The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer - 3

Shadows reached for them as they stepped through the doorway. The foyer was thick with the smell of dust and mildew and rat droppings. Mallory was used to it, but Sophia wrinkled her nose and Louis pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth.

Mallory picked up the lantern she kept on the vestibule table and lit the candle inside, illuminating the foyer. An ornate geometric pattern in white and blue tiles spanned from the doorway into the drawing room. A mahogany staircase curved upward, each balustrade carved into an ominous hooded figure. An arched doorway straight ahead guided visitors into the corridor to the dining hall and ballroom. It was a dizzying way to be received—which was quite by design. This was not a house intended to make visitors feel comfortable. It was intended to make them feel awed, honored, and entirely unbalanced.

Mallory lit the occasional candle as they passed through the ground floor of the mansion, explaining the purpose of various rooms as she went: The parlor where guests had once been greeted with a glass of House Saphir’s famous wine, served ice-cold in the summer months—the epitome of luxury. The solarium where some broken pots still remained, the last vestiges of what must have been a lush jungle encased in glass. Mallory explained how Bastien Saphir had loved oranges and thus insisted on keeping a live orange tree in the center of the room, so he would always have the fruit at hand. She pointed out the empty birdcages that still hung from the ceiling, having once displayed golden canaries and melodic nightingales for the enjoyment of Saphir’s guests.

They passed through the dining room with its paneled walls and ornate chandeliers that now boasted as many cobwebs as crystals, while Mallory spoke of the lavish parties, the fine soirées, the endless feasts that Saphir had hosted for Morant’s elite.

“With a reputation for generosity, he was said to be the most upstanding of gentlemen. Invitations to his home were highly coveted.” Mallory approached a wall where a painting was concealed behind a swath of black velvet. “He was also devilishly handsome.”

She pulled back the velvet. The glow from her lantern danced across a portrait of a gentleman wearing a richly embroidered blue-and-gold cape over a matching doublet. The portrait had been commissioned when Bastien Saphir was in his midtwenties, and his features were startling in their severity—as if a sculptor had taken a chisel to his jutting cheekbones and sharp jaw. A tidy beard and mustache were as black as ink, as was the long dark hair tied at the nape of his neck. Most striking were his eyes. Even in the dim lighting, they were alarmingly blue, a distinctive family trait.

An unladylike sound filled the room—the noise of someone sticking out their tongue and blowing out air.

Mallory had been expecting it, and she tried not to cringe.

“If he’s devilishly handsome,” said a high-pitched, nasal voice, “then I’m the queen of Lysraux.”

Mallory didn’t answer. It would have made her guests uncomfortable, given that they hadn’t heard a thing. Rule number one when it came to interacting with ghosts—never, ever engage with them when a living person was nearby. Do not look; do not react.

Most people already thought she and her sister were peculiar. No point making it worse.

Instead, she surreptitiously scanned the room.

Triphine was sitting at the head of the dining table, her feet propped up beside a candelabra, her slight figure dressed in a nightgown and pale blue shawl, the edges of her physical form shimmering slightly. All ghosts shimmered, their bodies trapped somewhere between corporeal and ephemeral. Triphine had been beautiful in life, and was just as beautiful in death—with the delicate bone structure of a duchess descended from Gai-Yin royalty. Her luster was only slightly marred by the blackish-red blood that covered the front of her chest, compliments of the sword that had impaled her.

“I always pictured him as a pirate,” Sophia said quietly, still staring at the painting, unaware of the ghost’s presence. Her voice had a dreamlike quality to it as she took in Le Bleu’s secretive grin. “I thought he would be … rougher looking. Less genteel.”

“A pirate ,” said Triphine haughtily. “Where do you find these people?”

“It’s a common misconception,” said Mallory. “The Saphir family owned many merchant ships for exporting their wine, and so had a lucrative trade business on the side. Though Monsieur Le Bleu did occasionally travel by ship for work, he was no pirate. Come, I will show you the ballroom.”

“Oh, you’re going to ignore me again, are you?” said Triphine, standing to follow as Mallory led the couple through a set of double doors. “That’s exceedingly impolite, Miss Fontaine. You know I was struggling with a horrid cough last week. Could feel the sickness all through my chest. Was bedridden for days. And you’re not even going to ask how I’m feeling?” She let out a stream of wet coughs to punctuate her irritation.

Mallory walked faster, hoping the clack of her boots on the ballroom’s parquet floors would drown out the ruckus of Triphine’s complaints. She busied herself lighting a few of the wall sconces while Sophia and Louis took in the space. There was a raised platform where musicians would have played, and heavy curtains to hide stage performers. Tall arched windows and walls lined with glittering mirrors. It would have been glorious in its day, but now their reflections were eerie and faint in the flickering candlelight, the still air dank and suffocating.

Triphine clutched her shawl against an imaginary chill. She alone did not cast a reflection. “You know, I had something important to tell you, Mallory. But if you’re going to ignore me, then I won’t say a word, and you’re going to wish I had!”

Mallory doubted that. Triphine had her uses, but she was also a constant thorn in Mallory’s side.

“What happened there?” said Louis, pointing to a corner of the room, where black scorch marks marred the floors and walls. Some of the gilded wallpaper was missing, revealing blackened wood beneath.

“Some children sneaked in years ago,” said Mallory. “Thought it would be amusing to light a few candles and try to summon the spirit of Le Bleu back from the dead. Instead, they nearly burned the place to the ground. Luckily, a few neighbors saw the smoke and managed to put out the flames in time.”

A thump came from overhead.

Everyone stilled, nervous gazes rising to the ceiling with its tin panels and chandeliers that had not seen candles in decades.

Mallory cleared her throat. “Well. It is haunted,” she said with a light laugh.

“Mallory,” said Triphine. “That wasn’t me .”

“Monsieur Le Bleu’s first marriage was to Duchess Triphine Maeng,” Mallory interrupted, ignoring Triphine’s affronted harrumph. “Their wedding ceremony took place right here in this room. Nearly three hundred guests were in attendance. But she was not only his first wife.” Mallory paused dramatically. “She was also his first victim.”

Sophia shivered. Her brother, checking his teeth in one of the mirrors, did not.

“Fine, ignore me,” Triphine said. “But if you’re going to talk about me like I’m not even here, then you’d better at least tell them about my flowers.”

“Le Bleu was the most eligible bachelor in Morant. The wedding was quite a spectacle.” Mallory opened up her drawing portfolio, revealing the first page—a charcoal sketch of the ballroom they now stood in, bedecked with elaborate flower arrangements on every wall. “The décor for the event was well-documented. The florist hired to decorate the house earned undeniable fame for the extravagant arrangements made of tropical fruits and fragrant flowers, the kinds of which most of the guests had never seen before. They were brought to Morant under special glass domes to retain the heat and moisture from their natural habitats.”

“They were beautiful ,” Triphine crowed. “The wedding of the century, they called it.”

“Did we pay to hear you talk about flowers?” grunted Louis. “Get on with it.”

Sophia smacked him on the arm.

“Fourteen months after the wedding,” Mallory continued, “Triphine gave birth to Bastien the second. He was the only child Le Bleu would sire. Almost immediately following the birth, rumors began to circulate that Triphine had fallen ill. That childbirth had been too much for her. She was overcome with fatigue, eating poorly, spending weeks at a time in bed, too frail to venture into society.”

“My mother always said I had a weak constitution,” said Triphine. “But I was actually feeling quite invigorated after a few days of bed rest. Still, Bastien wouldn’t let me leave. Kept saying I needed more rest, to be strong to raise our child.” She snorted. “Manipulative bastard.”

“Less than three months after the birth of their son … Duchess Triphine Maeng-Saphir was dead. No doctor had been called to see to her ailments. No coroner came to view the body. The sacred rites of Velos were not to be followed—no anointments or prayers, no adorning her with flowers, no preparation for a proper burial.”

Sophia gasped, apparently more appalled at the lack of ritual than she was at the thought of murder.

“Bastien claimed to have conducted the rituals and buried the body himself,” said Mallory. “He claimed it was out of fear that Triphine’s disease was contagious and he did not want to risk the lives of his servants or the townspeople. As he was so very good at playing the part of the mourning widower, no one thought to question him.”

“Lying scumbag,” Triphine muttered.

Mallory let her voice drip with irony. “If ghosts could talk, perhaps Duchess Triphine could tell us the truth of what happened to her. But as it is, we are left to our own speculations.”

“Oh, har har, very funny.”

Mallory gestured to the ballroom’s wide expanse. “Rumor has it that Triphine still haunts these rooms. To this day, you might catch a glimpse of her wandering the halls in her pale nightgown and blue shawl. They say that at times her spirit will reach out to those who come to visit.” Mallory stretched out her hand, as if she would tap Monsieur Dumas on the shoulder, though he was halfway across the room. “And that she asks for one thing. The same question. Over and over aga—”

A shriek pierced the heavy air. Sophia, deathly pale, pointed at something behind Mallory.

A shadow fell across the floor.

She saw him, a figure reflected in the mirror. A man, tall and slender, with black hair and a long jacket, looming from the darkness, not two steps behind her.

Fingers grazed the sleeve of Mallory’s dress.

Her mind lurched.

Intruder. Murderer. Le Bleu.

On instinct, Mallory reached behind her and caught hold of the hand. She twisted his arm, throwing her weight into the movement as she drove the figure to the ground. The floors shook as he landed with a grunt, the air knocked clean out of him.

Mallory stared down at … a boy.

Maybe an intruder. Maybe a murderer. But not a particularly threatening one, and certainly not the ghost of Monsieur Le Bleu.

He pressed a hand to his chest as he attempted to draw in breath.

“Who in Velos’s name are you?” Mallory cried.

He wheezed slightly, then managed to suck in enough air to mutter, “Ar—er. Axel. Axel Badeaux.” He coughed. “I’m here for the tour.”