The cool air felt brittle with each breath, stabbing her lungs. She felt as if one powerful exhale could shatter her.
From the branches of an oak that towered behind the estate wall, a barn swallow crooned a sad, almost frightened song, then fell quiet.
Triphine paused on the drive and bent over, breathing hard. “Don’t… you… dare…”
“Fine,” Mallory snapped. “You can come, just stop yelling before you draw the attention of Le Bleu and every monster from here to Chablac.”
Rewrapping the shawl around her shoulders, Triphine darted toward the gate. “You won’t regret this, Mallory. I’ll—”
Triphine vanished. One moment she was passing through the gate, and the next she was gone.
Mallory gaped, hands tightening on the reins.
“What?” said Anaïs, her voice pitching higher. “What is happening?”
Mallory’s lips parted, but… she wasn’t sure how to answer.
Her attention lifted to the house again. Perhaps Triphine had been doomed when she set foot on this estate. Perhaps, like the other wives, now that she was here, she could never leave again.
It was the last sadness that her heart could take. With a painful ache tearing at her chest, she steered the horse away from the gate as tears welled in her eyes.
“Nothing,” she said. “Let’s go.”
They headed east. They would not go into Comorre, where they would be too easy to track, in case Armand chose to seek them out… wanting theirSavoy blood.
Slowly, the events of the night settled in her thoughts. He knew. He knew that she and Anaïs were descended not only from witches, but from the very witch who had escaped Bastien all those years ago.
Gabrielle Savoy.
Had that always been his intention? To drag her and her sister to the château, fool her into thinking he might actually feel something for her, so as to lure her into a sinister trap? All because she and her sister were the last descendants of Gabrielle Savoy, the fourth wife of Bastien Saphir. The wife who got away.
But why? What did that matter? Why would Armand care?
By morning, Anaïs believed they should reach the town of Grevinny, where they could trade the horses for fresh mounts and sell off the treasures she’d stolen from the house. They would need coin for food and lodging. A few pieces of silver wouldn’t getthem far, but Mallory still had the collateral Armand had given her when he hired them.
The Saphir crest imprint upon a solid gold medallion, studded with sapphires. It may not be worth the full three thousand lourdes she’d hoped for, but it would be enough to get them far away from here, so long as she could find a dubious enough jeweler who was willing to melt down estate jewelry that had almost certainly been stolen. She didn’t think it would be too hard. And afterward, they might be able to book passage across the sea, into Tulvask, or south to Stivale. Anaïs had always wanted to travel to somewhere new, a place where she could set up a nice little dress shop in the heart of some grand city.
Mallory didn’t know what she would do in a dress shop, but at least her sister would be happy.
They had been traveling for nearly two hours. Occasionally she spotted a small bird darting in and out of the vineyards, or maybe a bat squeaking above the fields, no doubt feasting on midnight grubs. But eventually the vineyards gave way to a rocky path up to a flat plateau. The rain had eased and tall grasses were painted silver by a trickle of moonlight. A thick copse of trees lay ahead, rising up from a swirl of dewy mist—the start of the Mairmont Forest, if her geography served her.
They were halfway across the plain, the fog gathering around their steeds’ legs, so thick she could no longer see the ground beneath them, when Mallory heard a snuffle. It was followed by a horse’s whinny. Not her own ride, and not Anaïs’s.
Their horses slowed, then stopped altogether.
“Who else would be traveling this time of night?” Anaïswhispered. Mallory knew her sister’s thoughts were filling with the same threats hers were—bandits, murderers, and monsters.
Her hands tightened on the reins.
Under the distant tree cover, she could see a pair of red eyes glowing in the darkness. The beast moved forward, emerging slow and agile from the woods.
It was a horse. Riderless and entirely white from mane to hooves, its coat shimmering like mother-of-pearl. All but the eyes, which burned like lit embers.
Fear stiffened Mallory’s spine. There was something otherworldly beautiful about it. Tall, muscled, and graceful, its silver-white mane cascading to the ground, floating on the heath’s gentle breeze.
Her own mount had begun to tremble. It took a step back, and Mallory could tell it was getting ready to bolt. She laid a hand on its neck, knowing that it could sense her own fear. And she was afraid. Though resplendent in its beauty, this other horse radiated an unmistakable threat. Her body instinctively recoiled, even as her mind filled with wonder.
“Cheval mallet,” she murmured, hardly able to believe it. The creature was every bit as glorious and horrifying as she’d imagined. “The horse spirit that haunts the wildlands of Lysraux, attacking travelers in the night. They say it likes to lure travelers onto its back and then…” She glanced at the edge of the plateau, where limestone cliffs dropped hundreds of feet to the valley below. “Throw them off cliffs.”
