Nother, obviously. She knew better than that. She’d heard too many stories of foolish girls taken in by the charms of affluent, cruel men. She would far prefer to believe that a ghost had somehow gained the strength necessary to continue his murder streak.
Armand, or Le Bleu.
Le Bleu, or Armand.
Neither added up. Nothing seemed right. She was missing an important detail—some possibility not yet considered.
“The sword was missing late last night,” said Béatrice, who was sitting on the piano bench, idly dragging her fingers along the ivory keys. There was a faded spot on the wallpaper above the mantel, in the exact shape of the sword that had been plunged into Julie’s chest. Evidence that it had hung there, untouched, for years. “I noticed it when I was playing the Gloaming Nocturne.”
“What time was that?” Mallory asked.
“Oh—midnight? A little later? I don’t pay much attention to time.”
“But you didn’t see who took it?”
Béatrice shook her head.
“And we didn’t see who killed her, either,” piped up Lucienne, “as I’m sure you’re about to ask.” She was playing both sides in a game of chess while Triphine pouted on the nearby settee, having insisted that Lucienne was a lousy cheat and she would never play anything with her ever again.
Malloryhadbeen about to ask. “You didn’t hear or see anything suspicious?”
“Everything around here is suspicious, in case you hadn’t noticed,” said Triphine, glaring as Lucienne captured (and lost) the white queen.
“And yet, this is the first murder to occur here in a century,” Mallory pointed out.
Béatrice felt around the hole in her chest. “She was stabbed, like we were?”
“Yes. And had the same words carved into her arms.”
“That certainly sounds like Bastien,” Lucienne muttered.
“Ah, you did it again!” Triphine hollered triumphantly, and grabbed the black rook off the game board. “You can’t do that. You’re even cheating against yourself!”
“So what if I am?” said Lucienne, trying to grab the piece back. When Triphine held it out of her reach, Lucienne sniffed and pinched her hard on the arm.
“Ow!” Triphine dropped the chess piece. “I bruise easily, I’ll have you know.”
Mallory rolled her eyes. Their arrival at the House Saphir had not lessened Triphine’s infinite list of imagined ailments.
Although—as the duchess rubbed the spot on her arm that Lucienne had grabbed, it did seem that a bruise was already blossoming above her elbow. A reminder that ghosts existed on a different plane from humans, from mortals. They could touch each other. Embrace each other. Soothe each other. And—hurt each other.
Mallory shuddered, grateful on behalf of these women that Bastien rarely strayed far from the cellar, and when he did meander about the house, he seemed more intent on harassing the living than the captive spirits.
Harassing the living and… murdering them?
“But how could it have been Bastien?” Mallory whispered to herself. “I’ve never known a ghost to remain corporeal long enough to kill a person. If he was capable of it, I’m sure he would have killed me in the cellar that day. Unless… he’s somehow getting stronger.” She’d been taking notes, and now tapped the charcoal pencil against her mouth. “Also, if it was Bastien, wouldn’t her spirit still be here? Tethered by the same dark magic that keeps the three of you unable to pass on to Verloren?”
The ghosts stilled, considering this.
Béatrice finally murmured, “She makes a fair point.”
“I know,” said Triphine. “Such a rare occurrence.”
“Well, I say, good for her if she managed to escape this bloody place.” Having captured the black king, Lucienne started resetting the board. “Though it would be handy if we could talk to her.”
If we could talk to her…
Mallory sighed. “Yes. It would.”
