The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer - 40

Armand headed south along the cemetery wall. Following in his footsteps, Mallory searched the trees for movement, listening for crackling branches and scurrying footsteps. But if they were being watched, if her sister or Fitcher or Constantino or even Gabrielle in her guise of a common barn swallow were near, she saw no signs of them.

The cemetery was mostly built atop a hill, and soon they were descending on the other side, along the edge of a shallow ravine where a creek burbled among moss-covered stones. They had been trudging silently through the foliage for a few minutes when Armand pointed. “There.”

Mallory spied the headstone beside a young alder tree. A short, nondescript fence surrounded the grave, which had long ago been overtaken with weeds. The stone itself was simple—nothing like the elaborate marble edifices in the cemetery, plainer even than those given to the farmers and the maids. It was crumbling—one corner broken off, the stone leaning at a dangerous slant.

When Armand did not move closer, Mallory gathered her courage and brushed past him. The hair stood on the back of her neck as she did so, her body overcome with a sense of vulnerability. She had not realized how instinctively she’d avoided turning her back to him, and now she felt his presence behind her like that of a prowling monster.

She was even more aware of the knife in her boot. She’d practiced reaching for it, extracting it. Her reflexes were primed. But would it be enough?

“Perhaps this is what his spirit is so angry about,” she said, stopping beside the fence. “That he wasn’t buried in his lavish crypt.”

Armand made a low noise in his throat and Mallory shivered. He had followed her, and was so close she imagined she could feel the vibrations of his chest. “Let him be angry. He deserves no better.”

Mallory lifted her attention from the grave. Scanned white birches interspersed with slim poplars. Bushes heavy with winter berries. The birds had begun to chatter in the faint morning light. Was Gabrielle among them? She had the strangest sense that they might be trying to warn her.

She exhaled and faced Armand. “You once told me that it horrifies you, knowing that you were related to a monster like him.”

His attention lingered on the crooked grave. “I assume it would horrify anyone.”

There was no veil over the words, no hint of exaggeration or shame. She had to believe he was being truthful.

Still, he seemed to struggle over whether or not to say more. Mallory waited, attempting to breathe through the thundering of her pulse. Finally, he added, “As a child, I would scare myself. Whenever I got angry, I would worry that it was my nature—something deep inside me that I couldn’t stop and couldn’t avoid. If my anger could overtake me, then who knew what I might be capable of? Who knew if I could become a monster, too?” He grimaced, tugging at a loose thread on his sleeve. “My solution was to stop being angry. Whenever something was upsetting, or irritating, I would take that emotion and shove it down as deep as I could. I would smile through it all. Remain calm and stoic, no matter what I faced.” He hesitated, his voice quieting. “I would never let the monster free.”

Mallory recalled the face he’d made in the stables, when he’d caught her preparing to run away. The absolute rage that had overtaken him. The way he’d almost delighted in wrapping his hands around her throat.

There was a monster inside him—but it was not his own anger he needed to fear.

If she told him the truth, would he believe her? Gabrielle had said it was pointless. Armand was not in control. There was nothing he could do—not until they completed the ritual necessary to cast the spirit out.

He might not even believe her. For who would want to consider such a thing?

And right now, she needed him to trust her.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

He drew away from her, like he was shrinking into himself. Shriveling into the coat that was a little too worn. Drawing into the shadows of the forest. “I’ve frightened you again. It’s the last thing I want, but I can’t seem to stop doing it.”

Her heartbeat was as sharp as a chisel, cutting into her ribs. Maybe he remembered after all. The stable. His cruel words. “You don’t frighten me.”

He laughed—a sound that rumbled through her every nerve. “You’re lying.”

“I am not.”

“Every time we’re alone, you end up running away from me.”

She swallowed. Perhaps that was true.

“And maybe that’s for the best.” He studied her face. “You know something. At first I thought maybe it was … in my room, when you … when we…” He paused to gather himself. “But after you left, I realized things had begun to change the moment Julie died. You looked at me differently. Like you didn’t trust me, and like you had every reason not to.” He lifted a hand to the side of his head. “Then you disappear, take two horses and run off without a word, and I wake up in the stables, a shovel next to me and a head that feels like it’s been thrown into the winepress.”

If he’d seemed fearful before, now there was a quiet dread creeping over his features.

“I’ve had time to think. About you. And about Julie. I always thought she was odd, because she’d often say things that made no sense. Or look at me in a way that was … secretive. I thought she was merely flirtatious, and I hoped that by ignoring her, it would pass, but then she would act so hurt, and it became a cycle of guilt and kindness that went on for months. And then, suddenly, she’s dead. And you talk about her having some secret romance, and being given a wedding ring, and—” He cut himself off.

“You found the wedding ring in your room,” Mallory whispered.

He startled. “You did see it. That’s why you ran.” He shifted forward, grabbing her hands, pleading. She tensed at the touch but did not pull away. “You have to believe that I would never have hurt her. I don’t know how the ring got there. I have no idea who killed her or why, but it wasn’t me, Mallory.”

“But you forget things.”

He fell quiet, startled.

“You don’t know how you got to the stables. And there are other times, too, when you have no memory of how you got to a place, or why you are there.” She wet her lips. “You do not know for sure what you were doing the morning that Julie was murdered. There is time missing that you can’t remember. Isn’t that so?”

Armand’s pallor turned gray.

But with her certainty that she was right, she was struck with a new realization.

He’d mentioned what had happened in his room. The way she’d pushed him away when she saw the ring.

Armand remembered their kiss.

Mallory’s breath hitched. It hadn’t been Le Bleu, and it hadn’t been her imagination. It had been Armand, the real Armand—and he had wanted her. Her. Strange Mallory, with her dark jokes and dark drawings and dark curiosities.

“Tell me the truth,” Armand murmured.

For an instant, the truth was there in her mouth, on her tongue, threatening to spill out into the world where she could never take it back.

She yearned for him in a way that terrified her. The very sight of him ignited a fire inside her. His self-conscious laugh made her want to crush her mouth to his. The way he rattled off unfamiliar plant names did something to the chemistry of her brain.

It scared her. It scared her so much . Far more than bloodthirsty monsters or odious spirits.

But her messy, complicated, irrational feelings were not what they were talking about.

Tell me the truth.

His calloused hands tightened on hers like a drowning man grasping at a piece of driftwood. He looked devastated—because he must have already known, without her having to say it.

“You killed Julie,” she breathed, as gently as she could.

Armand released her hands, drawing away.

“And you tried to kill me, in the stables. Anaïs hit you with a shovel.”

He started to shake his head, but stopped. He pressed a hand to the top of a fencepost, squeezing the wood with whitened knuckles.

Mallory settled a hand on his wrist. “It isn’t your fault—”

“Not my fault ?” He tore away from her, stumbling back so quickly that he nearly tripped over a tree root before catching himself. “Great gods, Mallory, what are you doing out here?” He whipped his arm to the side, gesturing at the dense woods that surrounded them. “If I am a monster, then why did you come back? And why…? You need to stay away from me!”

The birdsong fell quiet around them.

“I came back to help you.”

“Help me? After I tried to—”

“ Yes ,” she said, with as much force to the word as she could manage. Wishing he would just understand, without her needing to actually say it . “Even after Bastien tried to kill me, I came back. It was him. His spirit can possess you. He … he can take over your body. He is the one who manipulated Julie and killed her. Who attacked me. But he controls you to do it.”

Armand’s words fizzled to nothing, his mouth left hanging.

Mallory took a cautious step closer, relieved when he didn’t back away. Though his expression was a cross between dismayed and horrified, he also seemed the tiniest bit intrigued.

“I came back because I had to know if … if you … possibly feel for me, what I…”

His lips parted father, but no sound came out. She had rendered him speechless.

She cursed inwardly, her face suddenly burning. If given a choice between facing another cheval mallet or having this conversation, she would have taken her chances with the horse. How did anyone do this? How could anyone express their feelings without wanting to throw themselves into one of those crypts?

And then Armand’s attention dropped to her mouth, and some of Mallory’s terror kindled into hope.

But, as if mortified that he was tempted to kiss her after all she’d told him, Armand pulled away again. She followed, staying an arm’s distance until his back hit the trunk of an old maple, its autumn leaves painted vivid red.

“No.” The word was strained, and somehow, Mallory did not feel the slightest sting of rejection. If anything, the word encouraged her.

“No?” she pressed.

“This is insanity,” he breathed. A terse laugh erupted from him, like he couldn’t quite believe he had to explain this. Like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation at all.

Neither could Mallory, truth be told.

“First you tell me there is this awful darkness inside of me, and I already tried to kill the first girl I have ever —” He stopped.

Mallory’s eyebrows shot upward.

Renewed determination overtook Armand—touched with a hint of anger. Pushing away from the tree, he dared to step closer to her. Mallory held her ground. She wasn’t intimidated. If anything, she wanted to grab him and pull him closer.

“I will not be responsible for hurting you, too,” he said fiercely. “I want you to leave. Tonight. Leave, and never come back. Tomorrow I will turn myself in for the crimes I committed, and gods willing, I will be put into prison and no one will be in danger from me—or him—ever again.”

Mallory felt her knees weaken. She smiled, hesitant. “That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

He glowered, like he wanted to shake some sense into her.

Or like he wanted to kiss her, and while Mallory had never been skilled at reading such signs, something told her she was getting good at reading him .

So good, in fact, that she knew at once when the effects of the tonic finally hit him. His skin paled. His gaze lost focus. He frowned, his breaths slowing. “What is…” His voice caught.

Realization flashed across his face—followed by confusion and, lastly, betrayal.

“Mallory … what did you do?”

“There may have been a sedative in your wine,” she confessed. “I actually got the idea from Bastien himself. Poisoned his wives before killing them, remember?” Realizing how awful that sounded, she hurried to add, “Not that I’m planning to kill you, I just—”

She didn’t manage to finish before Armand collapsed into her arms.