“The north wing,” Armand said. “I think.”
They barreled beneath an arched doorway, between two marble columns, over worn carpets, past ancient clocks and soulless statues.
“What in the name of the Seven was that?” bellowed Pierre, appearing at the bottom of a stairwell, his apron stained with grease.
Neither responded. They kept running—until they emerged into the hall of trophies. A black-and-white marble floor stretched in front of them. The walls were lined with the heads of every imaginable creature, hung on polished wooden plaques, watching as Mallory and Armand arrived.
A group of people were gathered at the far end of the hall.
Yvette was sobbing into Claude’s shoulder. Anaïs stood with a hand pressed to her mouth, her expression tormented.
“What happened?” Armand asked. “Who was screaming?”
“It was Yvette that screamed,” Claude said quietly. “She’s the one who found her, sir.”
“Found her? Found—” Armand drew up short. Yvette and Claude had shifted aside enough for them to see what was beyond them.
The head of an imperial stag had been mounted on the far end of the hall—a glorious beast, with at least twenty points on antlers that grew like the branches of a regal oak. Sprawled across those antlers was a body.
Julie.
Her arms and legs hung limp, her head tipped backward, her long hair a tangled cascade. A spot of blood reddened her blue-tinted lips. Her eyes were open but dull and unseeing.
A sword had been driven through her chest. Blood dripped down the blade, onto the face of the stag. A dark puddle was spreading across the tiled floor.
Mallory was the only one who moved. Her shoes clipped harshly in the otherwise silent room—even Yvette’s sobs had quieted with their arrival.
Nothing seemed real as she approached the body, taking in every gory detail. The maid was in her uniform, but her feet were bare—no shoes, no stockings. The sapphire ring was gone—the entire finger cut clean from her hand. Was theft the motive? No—she didn’t believe so. This was too staged. Too dramatic. The killer wanted to send a message.
A warning?
And there were the words. She knew them without having to read them. The same that had been carved into the arms of Bastien’s victims.
Echtraus.Trust.
Greischt.Betrayal.
Mallory had read news articles detailing various diseases, asphyxiation, bludgeonings. Coroners’ reports that spoke of poisons and stab wounds. She had devoured the details of murder investigations as voraciously as she’d devoured that morning’s croissants.
Mallory knew a thing or two about death, and she was not afraid of it.
She reached toward the body, pressing her knuckles to Julie’s cheek, then brow. Not warm, but not yet cold, either. She felt her arm, her elbow, her wrist. The muscles were beginning to stiffen.
“I would guess she’s been dead for an hour, maybe two,” she said, her focus going to the hilt of the sword. “Does anyone recognize the weapon?”
There was a long silence before Armand said in a strained voice, “It’s Bastien’s sword. It’s hung in the indigo salon for ages.”
He didn’t say it, but Mallory knew. This sword had been used to kill before. Mallory scanned the room. Other than the blood directly beneath the body, the floors were spotless—no trail of blood, no muddy footprints. A feather duster lay forgotten beside a taxidermy fox.
She wondered if the murder had happened here. The killer could have sneaked up on Julie while she worked. Taken her by surprise. Or if it had been her secret beau—herhusband—hewould not have had to sneak up on her at all. She would have welcomed seeing him.
Mallory looked from shadow to shadow, dead creature to dead creature. There were no open windows. If the killer was human, they would have had to leave via one of the doorways at either end of the hall.
Perhaps most interesting, she saw no sign of any ghosts. Not Monsieur Le Bleu. Not his wives. And not Julie.
Had her spirit gone to Verloren upon her death, guided by Velos’s lantern? It was the natural way of things, and yet, this death had been anything but natural. Le Bleu’s first three victims had been trapped on the mortal plane after their brutal murders.
But what if Le Bleu had not been the one to kill her? As far as anyone knew, Le Bleu had only killed—or attempted to kill—his own wives. But Julie was a maid, not…
