Armand winced. “That’s terrible.”
“But they are not in pain, I assure you.”
“I’m glad. I’ve felt their presence my entire life. Heard their whispers, occasionally even their laughter. Sometimes objects will move, and you are never quite sure if you imagined it.”
“Were you frightened, growing up with ghosts?”
“No. Never.” Armand flicked a dead beetle off Lucienne’s crypt. “They felt more like guardians than ghosts. I always knew they were benevolent. As if they were watching over me.” He chuckled to himself. “Ask anyone, and they will tell you that I am uncannily lucky at dice games. Always have been. It wasn’t until a year ago when it occurred to me that Lucienne was knownfor gambling, and that perhaps I am so lucky because I have a cheater on my side.”
Mallory’s cheek twitched. “And Béatrice?”
“Her presence isn’t as obvious. But I’m sure you’ve heard her playing the pianoforte?”
“I have.”
“You can tell her mood from how she hits the keys. She is usually melancholy, but every now and then, the songs will be almost cheerful, and it makes me smile.” He scratched his neck. “She’s very talented.”
“It sounds as though you’re fond of them.”
A long moment passed before he spoke again. “It was lonely growing up here. I had my governess, my tutors, a few children of the staff to play with, some farmhands… but I liked knowing that I was never truly alone.”
A pang of sadness struck Mallory’s chest at this confession and, perhaps aware that he’d revealed a vulnerable spot he hadn’t meant to, Armand straightened his spine. “That is enough about me. I am curious what it was like for you, seeing ghosts as a child. Was it very odd to discover that not everyone sees them as you do?”
Perhaps Mallory should have expected such a question, but it nevertheless caught her off guard. So when she blurted out, “Actually, I could not see them growing up,” she immediately regretted it.
Armand started. “Really? I assumed you were born with such a gift. That it was a part of your… magic.”
“Oh… it is,” she said. “But it developed later.”
“How old were you then?”
Mallory weighed her answer, debating the benefits of truths and lies. But seeing no reason to fib, she answered, “Ten.”
“Still quite young.”
Yes, she had been young. Too young to know what she was doing. Too young to understand what she was giving up—and what she was asking for in return.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Two little girls sneaked into the abandoned house, long after nightfall on the Mourning Moon. Dressed in too-large cloaks, they held hands as they crept through the shadows, past the empty birdcages and cold fireplaces, until they reached the ballroom. Moonlight drifted through broken windowpanes. Cobwebs clung to elaborate chandeliers. To be in the center of the massive room felt too vulnerable, too exposed, so instead they sat cross-legged in a corner, and set a mirror between them, one they’d stolen from their mother’s boudoir while she was giving a card reading in the shop. On top of the glass went a candle in a pewter candlestick. It took three attempts to light the wick, but it finally crackled to life, illuminating their round faces.
“It’s going to work,” said Mallory, copying the sigils from the book in her lap directly onto the wooden floor, using a stick burned to charcoal on the end. “If Mother can summon the dead, then so can we.”
Anaïs tugged at the ends of her blond hair. “I don’t think magic works that way. At least, mine certainly doesn’t. And Mother says that death magic is not to be trifled with.”
“Your magicisdeath magic.”
“Yes, and I despise it.”
Mallory paused from her sketches to place a hand over her sister’s. “After tonight, things will be different. You’ll have the same magic as I do, and you’ll never have to hide it again. I promise. Gabrielle will be able to help us.”
“How can you be sure? Mother couldn’t change it.”
Mallory scowled, though she didn’t want to look resentful. “Mother didn’t want to change it. She thinks you’re special.”
With a great shudder, Anaïs pulled her knees into her chest. “What if no one answers?”
“She will answer.”
