The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer - 4

Triphine tutted condescendingly while Louis helped the newcomer to his feet. “Honestly, Mallory. How are you ever going to find yourself a suitable husband if you go around thinking every handsome boy you meet is trying to kill you?”

Mallory shot her a look. It wasn’t as if she was about to take marriage advice from the woman who had literally been murdered by her husband.

But Triphine saw the look as a victory. “Aha! I knew you couldn’t ignore me all night.”

Mallory crossed her arms and waited for Axel to finish brushing himself off, trying not to feel smug at her ability to so efficiently fell this boy who had startled her. Years ago she had studied a book on ancient fighting techniques, which had been written by a great warrior, and a female one at that. Its instructions included using one’s own strengths against an opponent. Speed. Agility. Skilled weaponry. And perhaps most important to the more petite half of the human race … the nature of surprise. Men didn’t expect a woman to fight back.

The book had been an inspiration, and she and Anaïs had sometimes spent entire days practicing the techniques against each other. Sparring. Wrestling. But this was the first time she’d had cause to use those skills against a real attacker … even if his intention hadn’t been to attack her at all.

“Are you in the habit of sneaking up on people like that?” she snapped when Axel had finished straightening his fine coat—black brocade done up in small silver buttons. She had never heard of the Badeaux family before, so she imagined he had traveled some distance, as he was either nobility or from the wealthy merchant class. Perhaps both.

“Are you in the habit of assaulting a person for no reason?” he countered.

“I had every reason. Next time, perhaps you would consider alerting us to your presence.”

“I did,” he snapped back. “I knocked twice at the main entrance. You mustn’t have heard.”

She frowned. This far into the house, and with Triphine yapping in her ear, it was possible. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying so.

Though he could not have been much older than Mallory, his posture suggested a proper upbringing, the sort reserved for those who believed themselves superior to everyone but the king himself. His scowl was made up of full lips and fuller eyebrows. The only thing about him that wasn’t immaculate was the tousled, silky black hair that fell loose past his ears and one rebellious string dangling from the cuff of his sleeve. Though Mallory was certain she’d never seen him before, there was something oddly familiar about him. Something—

“Velos below,” whispered Triphine, cutting into their group so that she was standing inches from Axel, staring up at his dour face. “Do you realize who he looks like?”

Mallory drew back, her attention darting between the newcomer and Triphine. They might have been related. Except …

The light caught on Axel’s eyes, as blue as faceted sapphires.

It had to be a coincidence. Count Bastien Saphir had only one heir, and the family tree was not a robust one. Mallory knew the names of every descendant, every distant cousin—and she had never heard the name Axel Badeaux in her life.

“It’s the eyes,” said Triphine. “Never seen blue like that before, have you? Well, I certainly have. Once in my no-good husband, and once…” Her voice dimmed. “In my son. Mallory, you don’t suppose…” She tilted her head to one side. “Ask him, won’t you?”

Mallory would not. Surely the heir to House Saphir would have no interest in her silly tours. And if he did show up to one, well … it would probably be because he meant to have her arrested for trespassing.

The house groaned—the timbers of the floors creaking as slow footsteps clomped over their heads.

Axel glanced upward. “Very clever. Do you have someone up there? An accomplice, playing the part of a ghost?” His arctic eyes sparked with amusement. “Is it supposed to be the duchess ?”

Mallory smiled wanly. “I’ve had many skeptics on these tours, but the House Saphir has a way of changing their minds.”

Sophia nudged her brother. “That witch did say it was haunted.”

“But it isn’t me,” said Triphine, whipping her head around. “That’s what I wanted to tell you earlier. Something is—”

But Mallory couldn’t listen to Triphine because Axel had started to speak again.

“—pologize for my tardiness. Please, do go on. I’m very curious about this ghost that supposedly haunts the mansion.”

“Not supposedly ,” said Mallory. “She’s been seen by many—ugh, never mind. You’ve ruined the moment.” She held out her hand with a huff. “I’ll collect your payment for the tour now. I don’t give discounts, even if you are late.”

“Mallory, are you listening to me?” said Triphine. “There is something up there .”

She ignored the ghost as Axel handed her his coins. In this abandoned house, there was always something up there , and that something was usually disease-riddled rats. Even in death, Triphine was as skittish as a hummingbird.

“Where was I?” Mallory usually loved this part of the tour, when she talked about Triphine’s ghost, and watched as her guests drew closer together, scanning the darkened corners of each room. Sometimes, if Triphine was in a good mood, she even played along. Though she wasn’t corporeal, with enough effort she could rustle the gauzy, tattered drapes beside the stage, or thump around on the floors so chandeliers rattled and footsteps echoed through the halls, or pass through the guests to make their hair stand on end. In the right moonlight, she could even make herself appear—a hazy figure framed in the windows or gliding past the mirrors. Though most mortals could not hear her when she spoke, she could choose to wail and cry and carry on in a way that could not be ignored, even by mortal ears.

Triphine could actually be great fun, when she wasn’t whining about her ailment of the week and moaning about how little Mallory cared.

It took Mallory a moment to pick up the thread of her tale. “As far as we know, Duchess Triphine was the only victim to be murdered in this house. Monsieur Le Bleu knew that if he was to continue to act on his dark impulses, the people of Morant would soon grow suspicious. So he moved back to his family estate in the country, where there was more privacy. He did not involve himself in the raising of his sole child and heir. Young Bastien was passed through a series of governesses and ultimately sent away to boarding school, while his father continued to marry—and murder—two more women over the next three years.”

Mallory retrieved her portfolio from where it had landed on the floor when she tossed Axel to the ground. She brushed it off and turned to a new page, showing her guests the charcoal drawing of a massive country estate, copied from a library book she’d found on the great châteaus of Lysraux. She eyed Axel carefully as he took in the drawing, but he seemed only mildly interested.

No , she thought, he’s definitely not related.

After showing her guests the illustration of the mansion, she turned the page to reveal a watercolor portrait of a young woman with straight black hair, crowned in pearls. For this drawing, she had not needed to copy someone else’s work. Triphine had been giddy when Mallory asked her to sit for a portrait.

“The first wife,” she said. “Duchess Triphine Maeng.”

She flipped to a second portrait. “The second wife, Lady Lucienne Tremblay.”

Another painting. “And the third, Lady Béatrice Descoteaux.”

Her guests stared at the portraits as she revealed each page. It was different, seeing the illustrations. Triphine’s sorrowful eyes. Lucienne’s round, rosy cheeks. How Béatrice was so young, barely on the edge of womanhood. Suddenly, they were not only ghost stories. They were not just the tragic victims of Monsieur Le Bleu. They were real people. Real women, their lives taken too soon.

“Who was the artist for these?” asked Axel.

Mallory stiffened. “I drew them.”

Axel rocked back on his heels, openly impressed.

Mallory tried not to feel smug.

“This is what I never could understand,” Sophia said somberly. “Why would his later wives agree to marry him when it was so … suspicious?”

“He was a clever man,” said Mallory. “He chose women who were deemed … undesirable. Lucienne was a bit of a lush—and quite an embarrassment at parties. Béatrice’s family had fallen on difficult times and were grateful for an alliance to such a wealthy man. So when a handsome, respected gentleman offered his hand—we can imagine it was easy to look the other way. To see his offer as a solution to a nagging problem. It was far easier to believe his lies and to hope for future happiness than to believe his intentions could be as evil as they truly were.” Mallory snapped the portfolio shut and set it on a serving table she kept dusted for this purpose. “Who wants to see where the first murder took place?”

Sophia paled. Louis muttered, “About time.” And Axel startled and glanced over his shoulder—Triphine had tried to brush back a strand of his hair.

Mallory led them through the hidden panel in the wall that concealed the servants’ corridor. In the kitchen, she pried open a heavy wood door, beyond which descended a narrow staircase. She stood aside so the others could peer into the impervious darkness, her lantern doing little to light the way.

“The wine cellar.” She gestured to the stairs. “After you.”

Sophia took a hasty step back. Her brother gulped. Axel squared his shoulders, but didn’t move forward.

Mallory smirked. “Only joking.”

Lifting the lantern and the hem of her skirt, she started down.