The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer - 5

The stairs were old and steep. The air damp and cool, the walls nothing but stone and mortar. Reaching the cellar, Mallory lit another sconce and stood aside so her guests could take in the cramped space. Wooden crates and wine barrels branded with the Saphir crest were stacked against one wall, and a long table stretched down the middle of the room, covered in a thick layer of dust frequently disturbed by the claws of skittering rats.

Mallory drew in a breath of stale air. “Duchess Triphine died in this room, after her husband sedated her, tied her to this very table, and drove a sword through her heart.” She paused, letting these words sink in, before continuing. “And a fact unknown by the general public … He also cut off her finger.”

Sophia recoiled, and Mallory patted the smelling salts she kept in her pocket, just in case. “A finger ?”

“I know this because I was the one who found the finger— well, the bones of the finger—when I first started giving tours of this house.” She pointed. “I discovered it right there, between the wine barrel and the wall. We know it belonged to Duchess Triphine, as it was still wearing this .”

She gestured to a small bell jar on top of a wine barrel, under which, on a bed of black velvet, rested a wedding ring—or at least, an imitation of one. A silver-plated band with a square of blue glass. In the dim lighting, no one could ever tell the difference, and tonight’s guests were no exception, judging by their awed faces.

Once her guests had gotten a good look at the ring, Mallory grabbed a flat wooden box.

“On that note,” she chirped, “we happen to offer stunning replicas for sale, among other quality goods.” She opened the box, revealing rows of merchandise. Hand-painted postcards depicting the House Saphir, lead coins emblazoned with the Saphir crest, handkerchiefs that Anaïs had embroidered with the words I survived the House Saphir , and rings in various sizes. “Made of the finest quality silver and authentic blue sapphires imported from the mines of Dostlen.”

“She’s lying,” Triphine sang. “Where do you find such gullible patrons?”

Mallory’s smile did not falter as her guests inspected the wares. “They make a lovely gift,” she said, nudging Louis. “Maybe for a special lady friend? Or perhaps you’d like to send a postcard home to your mother?”

“Not a bad idea, actually,” Louis muttered, picking up a ring while Sophia studied one of the handkerchiefs. “Real sapphires, you say?”

“As real as the crown jewels.”

She glanced at Axel. He hadn’t said much during the tour, and he was difficult to read, but perhaps she could tempt him into a deck of Saphir-branded playing cards—as a limited edition, they were one of her best sellers.

But when she saw how Axel was studying her, the thought evaporated. “What?” she said, immediately defensive.

He drew back, startled. “Have I offended you?”

“You’re staring at me.”

He opened his mouth, but hesitated. Then cleared his throat. “I was hoping to ask you some questions.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Fine. But I charge one lys per question. A galet if the question annoys me.”

“You charge a fee for asking questions? You’re a tour guide .”

“Knowledge is priceless.”

To her surprise, he reached for his pocket and pulled out a coin, but instead of handing it to her, he held it up so that it glinted in the cellar’s dim light. “I am trying to find the Fontaine sisters. Are you one of them?”

It took a long moment for the question to fully register. “I … Who?”

“Anaïs and Mallory Fontaine of Morant. Daughters of the late Noele Fontaine. The ones who…” He hesitated, flipping the coin over his fingers. “The ones who have some working knowledge of witchcraft.”

“Oh!” said Sophia. “Fontaine, yes. That was the name of the witch we visited. She has a darling little shop on Rue Tilance.” She paused, squinting at Mallory. “I don’t recall mention of a sister.”

Mallory chuckled, and wished it hadn’t come out sounding so uncomfortable. “Yes. My sister, Anaïs, is the talented one. But she’s always been very supportive of my tours.”

“From what I’ve heard,” said Axel, “you have some unique talents of your own.”

“Hearsay and hogwash. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed in the truth.”

“I doubt it.”

Beside them, Louis and Sophia had gone still, sensing the rising tension.

“The rumors are that you can see and speak with the spirits of the deceased.”

Axel didn’t sound like a heartless oaf who meant to destroy what measly reputation she had been clinging to ever since her mother had passed away, but Mallory wasn’t willing to chance it.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She snatched the coin from Axel’s fingers. “Ghosts choose who to reveal themselves to, and when they wish to be seen. I happen to spend a lot of time in a haunted mansion. If you’re lucky, you’ll be seeing ghosts by the end of the night, too. That is what you’re paying for, isn’t it?”

She spun away from him, noting the goods in the Dumases’ hands. “That will be a hundred lourdes for the ring and fifteen for the handkerchief.”

“A hundred—!” Louis started. “For a replica?”

“Real sapphires,” Mallory reminded him. “Real silver.”

He huffed, but pulled out a reticule to pay for them both.

“Shall we return to the ballroom?” Mallory set down the box of merchandise and started back up the narrow staircase. Her voice got louder as she climbed. “There I can tell you about Gabrielle Savoy.”

The others hurried after her—though Axel scowled suspiciously as he brought up the rear of their group.

“Who is Gabrielle Savoy?” asked Sophia as they gathered around the central hearth in the ballroom.

“Gabrielle Savoy was Monsieur Le Bleu’s fourth wife,” Mallory said. “Few have heard of her, because she is the only one who—”

“Got away,” said Axel.

She shot him an irate look.

He raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Precisely,” she said. “Unlike his first three wives, when Bastien tried to kill Gabrielle, she managed to outsmart him and escape. It was she who told her brothers that Bastien had attempted to murder her. Her brothers rushed to the country estate, dragged Le Bleu out to the fountain in front of the house, and proceeded to cut off his head.”

“Hear, hear!” said Louis.

“Some claim that to this day Le Bleu’s sinister laughter can be heard echoing through the halls of the mansion,” said Mallory. “And every year, on the anniversary of his death, the fountain where he was killed runs red with blood.” She took in their expressions—Sophia seemed horrified, Louis fascinated, and Axel … Well, if his frown was any deeper, it would be back in the cellar. “But the Saphir estate is quite far from here. We may not have wicked laughter and bloody fountains, but one death did occur in this house, and the ghost of Triphine Maeng often appears around the strike of…” Distantly, the clock tower began to toll. Mallory could have gloated at the sound. Some nights her timing was immaculate. “… midnight.”

She deftly pressed her toe onto a hidden switch in the floorboard.

She heard the quiet click of the igniter. The logs on the fireplace burst into flame.

Sophia and Louis both cried out, jumping back so fast they nearly toppled over the settee behind them. Mallory and Axel also reared back—though her surprise wasn’t quite as genuine.

Triphine groaned. “Are we really doing this tonight? I honestly think we ought to—”

“The clock strikes midnight!” Mallory raised her voice and stared pointedly at Triphine. “And that is when the ghost of the duchess appears!”

Behind her back, Mallory reached for a cord hidden by a curtain. She pulled, setting off a series of weights and pulleys.

In response, the entryway door blew open, striking against the vestibule wall.

“What’s happening?” asked Louis, clutching his sister’s arm.

Triphine huffed an aggrieved sigh. “ Fine. But after this, we need to have a talk.” With a bored expression, she paced among the group as she wiggled her fingers and muttered, “Shiver, shiver, shiver…”

The guests did shiver, each of them jumping at the uncanny sensation of a spirit passing through them.

Mallory reached for another lever and yanked it down.

Overhead, gears whirred and floorboards creaked.

“There!” Mallory pointed to the top of the staircase, as a ghastly figure glided into view. A gauzy nightgown. A blue knit shawl. Black hair cascading down her back.

And blood. So much blood, dripping from the hole in her chest, soaking the front of her nightgown.

Mallory waited.

The ghost began to descend the steps. It stopped halfway down the staircase and said …

Nothing.

She shot a glare at Triphine, who groaned loudly. “I’m not in the mood for this tonight, Mallory.”

Bristling, Mallory cried out, “It is the duchess! And I think … I think she wants us to leave!”

Triphine slumped onto the settee, inhaled a deep breath and said—in her best ghostly impression— “Get out of my house, you scum-guzzling tourists.” She hesitated, before pointing at Axel and adding, “Except you. If you could stay behind, I’d rather like to speak with you.”

Not for the first time, Mallory wished that Triphine was corporeal so she could kick her.

“Great gods,” muttered Louis. “Did you hear that?”

“Who is she talking to?” Sophia said shakily. “Oh—lost spirit, allow me to guide you on your path into the afterlife.”

Triphine groaned. “Ugh. The worshippers.”

Despite her rule not to interact with ghosts in front of others, Mallory couldn’t help nodding in agreement. “Right?”

Realizing that Axel was watching her, Mallory stiffened. “We should leave. The duchess has been known to get angry when people don’t listen to her.”

“Tyrr, protect us,” Sophia panted, backing away. “Velos, give this spirit rest.”

Triphine waved her arms in mockery of the terrifying ghost she was supposed to be—but definitely wasn’t. Again she projected her ghostly voice, so that it echoed through the house. “Get out! Leave me be!”

“Go,” said Mallory, shoving Sophia. “Go! Before she gets angrier!”

Sophia and Louis huddled by the door, their faces twisted with terror.

Then—all at once—their faces unwound.

They looked at each other.

“I’ve seen enough,” said Louis. “You?”

“More than enough,” Sophia agreed.

Mallory’s brow furrowed. “Why aren’t you running away?”

“For one,” said Sophia, “because that is not the duchess.”

With a nervous laugh, Mallory gestured at the ghost. The fake one. “Of course it’s the duchess. Triphine Maeng was—”

“Flesh and blood,” Louis said, sounding unimpressed as he scrutinized the figure at the top of the stairs. “Whereas that appears to be a couturier’s mannequin, dressed up like the duchess.” He scanned the mannequin from head to foot, head cocked. “Not a bad costume. The period detail is very accurate. How did you do the fireplace? And the door? Is it the same sort of trickery you and your sister use for your so-called séances?”

Mallory gasped, feigning offense. “How dare you insinuate such dishonest practices?” Drawing herself to her full height, which unfortunately wasn’t much, she added, “Fine. You stay here and get murdered by a vengeful ghost. I’m not going to—”

Louis grabbed her wrist, holding her in place. “No, Miss Fontaine, you will not be going anywhere.”

Mallory stomped on the top of his foot. Louis howled and drew back. Mallory squeezed her fist, prepared to punch him in the nose if he tried to grab her again—when two hands locked around her elbows, yanking her arms back.

Mallory cried out as Sophia latched a pair of iron shackles to her wrist.

Watching the scene in horror, Axel stumbled away, his back colliding with a wall.

“Something tells me,” Mallory said through a snarl, “you’re not really an initiate of Tyrr.”

“Investigator Sophia Blaise,” she said. “This is my partner, Investigator Louis Garneau. We’ve been tracking you and your sister for months. We’ve received innumerable accounts of fraudulent behavior: the hosting of fake séances, reading of fake fortunes, not to mention the selling of fake jewels, potions, and so-called god-relics.”

Face red with fury as he limped toward the mannequin, Investigator Garneau tore off the duchess’s wig. “I’d say this proves it. You and your sister are frauds.”

“What, exactly, does this prove?” Mallory said. “Only that you paid for an entertaining tour through the House Saphir, and you got it. What law have I broken?”

“You? Perhaps none. But your sister certainly sold us a feather that she claimed fell from the wing of a god.”

Mallory smirked. “Prove that it didn’t.”

Louis’s expression darkened. “Perhaps I can’t prove that one way or another. But after a short visit to the jeweler tomorrow, I will certainly be able to prove that this ring is fake.” He held up his hand, where the faux-sapphire ring sat on his pinkie.

Mallory lifted her chin. “It sounds to me like you have nothing to arrest me for tonight.”

“No?” said Sophia. “How about trespassing? This is private property, owned by the Saphir estate. You have no license to operate tours here.”

“Don’t look so worried,” Louis said as Sophia dragged Mallory toward the door. “We’ll bring your sister in tomorrow, so you won’t be alone for long.”

“Wait.”

Sophia paused.

Axel was watching the scene with dismay. His eyes bored into Mallory. “You can speak with ghosts. Can’t you?”

A muscle twitched in her temple. “A little irrelevant at the moment, don’t you think?”

“If the duchess is here now, ask her what she was holding in the last portrait that was ever painted of her.”

“What?”

“Just ask.”

Mallory glanced at Triphine, who had been standing in the center of the room, uncharacteristically speechless, though as unhelpful as ever, while Mallory was being arrested.

Louis scoffed and grabbed Mallory’s elbow, yanking her forward. “This is absurd.”

“Triphine?” Mallory said.

“Oh—uh. The last portrait. Right. That would have been…” Her breath snagged. Her eyes went watery. “My son. I was holding my newborn son.”

Mallory dug her heels into the carpet, stopping Louis in his tracks. “Your son? I’ve never seen this portrait.”

Triphine shrugged. “It showed all three of us, and was done barely a week after he was born. Right when Bastien started to spread those rumors of me being bedridden after the birth. It mustn’t have been displayed much after his crimes were discovered.”

“Her son. That’s right,” Axel breathed. “My gods, she is here.” He stepped forward. “Investigators, I cannot speak to the other accusations against Mademoiselle Fontaine, but you cannot arrest her for trespassing. Not tonight.”

Louis’s grip tightened on Mallory’s arm. “And why is that?”

“Because I am Count Armand Saphir, and she has my permission to be here.”