It happened again, five nights after the visit to the cemetery.The curtains around the bed fluttered. A floorboard creaked. The smell of summer oranges drifted past Mallory’s nose, pulling her from a dreamless sleep.
Her eyes flew open.
This time, she saw him. A figure at the foot of the bed. Blue eyes glinting in the darkness. Lips twisted into an insidious smile, revealing pearl-white teeth. An orange was in his palms, his fingers digging into the skin, slowly stripping off its flesh.
Mallory jerked upward with a cry. Her hand reached for the knife beneath her pillow.
Beside her, Anaïs gasped and yanked the blankets up to her chin. “What is it?” she said sleepily, sitting up.
But Le Bleu was already gone—leaving behind merely a wisp of smoke, the smell of citrus, and a low chuckle that made gooseflesh prickle on Mallory’s skin.
“Mally?”
Mallory clutched the dagger, shaking. “N-nothing,” she said. “A bad dream.”
Anaïs peered at her in the darkness. After a long silence, she flopped back down on the pillow with a groan.
Mallory stayed sitting up, her body tense. She searched for Triphine, but the duchess wasn’t there. Perhaps she was visiting with the other wives.
The night was impenetrably dark. A windstorm was rattling a glass pane somewhere in the house. Gusts crooned through the chimney. The fire had gone out in the night, and Mallory found herself shivering as cold replaced the rush of adrenaline.
Somewhere deep in the endless corridors and salons, music began to float through the halls. Béatrice was playing the pianoforteagain. Mallory did not recognize the song, but it was dramatic and brooding, all minor chords and thundering crescendos.
“Maybe that’s what woke you,” grumbled Anaïs. “Why must she play in the middle of the night?” She rolled onto her side, pulling the blankets over her head. “I thought you said ghosts can’t touch things in the mortal world.”
Mallory’s gaze fell on a strip of something on the edge of the blanket, colorless in the dark. When she stretched forward to grab it, she realized it was the waxy peel of an orange.
She shuddered and threw it onto the floor.
“They can touch things,” whispered Mallory, “but it’s not easy for them.”
Anaïs grunted. “I guess she really likes this song, then.”
The music faded into the background as Mallory remembered what Le Bleu had said on the steps to the cellar.You opened the door for me all those years ago.
She tried to tell herself that this changed nothing. So what if Anaïs was right, and she really had summoned Monsieur Le Bleu back to the world of the living? It was an innocent mistake. Certainly no one could expect her to take responsibility for it now. She was a child then. They both were.
Over the music, a noise intruded on her tumbling thoughts. She held her breath, ears straining against the creaks and groans of the house.
There—somewhere in the hall. Whistling.
The hairs lifted on her forearms.
Anaïs went taut beside her as the slow, ominous tune grew louder. Soon it was accompanied by plodding footsteps. The creak of the hallway floor.
Mallory reached for her throat, where her scar was searing, a lingering effect of the dream.
The sound came closer.
“Mally?” Anaïs whispered. She reached out to squeeze Mallory’s hand.
The whistling stopped—right outside their door.
Mallory shuddered, her entire body braced for whatever came next.
When nothing happened, she pulled together her threads of courage and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She fumbled for the candle on the bedside table. The wick caught and flared.
Mallory pulled herself from the bed, holding the candle aloft.
