The house saphir, p.7
The House Saphir, page 7
The château was a monument of limestone walls, narrow windows with diamond leading, arched dormers set in a black slate roof, and an army of brick chimneys marching off in every direction. It was columns and pediments, elaborate modillions, and arched niches bearing statues of winged demons and mythical beasts. It was imposing and magnificent and … apparently, falling apart. Roof tiles were missing. Trellises set against the walls were rotting. Though the stonework had once been white, now it was smudged sooty gray.
As they neared the mansion, Armand descended to open the heavy iron gate, its detailing as intricate as fine lace. The gravel drive changed to cobblestones. Enormous chestnut trees full of spiky fruits shaded the path. They passed a series of gardens divided by tall hedgerows, which began wild and forested with dense foliage and unruly trees, but became increasingly formal as they neared the house, their geometric configurations apparent despite a proliferation of weeds and overgrown perennials. Walking paths surrounded marble fountains, boxwood borders, fruit trees and topiaries and beds of thorny roses and aromatic lavender.
After an eternity, they entered the front courtyard.
The courtyard.
Mallory’s heart pounded so much it hurt.
There it was. The fountain at the center of the drive, with its iconic statue of Count Gaspard Saphir, Le Bleu’s grandfather, riding a stallion and brandishing a rapier like some avenging warrior—even though, as far as she knew, the family had pretty much always been vintners and merchants. They weren’t exactly war heroes. Around the horse’s hooves was an impressive assortment of magical creatures—fae and kobolds, goblins and dragons, lutins and sprites, even a sea serpent entwined around the statue’s base.
In this very spot, it was said, Monsieur Le Bleu was still laughing when his fourth wife’s brothers took off his head.
Mallory stared at the cascading water as the carriage rolled by, and for a moment she swore the water shimmered crimson—but that was probably the reflection of the pink sunset coloring the sky.
She tore her attention from the fountain to marvel at the House Saphir.
“I don’t know about you,” squeaked a high-pitched voice, “but I’m not impressed.”
Surprise ricocheted down Mallory’s spine. Slowly, she turned to see Triphine beside her on the carriage bench, head angled to take in the full scope of the mansion.
“What are you doing here?” Mallory asked.
Anaïs jumped, startled.
Triphine peered at Mallory, hurt. “Was I not invited?”
“You … How did … I didn’t think you could leave Morant.”
Triphine opened her mouth, but then shut it again and cocked her head to one side. “Now that you mention it … I didn’t either. Yet here I am. How peculiar.” She scanned the carriage. “I was feeling weary this morning, so thought I’d take a nap in back with the luggage. It passed the time, but now … oh.” She made a pained face and rubbed at the side of her neck. “I’ve got such a terrible crick, I’m not sure my spine will ever straighten out again.”
“Mallory,” Anaïs hissed. “What is it?”
“Triphine,” she told her sister.
“The duchess?”
“She hitched a ride.”
“Is this your sister?” Triphine studied Anaïs. “She’s changed a lot since last I saw her. I thought she’d be plain and awkward. Like you.”
Mallory scowled. “Are you planning to stay for any length of time?”
“Where else would you expect me to go?”
“Back to Morant.”
Triphine settled against the bench as the carriage clattered to a stop. “I’m beginning to think you don’t want me here.”
The carriage shook as Armand dismounted.
“Do you think he’s in there?” Triphine said, eyeing the house again. Her voice wavered the tiniest bit. “My lord husband?”
“Yes,” Mallory hissed, tucking her sketch pad into her satchel. “That’s why we are here.”
Triphine puffed herself up with false courage. “If I see him, am I ever going to give him a piece of my mind.” But she quickly deflated. “Though I really hope I don’t see him.”
The carriage door swung open.
“I hope the ride was comfortable,” Armand said, holding out a hand, which Anaïs accepted and Mallory did not. Alighting behind them, Triphine pouted when Armand dropped his hand to his side.
It was cooler here than in Morant, particularly in the house’s twilight shadow. There was a breeze blowing in from the sea, which couldn’t be seen from the château, though Mallory could taste the salt on the air.
“Wait here,” said Armand. “I’ll have someone assist with your things.”
He bounded up the steps and threw open the main door, then hollered into the cavernous mansion.
While they waited, Mallory scanned the intricate façade, taking in the gargoyles perched along the roofline, the bits of crumbling stone beneath a turret, the sharp-winged barn swallows that darted in and out of their nests among the eaves. Movement in one of the upper windows snagged her attention.
Two women were watching them. Though far away, Mallory could see how their silhouettes blurred into the air around them, and the dark splotches of blood smeared down the fronts of their dresses.
“The other wives,” she whispered, not sure if she was talking to her sister or Triphine. “They are watching us.”
“Oh yes, I see them.” Triphine waved eagerly, and the figures both slipped back into the darkness. Triphine harrumphed. “So far the famed château is not meeting expectations.” She coughed. “And I’m not sure the ocean air agrees with me. Do I look pale, Mallory?”
The front door opened again, and a row of servants emerged. A butler, a housekeeper, a maid. Mallory wasn’t well educated in the needs of country estates, but it seemed like a paltry staff. She wondered how many people had been employed before the spirit of Le Bleu frightened them away.
Armand trotted out after them, nervously rubbing his hands. At some point he had rolled down his sleeve to cover his bandaged arm. “Everyone, I am pleased to present Mademoiselle Mallory Fontaine and Mademoiselle Anaïs Fontaine. They will be assisting us with our … unwelcome guest. Please help them in any way you can.”
Anaïs curtsied. Mallory made a half-hearted attempt to follow her example.
“In what manner will they be assisting?” said the housekeeper, crossing her arms.
A muscle twitched in Armand’s jaw, but he addressed her with an incline of his head. “They are talented witches, renowned in the city of Morant.”
One of the housekeeper’s eyebrows ticked upward. “Petty magic, then.” She scoffed and muttered, “This will amount to nothing.”
“Manners, Yvette,” Armand said warningly, before he explained, “My housekeeper is a very devout follower of the Seven and … skeptical of other types of magic.”
“It’s all right,” said Mallory. “We know that witchcraft is not as exalted as god-gifted magic, but we make do with the gifts we are given.”
“It is more than most of us can lay claim to,” said Armand, “and I am grateful you are here, no matter where your magic comes from.”
Mallory smiled thinly, wishing she could appreciate his confidence without the slightly slimy feeling of the lies in her gut.
“Julie,” said Armand, “would you please find Gideon and have him tend to the horses and the carriage.”
Though she’d appeared nervous from the moment she stepped outside, the maid now beamed prettily and dipped into a curtsy. “Of course, my lord,” she said, before scurrying off toward the stables.
“Yvette, will you be so kind as to show our guests to their rooms while Claude brings in their things?”
“If I must,” the housekeeper muttered, studying Mallory and Anaïs with unveiled displeasure.
Before she could step forward, the door burst open again and a bedraggled man in a stained chef’s coat appeared, brandishing a wicked kitchen knife.
“Lord Armand,” the chef cried. “There’s a … another one. In the larder.”
Armand groaned. “What is it this time?”
“A lutin, I think.”
Mallory’s eyes widened. “A lutin? Here?”
The chef cut her a look before returning his attention to Armand. “I was getting down the butter, and it was … eating the napkins.”
Armand sighed heavily. “I will see to it. Thank you, Pierre.” He turned to Mallory and her sister. “Monsters have been inexhaustible pests ever since the veil fell. But don’t worry, most of them are more a nuisance than anything to be concerned about. And I made sure that the guest suites were thoroughly cleaned and inspected.”
Mallory’s nerves tingled with an unexpected thrill. She wasn’t just staying in a house with ghosts … she was staying in one with monsters.
Ever since the veil had fallen more than seventeen years before, unleashing dark magic and curses and monsters into the mortal world, the existence of magical creatures had become commonplace in certain parts of the country. But until the voirloup encounter the night before, the most magical beast Mallory had ever seen was an obnoxious matagot that paraded as a black cat in the alley behind their apartment, doling out small bits of luck and misfortune to passersby based on its arbitrary whims.
But to see real monsters, with all the viciousness of childhood fairy tales?
She couldn’t wait.
“We are the witches here, Lord Saphir. It is the monsters who should be bothered by us.”
Triphine clapped giddily. “Well said, Mallory! Keep up that confidence, and he’ll never guess that you are utterly useless.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Here we are,” said Yvette—a woman whose skin was almost as gray as her hair. “Your suite.”
“Thank you ever so much,” said Anaïs, smiling beatifically. It was her nature to woo an enemy with kindness, and Yvette’s gruffness and distrust certainly indicated an enemy. But in this case, Anaïs’s charm only made Yvette’s scowl deepen.
Mallory didn’t much care one way or the other if the housekeeper liked them. She was too busy taking in the details of the hallway—the elaborate wallpaper, the ornate sconces, the worn carpet with a border of belladonna flowers along its edges. She was desperate to explore the manor. The gardens. The cemetery. To see the infamous fountain run red with blood. It might not be fairy tales of godmothers and talking animals, but these were the stories that had dug their claws into her when she was growing up and had never let go. Where her sister had dreamed of princes and ball gowns and being carried off by the fairy folk to their land of enchantment, Mallory had dreamed of haunted attics and eerie cellars, specters in the windows and ghoulish laughter echoing down the halls.
But the trek through the château had been brief and hurried, with no consideration given to Mallory’s abundant curiosity as she craned her neck this way and that, attempting to take in the grandeur of the house. They had bustled straight to the second story of the north wing, where the housekeeper threw open a door and stepped aside for them to enter.
The room had once been glorious, but now the pink-and-turquoise rug was threadbare in places, the taffeta curtains were unraveling at the hems, and there were signs of water damage around one of the windows.
Did Mallory care about any of that?
Not the tiniest bit.
She didn’t care about the musty scent, or that the wallpaper was faded, or whether or not the writing desk in the corner was missing one of its drawers.
It was the finest room she’d ever been in, and she was in love.
“Historically, these rooms were given to the lady of the house,” said the housekeeper. “But after the … well…”
“Murders?” Mallory supplied.
Yvette sneered. “They are for guests now.”
A chill shot down Mallory’s spine as she realized where she was standing. The very room where the wives had slept. Not Triphine, who had lived and died at the house in Morant. But Lucienne and Béatrice. Even Gabrielle …
“And my sister and I are to share a room?” asked Anaïs.
“Is that a problem?”
“Oh, no, we don’t mind. It’s only … the house is so big. Space can’t be limited.”
“Space? No.” Yvette folded her hands tight in front of her apron. “But help? Very much so. Beds must be made, water brought up. And fires don’t light themselves.”
“And thank the gods for that,” Anaïs proclaimed, trying to lighten the mood.
“Anaïs and I are happy to make our own bed,” said Mallory, “for what it’s worth.”
It wasn’t worth much, judging by the woman’s expression. “Dinner is served promptly at nine o’clock in the banquet hall. I will send Julie to escort you.” She curtsied and departed.
Triphine, who had followed in the wake of their little group, made her way around the room, touching the finishings while her mouth twisted to one side. “This place smells like mothballs. And why are these cushions upholstered in wool? We always had velvet cushions in Morant. I’d expect goose down, but I bet you two galets that mattress is half stuffed with straw. Hope you weren’t planning on getting a good night’s sleep while you’re here.”
While she prattled on, Mallory joined her sister at the window, which offered a view of lush, rather overgrown gardens.
“The staff seems disinclined to like us,” said Anaïs.
Mallory waved a hand through the air. “We’re here to make money, not friends.”
Anaïs smugly settled a hand on her hip. “Perhaps, but don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“Notice what?”
Anaïs dramatically fluttered her lashes. “We are the witches here, Lord Saphir.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what you said, down in the courtyard. Not Monsieur, but Lord.”
“He is a lord. He’s a count. That’s … the official … Is there something in your eye?”
“He’s handsome.”
Mallory crossed her arms. “I thought we were here to fake-exorcise a few ghosts and take a few thousand lourdes, but if you think you can steal a wealthy, titled husband in the interim, I support you.”
“Not me, you dolt.” Anaïs leaned closer to flick her on the earlobe. “You!”
“Ow! And also—what?”
“You like him.”
“I do not. He’s a count.”
“You’ve always been ambitious.”
Mallory scowled, her thoughts tumbling with the rumors she’d heard about the Saphir heir over years of researching his family legacy. Armand was said to be solitary. Reclusive. Quiet. Particular. It was said that he mostly kept to himself.
It was difficult to resolve those rumors with the boy who had come on her tour. Who had held his hand out to her, urging her to trust him enough to jump out a window, promising he would break her fall.
He had been brave last night. Clever. A little reckless. Far kinder than she would expect a nobleman to be, especially to a lowly tour guide like herself. She could admit there seemed to be a goodness in him she’d rarely witnessed in her fellow humans.
And … yes. He certainly was handsome.
And also far too trusting.
“We’re here for a job. Don’t get distracted.”
“Don’t be so quick to write off the possibility of a romance with his lordship. Imagine—Mallory Fontaine, master of skepticism, falling in love with a wealthy count who just happens to be the heir of a grand haunted mansion?” Anaïs laughed. “That might be the greatest con of all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Anaïs insisted that Mallory wear one of her own colorful gowns to dinner, rather than the practical gray Mallory preferred. Too tired from their travels to argue, Mallory found herself being buttoned up into a satin burgundy gown that had once been their mother’s, and onto which Anaïs had spent hours adding a conservative lace ruffle that climbed to the top of Mallory’s throat, because Mallory refused to reveal any skin below her neck, regardless of the current fashions. Mallory actually liked the dress, to her own dismay, but she’d never have admitted it out loud. She even begrudgingly let her sister braid her hair and tie it with a ribbon, but only because that was the sort of detail her sister cared about. Not because she wanted to be presentable for the count.
“That will have to do,” said Anaïs, inspecting Mallory’s hair with grumpy dissatisfaction.
“What have I always told you?” Triphine said. “You could be halfway to pretty with a modicum of effort.” She sat in the window seat, cocooned in a quilt from the bed. “Though standards have dropped so far this past century. Back in Gai-Yin, I would never have worn my hair down for dinner. In my day, your sister would have been considered an abysmal harlot.”
Choosing not to repeat this sentiment to Anaïs, Mallory stood from the vanity chair and dug through her satchel, retrieving the knife she’d stashed away at the bottom of the bag. She tucked it into her boot.
“It is only dinner, Mally,” said Anaïs. “What do you need a knife for?”
“Do you really need to ask me that?”
Anaïs raised an eyebrow.
“I might need to slice some meat from a bone. Or trim wayward threads from the fine silk napkins. Also, you heard Armand mention monsters, and I was recently attacked by a voirloup, so forgive me for overpreparing.”
Anaïs considered. “Fair point, but don’t let our host see it. We need to be careful around Armand. If this is going to work, he must think that we’re respectable witches. Like Mother.”
Mallory crinkled her nose. “Boring.”
“This was your idea. Try not to ruin it by being yourself.”
“Embroider that onto a pillow, why don’t you?”
A knock came at the door. Mallory glanced at the mantel clock—it was precisely nine o’clock.
“Are you coming?” she asked Triphine.
The duchess threw a wrist against her forehead. “While I do appreciate the invitation, I am thoroughly exhausted from the day’s travel. Every bone is aching. And my poor head—”
“I’ll bring you some dessert if you stop whining.”
At the mention of dessert, Triphine noticeably perked up. “Deal.”
