The house saphir, p.9
The House Saphir, page 9
“I want to see more of the house.”
Triphine made a horrified face. “It’s the middle of the night.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t you realize this place is haunted?”
Mallory bit the inside of her cheek, certain that Triphine did not notice the irony of this statement. “I’ll be fine. Watch over my sister.”
She slipped into the hall, then made her way out of the north wing. As she crept down the grand staircase, she caught the unexpected aroma of ripe oranges, juicy and tangy, on the air. She froze. The walls around her seemed to pulse. Like a heartbeat, thrumming. Like lungs taking in slow, rattling breaths.
The foyer’s chandelier trembled. In the darkness, Mallory thought she saw thick, dark liquid dripping down from the extinguished candles. As if they were bleeding.
Mallory blinked, and the illusion vanished.
She shivered. The scent of oranges was gone. The house fell still and silent, though there persisted the undeniable sensation that she was being watched. Followed. Studied with silent, malicious curiosity.
Mallory did not know if the house was greeting her or trying to frighten her away. She might have laughed if it hadn’t felt like the air had been squeezed out of her.
She hurried through the vestibule. As she approached the entry doors, they opened of their own accord. She hesitated again. Beyond the doors, the central courtyard stretched in front of her—a circular cobblestone path wide enough for multiple carriages surrounded the courtyard’s most prominent feature. The fountain—that warrior and his steed, the beasts and monsters spread out on the pedestal below.
Bracing herself, she hurried over the threshold, lest the doors try to slam shut on her, but with the air of a gentleman, the doors waited until she was off the front steps before they slowly closed in her wake.
Mallory picked her way carefully over the uneven stones. The water burbled in the darkness, the pool glistening with moonlight. The anniversary of Le Bleu’s death was mere weeks away. If she and Anaïs were still there, she would let nothing stop her from coming to this fountain’s edge in the middle of the night to see the spectacle of the fountain running with blood.
She placed a hand on the edge of the stone basin, damp from the spray.
This was the very spot where Count Bastien Saphir I had been killed. Gabrielle’s brothers had caught him, forced him to his knees, and took his head from his neck with one swing of a sword. As the tale went, he’d been laughing up until the end, and his decapitated head had continued to laugh for nearly a full minute before death claimed him.
Mallory listened for that telltale sign of his haunting laughter. The sounds of the night were different in the countryside—more wind, no carriage wheels. The hoot of an owl, the chirrup of crickets in the gardens. But mostly, the water striking the pool below.
It was not such a terrible place to haunt for eternity. The artistry of the fountain’s sculpture was astounding. The house itself was magnificent, even in its current state.
Mallory peered up at the ornate details of the sculpture. Her attention fell on a salamander carved into the design, a plume of marble fire spewing from its mouth. There was a crack running beneath it—one of many fractures that had taken a toll on the fountain over the years. From her vantage point, it appeared as though the salamander could break off at any second … or with just a little assistance.
Mallory bit her lower lip. If she and Anaïs were ever able to return to Morant, that would be a terrific prop to display on her tours. A magical creature carved of white marble, taken from the very fountain where Le Bleu had met his demise. She could sell replicas of painted clay, tell her tour guests that they, too, were authentic.
She glanced back at the house, scanning the dark windows. All was still.
If Anaïs were here, she wouldn’t hesitate. She could not resist a pretty bauble, and often turned little thefts into something of a game. She would point out that the salamander was such a small detail. Surely, no one would even notice it missing.
Mallory peeled off her cloak and dropped it onto the edge of the fountain, then hiked up her nightgown and stepped barefoot into the water.
She hissed. It was colder than she’d expected, the shock of it like a knife into her heel. The pool was deep enough to come to her thighs, and Mallory was already shivering when she brought in her second foot. She hastened toward the sculpture, holding her nightgown bunched around her thighs with one arm.
The sculpture was more enormous than it appeared from afar, and as Mallory reached the base of the pedestal, she realized that, even on tiptoe, the salamander was tauntingly out of reach.
She released her nightgown, letting the hem fall into the water. She hooked one arm around the head of a wyvern and pressed her foot on top of the curled tail of a sea serpent. The stone was slippery with algae, but she managed to stabilize herself as she pulled her body up. Her hand grasped the stone salamander. Success.
But when she pulled, the beast remained stubbornly attached to the fountain.
“Oh, come on,” she muttered, yanking harder. It did not budge. She let out a frustrated groan. Maybe if she had a stick, she could wedge it into the crack in the stone and—
“What are you doing?”
Mallory yelped. Her foot slipped. She fell backward, her body splashing into the water. Cold accosted her, dug icy spears into her skin. Mallory cried out from the shock, but the sound exploded from her in a flurry of bubbles. She launched herself up to the surface and spun around, spluttering.
Armand was standing beside the basin, mouth agape.
“Nothing!” she cried, sloshing through the water. “I wasn’t doing anything! Why would you sneak up on me like that?”
“You … you are standing in my fountain,” he said. “You appeared to be climbing it.” He listed his head curiously. “Actually, you appeared to be defiling it.”
“I would never!”
“Were you trying to break off that salamander?”
“I was inspecting the craftsmanship.” She angrily climbed back over the wall, wishing that her teeth weren’t chattering as hard as they were. With her sodden gown clinging to her skin, the night’s breeze was a brutal assault.
Armand was grinning outright now. “An expert on my family’s history, and also on medieval sculpture? I am impressed, Miss Fontaine.” His gaze dipped downward, and he sucked in a sudden breath and put his back to her. “My apologies. We should get you inside. You must be freezing.”
Confused, Mallory glanced down, and mortification washed over her. Her soaked nightgown was clinging to her body in ways that it definitely should not have been. She tried to pull the fabric away from her skin, but the more she struggled, the more it clung.
“Here!” Armand snatched up her forgotten cloak and held it toward her, covering his eyes with his free hand.
Mallory pulled the cloak around herself as quickly as she could, though her fingers were going numb and her movements were stilted and slow. She checked that the fabric still covered her chest and throat.
“You can turn around now.”
He did so, but cautiously. “I assure you, I saw nothing that would call your modesty into question.”
She snorted. “Liar.”
Even with the world colorless beneath the moonlight, Mallory was certain his face went crimson. “You will never hear me admit it.”
This elicited a real laugh from her, and Armand’s shoulders relaxed.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, using the edge of the cloak to dry her dripping hair.
“I often have trouble sleeping. I was going to make myself something to drink when I happened to look out the window and saw you preparing to climb into the fountain. You’ll have to forgive my curiosity.”
“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. And right now—I want to get out of this wet nightgown.”
“Of course.” Armand bowed and stepped aside as she brushed past him. “Though perhaps you would care for some hot chocolate?”
Her steps slowed.
“It will help to warm you.”
“I would not wake your staff for such a request.”
“I would not either.”
She turned back, noting his hesitant smile.
“I can make it for you,” he said. “It’s what I’d intended to make for myself.”
The offer was unexpected. A lord … making his own hot chocolate?
When she didn’t immediately respond, his smile tipped to one side. “I won’t poison it. I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Armand lit a fire inside a brick oven and pulled a stool up beside it for Mallory to sit while he prepared the chocolate. They didn’t speak while he gathered a copper pot and his ingredients. His movements were precise and practiced. He knew exactly where to find the large bar of bitter dark chocolate in the larder. How much cream to pour. Where to set the pot on the stove so the chocolate would melt but the milk would not scald. He added a spoonful of sugar, then another, occasionally tasting his concoction as he went. His face was set with such focused attention that Mallory felt like she was watching an artist at work.
And then, realizing that she was staring, she promptly looked away, busying herself with a study of the kitchen instead. It was utilitarian and pristinely organized, with collections of knives, spoons, and ladles hung on hooks above enormous black ovens. A rack of copper pots shone above a stove, and a baker’s table still had remnants of flour from the loaves of bread that had been left to rise overnight. Unlike so much of the house that was bleak even in midafternoon, this room had an undeniable coziness to it.
The scent of chocolate and woodsmoke filled the kitchen as Armand unhooked a ring of keys from his belt. He opened a cabinet on the wall and retrieved a glass bottle filled with thick purple-red syrup. The cork made a quiet pop as he pulled it out.
As Mallory watched, he poured a hearty dollop into the pot of chocolate.
“What’s that?” she asked sharply.
Armand started at what must have sounded like an accusation. Perhaps it had been.
“Elderberry syrup.” He chuckled softly. “I didn’t mean to put you on guard with that poison comment. It was intended as a joke.”
“I’m not on guard. I just don’t trust anyone, as a general rule.”
“I see.” He set the jar aside. “Can that trust be earned?”
Mallory’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure. No one’s ever tried that hard before.”
He seemed to be on the verge of another nervous smile. “I assure you, only the stems of elderberry plants are toxic.” He paused. “Well, and also the leaves. And the berries—but only before they get ripe. Or if you eat them raw. And you have to stay away from the red varieties entirely. But when properly prepared…” He filled a spoon with the liquid and drank it down himself. Licking his lips, he replaced the cork in the bottle and returned it to the shelf. “It has many medicinal uses, not the least of which is helping to fend off colds. You’ll feel better after you drink this.”
“It doesn’t prove anything that you drank it yourself,” she muttered. “You could have built up a tolerance.”
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been slowly poisoning myself for years so that my guests will never suspect me when I start to kill them off with mugs of hot chocolate.”
He stirred the pot. The drink was so thick it coated the ladle as he filled two clay mugs. He handed one to Mallory and kept one for himself. Scanning another shelf, which was packed with jars, bottles, and clay pots, he grabbed a small vial with a medicinal dropper and added three drops of clear liquid to his own cup.
“And what is that?” Mallory asked.
“Royal skullcap. It grows wild in our forest.” Armand pulled a second stool beside hers and sat down. “I used to suffer from nightmares when I was growing up. Skullcap helps me sleep.”
“I suppose any child would have nightmares, growing up in a house like this.”
He tilted his head, studying her. Rather than respond, he asked, “How is your chocolate?”
Mallory blew on the top of the drink, then took a small sip.
She did not want to—rather hated herself for it, in fact—but still, she moaned. “Great gods.”
Armand didn’t respond, but his lowered eyes and smug grin said enough.
They sipped in silence, and between the chocolate and the fire and her warm traveling cloak, Mallory felt the chill slowly leaving her body.
“What did you want the salamander for?” Armand asked. “And don’t tell me you were merely inspecting the artistry again. I know you were trying to steal it.”
She blew out a breath. “I thought it would make an interesting showpiece. For my tours.”
Armand’s face turned incredulous. “You couldn’t have asked for a cobblestone? Or a monogrammed candlestick? Or … I don’t know. The sword he used to kill his wives?”
Mallory perked up. “You still have the murder weapon?”
“Of course. It’s hanging in one of the parlors.” He started to laugh, but it died out quickly. “Though I find it unnerving how eager you looked when I said that.”
“It’s an important historical artifact,” she said, luxuriating in how warm the clay mug felt between her palms. “Nothing strange about that.”
“Some might disagree.” At least he was smiling when he said it. “Please don’t steal it. When you think of some other prop that would add authenticity to your tours that does not require defacing my family estate, it will be my honor to obtain it for you.”
Mallory scowled. He seemed earnest, but …
“Why would you want to support my tours? It seems as though it would be better for you if everyone just … forgot what had happened. Clearly your housekeeper feels as much.”
“Yvette has been with our family since long before I was born, and she seems to think it is her sacred duty to absolve our family name of Bastien’s evils. She doesn’t like anything that could be seen as a deviation from the path of the Seven, and unfortunately, many believe that Bastien practiced dark sorcery himself.”
“The sacrifice theory,” Mallory murmured.
He nodded solemnly.
Though many suspected that Le Bleu was a wicked man with an insatiable taste for violence, others believed he had even darker intentions. That his murders were in service to some unholy spell. But for what purpose? It was anyone’s guess.
“I suppose I might be distrustful of witchcraft myself, given the circumstances,” Mallory confessed.
“There are times when it horrifies me to think that I could be descended from such a monster,” said Armand. “But I can’t help being curious, too. When I was growing up, my aunt never wanted to talk about the murders, and forbade the staff from discussing them. But … the story isn’t only about Le Bleu, is it? I am descended from Bastien Saphir, but I am also descended from Triphine Maeng, and … I would like to know more about her. About all of them. Lucienne. Béatrice. Even Gabrielle.”
Mallory sipped her drink to keep from telling him that Triphine had recognized him on the tour and was even now lounging about the upstairs suite. The kind thing, Mallory thought, would be for her to offer to facilitate a conversation between the two of them, so Armand could ask his questions and Triphine could get to know her great-great-grandson.
But she knew Triphine, and that sounded like an exhausting ordeal.
Maybe she’d broach the subject tomorrow.
“How long ago did your aunt pass?” she asked instead, which seemed a more polite way than asking how long he’d been relatively alone in this enormous, drafty, haunted house.
“Just over a year ago,” he said.
“Were you close to her?”
“She raised me as well as she could, but she did not have children of her own, and I think she preferred it that way. She was not the matronly sort.”
Mallory was well-versed in the clinical details of Armand’s childhood. A mother who died in childbirth. A father who died of tuberculosis when Armand was still crawling. Raised by an aunt who was tolerant of the child, if not particularly affectionate.
“But I had a number of governesses and tutors I cared for a great deal.” He tilted his head. “Why do I feel you already know this?”
“You’re the one who called me a scholar of the Saphir family,” she said, then took another sip of her chocolate. “Is that why you came on the tour? Because you were curious about your family history, when talk of Le Bleu has been prohibited from this house for so long?”
“I came on the tour to meet you,” he said, sounding as if he thought she should have realized this already. And perhaps she should have. He had been so insistent when he asked if she was a Fontaine—one of the famed witches of Morant.
“You could have come to the shop. Why attend a tour first? Why pay for it, when the house belongs to you?”
“I hoped to determine what sort of person you were before I made my business proposal.” He scanned her wet hair and cloak with some amusement, making it clear that any hope he’d had for professionalism had vanished when she fell into that fountain. “A few months ago, a constable in Morant sent a letter to tell me about a local entrepreneur who had been caught breaking and entering at the mansion, conducting sensationalist tours for curious patrons.”
Mallory clenched her jaw, remembering the night a police constable had noticed her lantern light in the windows of the abandoned mansion and had come in to capture the intruder. Mallory had been conducting the tour with only one client at the time—a gentleman who had made his career studying the history of the region’s renowned winemaking families—and she had barely managed to sneak him out through the back door before she was caught. She was kept in a jail cell for the rest of the night before she was allowed to get word to Anaïs, who had shown up an hour later with empty pockets but maximum charm. Mallory had been released with a stern talking-to. She’d hoped that was the end of it—but clearly not.
“You could have stopped me from giving the tours at any time,” she said. “Sent a cease and desist. Had me arrested.”
