“Where was I?” Mallory usually loved this part of the tour, when she talked about Triphine’s ghost, and watched as her guests drew closer together, scanning the darkened corners of each room. Sometimes, if Triphine was in a good mood, she even played along. Though she wasn’t corporeal, with enough effort she could rustle the gauzy, tattered drapes beside the stage, or thump around on the floors so chandeliers rattled and footsteps echoed through the halls, or pass through the guests to make their hair stand on end. In the right moonlight, she could even make herself appear—a hazy figure framed in the windows or gliding past the mirrors. Though most mortals could not hear her whenshe spoke, she could choose to wail and cry and carry on in a way that could not be ignored, even by mortal ears.
Triphine could actually be great fun, when she wasn’t whining about her ailment of the week and moaning about how little Mallory cared.
It took Mallory a moment to pick up the thread of her tale. “As far as we know, Duchess Triphine was the only victim to be murdered in this house. Monsieur Le Bleu knew that if he was to continue to act on his dark impulses, the people of Morant would soon grow suspicious. So he moved back to his family estate in the country, where there was more privacy. He did not involve himself in the raising of his sole child and heir. Young Bastien was passed through a series of governesses and ultimately sent away to boarding school, while his father continued to marry—and murder—two more women over the next three years.”
Mallory retrieved her portfolio from where it had landed on the floor when she tossed Axel to the ground. She brushed it off and turned to a new page, showing her guests the charcoal drawing of a massive country estate, copied from a library book she’d found on the great châteaus of Lysraux. She eyed Axel carefully as he took in the drawing, but he seemed only mildly interested.
No, she thought,he’s definitely not related.
After showing her guests the illustration of the mansion, she turned the page to reveal a watercolor portrait of a young woman with straight black hair, crowned in pearls. For this drawing, she had not needed to copy someone else’s work. Triphine had beengiddywhen Mallory asked her to sit for a portrait.
“The first wife,” she said. “Duchess Triphine Maeng.”
She flipped to a second portrait. “The second wife, Lady Lucienne Tremblay.”
Another painting. “And the third, Lady Béatrice Descoteaux.”
Her guests stared at the portraits as she revealed each page. It was different, seeing the illustrations. Triphine’s sorrowful eyes. Lucienne’s round, rosy cheeks. How Béatrice was so young, barely on the edge of womanhood. Suddenly, they were not only ghost stories. They were not just the tragic victims of Monsieur Le Bleu. They were real people. Real women, their lives taken too soon.
“Who was the artist for these?” asked Axel.
Mallory stiffened. “I drew them.”
Axel rocked back on his heels, openly impressed.
Mallory tried not to feel smug.
“This is what I never could understand,” Sophia said somberly. “Why would his later wives agree to marry him when it was so… suspicious?”
“He was a clever man,” said Mallory. “He chose women who were deemed… undesirable. Lucienne was a bit of a lush—and quite an embarrassment at parties. Béatrice’s family had fallen on difficult times and were grateful for an alliance to such a wealthy man. So when a handsome, respected gentleman offered his hand—we can imagine it was easy to look the other way. To see his offer as a solution to a nagging problem. It was far easier to believe his lies and to hope for future happiness than to believe his intentions could be as evil as they truly were.” Mallory snapped the portfolio shut and set it on a serving table she kept dusted for this purpose. “Who wants to see where the first murder took place?”
Sophia paled. Louis muttered, “About time.” And Axel startled and glanced over his shoulder—Triphine had tried to brush back a strand of his hair.
Mallory led them through the hidden panel in the wall that concealed the servants’ corridor. In the kitchen, she pried open a heavy wood door, beyond which descended a narrow staircase. She stood aside so the others could peer into the impervious darkness, her lantern doing little to light the way.
“The wine cellar.” She gestured to the stairs. “After you.”
Sophia took a hasty step back. Her brother gulped. Axel squared his shoulders, but didn’t move forward.
Mallory smirked. “Only joking.”
Lifting the lantern and the hem of her skirt, she started down.
CHAPTER FOUR
The stairs were old and steep. The air damp and cool, the walls nothing but stone and mortar. Reaching the cellar, Mallory lit another sconce and stood aside so her guests could take in the cramped space. Wooden crates and wine barrels branded with the Saphir crest were stacked against one wall, and a long table stretched down the middle of the room, covered in a thick layer of dust frequently disturbed by the claws of skittering rats.
Mallory drew in a breath of stale air. “Duchess Triphine died in this room, after her husband sedated her, tied her to this very table, and drove a sword through her heart.” She paused, letting these words sink in, before continuing. “And a fact unknown by the general public… He also cut off her finger.”
Sophia recoiled, and Mallory patted the smelling salts she kept in her pocket, just in case. “Afinger?”
“I know this because I was the one who found the finger—well, the bones of the finger—when I first started giving tours of this house.” She pointed. “I discovered it right there, between the wine barrel and the wall. We know it belonged to Duchess Triphine, as it was still wearingthis.”
She gestured to a small bell jar on top of a wine barrel, under which, on a bed of black velvet, rested a wedding ring—or at least, an imitation of one. A silver-plated band with a square of blue glass. In the dim lighting, no one could ever tell the difference, and tonight’s guests were no exception, judging by their awed faces.
Once her guests had gotten a good look at the ring, Mallory grabbed a flat wooden box.
“On that note,” she chirped, “we happen to offer stunning replicas for sale, among other quality goods.” She opened the box, revealing rows of merchandise. Hand-painted postcards depicting the House Saphir, lead coins emblazoned with the Saphir crest, handkerchiefs that Anaïs had embroidered with the wordsI survived the House Saphir, and rings in various sizes. “Made of the finest quality silver and authentic blue sapphires imported from the mines of Dostlen.”
