A shrill birdsong cut across the crackle of the fire. The barn swallow from before had been pecking for grubs in the ground, but now hopped back onto the log and flapped its wings, yammering at them. Mallory wondered if they’d set up camp in its favorite breakfast spot.
“We don’t have enough supplies to get to Stivale,” said Fitcher. “We’ll need to find paying work on the way.”
“Shouldn’t be so difficult.” Constantino smirked. “We’ve got witches now. Every town loves a traveling caravan with witches and fortune tellers.”
“I wouldn’t sayeverytown,” Fitcher muttered.
Mallory didn’t respond. Petty magic was appreciated in some parts of the world, but in others it was considered borderline blasphemous.
The swallow dove for the tray and knocked over the sugar dish.
“Hey!” said Constantino. Standing, he shooed the bird away with his hand. It took to the air and circled a few times before dropping onto one of the discarded saddles. Its chirps became more frantic as its wings flapped erratically.
Then it ruffled its feathers and fell silent and brooding, scowling at Mallory with one black eye.
“I could be mistaken,” said Fitcher, “but I don’t believe that’s a bird.”
They leaned closer, curious, as a curl of smoke appeared above the swallow. Mallory thought it might be an ember that had fallen onto the grass—or steam from the kettle. Until the shape grew, hazy and silvery in the morning light—slowly solidifying into the figure of a woman.
She had a scruffy tangle of short yellow-blond hair and eyes as round and dark as the bottom of a well. She was entirely naked, and seemingly unashamed of this fact—though her nakedness did reveal the way her bones jabbed beneath her skin, and the raw scars scattered across her body. A slash of a wound on her chest. Faint words scrawled down her arms. She was holding a long black-and-white feather in one hand, and she shook it at Mallory as she spoke.
“You cannot leave! You must return to stop Bastien!” Even her human voice carried the uncanny warble of a barn swallow.
“Welcome, madame,” said Fitcher, standing to greet the woman. He removed his cloak and held it out to her, though she seemed more annoyed than grateful, even as she snatched it away and wrapped it around her body. Fitcher bowed, as if he were addressing a foreign dignitary. “Perhaps you would care to introduce yourself before chastising my guests?”
She huffed and bobbed her head, birdlike, a couple of times, before going still. “I am Gabrielle Savoy.”
Mallory and Anaïs both gasped—in a way that drew the curious attention of the others.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Fitcher said coolly.
“Yes, lovely, fabulous,” said Constantino. “For clarification… who is Gabrielle Savoy?”
She tittered in annoyance, flapping her arms in a semblance of furious wings.
It was Mallory who answered, “She was Bastien Saphir’s fourth wife. The one who escaped. And she is also…”
She looked at Anaïs, who had paled. “Our great-grandmother.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The tale of Gabrielle Savoy was the stuff of epic family lore, as delectable as the adventure novels Anaïs loved. An unwanted betrothal. An eerie château on a windswept coast. A husband with a cruel smile, mysteriously widowed three times over. A stolen key. A cellar with a bloody secret. A magic spell. A daring escape.
Gabrielle Savoy was often referred to as the wife who got away—but few knew how she had done it. Some thought her brothers arrived and stopped Bastien moments before he slaughtered her. Others said she had tricked her husband by decorating a statue in the château’s western tower to make it appear that she was sitting in the window praying to Velos on the eve of her expected death, and while Le Bleu sharpened his sword, she fled in secret. Had she taken a horse? Slipped out through secret tunnels beneath the estate? Had she convinced the staff to help her? There were many theories, but they were all wrong.
Gabrielle Savoy had pleaded with her husband to be allowedto pray to the Seven before he claimed her life. Whether he was feeling generous or he merely wished to cruelly draw out her terror, Bastien Saphir granted the request. What he didn’t realize was that Gabrielle Savoy had magic of her own.
When she reached the top of the tower, she recited a powerful incantation and took a literal leap of faith. It worked. Transformed into a bird, Gabrielle flew away to safety.
Mallory knew the story was true because she’d found the very incantation in one of her mother’s spell books, written in Gabrielle’s own hand. As a child, Mallory had memorized the strange, melodic words. Practiced repeating them to herself, while she imagined soaring over the roofs of Morant in the guise of a majestic hawk. But it was always that last step that kept her from actually attempting the spell. Even back when she had petty magic, there was no way she was ever going to trust it enough to take that final leap.
Gabrielle eventually changed her surname toFontaine, fearful that the sordid history with her dead husband would someday return to haunt her. In Morant, she gained notoriety for her witchcraft, developing a small but lucrative business selling spells and tinctures, assisting in childbirths, and conducting séances for mourning loved ones. Though she refused to ever marry again, she did have a child, who inherited her talent for petty magic.
According to the tales Mallory’s mother had told them, Gabrielle waited until her daughter was full-grown and able to manage the business on her own. Then one night, she kissed her daughter goodbye and changed herself back into a bird. She flew off into the night and was never seen again.
Of course, that was decades ago.
Of course, she was long dead.
