffering here had been real.
Her stomach twisted. She knew she should turn away. Leave this place.
Instead, she reached for the handle.
She pulled—but the door stayed firmly in place. Locked.
A new scent filled the air, more pungent than the herbal incense. The sweet citrus smell of fresh-cut oranges.
A skeletal hand emerged from the wood, reaching for her throat.
Mallory screamed, launching herself backward so fast she tripped on the bottom step and sprawled across the stone staircase. The candle fell and extinguished.
The hand disappeared in a wisp of black smoke, leaving Mallory to wonder if she’d imagined it.
Then a low voice purred against her ear. “I wondered when you would come to see me, little witch.”
Mallory sat up and spun around. Her foot hit the candle, sending it rolling across the stone floor.
Before her, framed in the pale light from the corridor above, stood Monsieur Le Bleu.
He was dressed precisely as she’d seen him in the banquet hall, smiling the haughty smile she recognized from the portrait in Morant. Tall and lithe, with hair so dark it gleamed navy blue when the light flickered across it. A trim beard on a striking face. Even in this shadowy stairwell, his eyes shone like cut sapphires.
She pressed her back to the door, knowing better than to be fooled by the charm that rose up from him like mist on a moor.
“I do believe you dropped something,” he said, making a show of inhaling deeply. Though the herbs had fallen with the candlestick, they were still burning. The bundle was halfway gone, but the smoke was thickening inside this narrow space, seeping into Mallory’s lungs. Until Le Bleu sauntered down the steps and crushed the brittle stems beneath his boot. He smirked. “Did you believe that a bit of smoke would be enough to drag me back there?” He clicked his tongue and reached for her, his fingers brushing beneath her chin—the touch an icy breeze. Mallory tried to draw back, but there was nowhere to go. “Sweet, sweet Mallory Fontaine. Look at you, all grown up into such a fine young lady.”
Strangely enough, these words served to shake Mallory from her terror. No one would ever think to callhera fine young lady, and she certainly wasn’tsweet.
“I didn’t realize we’d already had the pleasure of meeting,” she said, voice straining with indignation.
“Should I be wounded? Surely I am not so easily forgotten.” He smiled knowingly. “How have you liked my gift?” His thumb traveled down her neck, ice-cold through the fabric of her dress. The lace collar that never stopped itching, but she refused to go without.
Bastien’s thumb lingered at the base of her throat. Then pressed down, hard.
She gasped at the pain that seared through her. White light flared in her vision. She cried out and pushed back against the door, but there was no escaping.
He released her.
Tears had gathered at the corners of Mallory’s eyes, and she panted with the lingering remnants of agony. The ember burning in the dip of her clavicle.
“This is no gift,” she growled. “You cursed me.”
Bastien made a shushing sound as his voice dropped to a whisper. “No, no, child. You asked to be like your sister. To share the same magic. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s not what I…” She gritted her teeth. “You twisted my words. You manipulated me. You stole my magic from me!”
“Stole your magic? I resent such an accusation.” His smile widened as he mimed turning a key in a lock, right over her heart. “Who would not give up petty witchcraft in exchange for a gift from the gods?”
