The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer - 50

“I think I have scurvy,” said Triphine, feeling around the inside of her mouth. “This tooth feels like it might be getting loose.” She leaned dramatically against the fireplace mantel. “This one will be the death of me for sure.”

“Would only that were true,” Mallory muttered.

Triphine sent her an irate look. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I wish there were something I could do ,” adjusted Mallory. “Perhaps you should try that new tea Armand has been working on. Supposedly it can help fevers, chills, sore throat, stuffy nose, dizziness, heart palpitations, itching, delirium, skin rashes, numbness, body aches, inescapable crabbiness … and, interestingly , toothaches. It’s almost like it was made specifically for you.”

Triphine squinted at her a long, long moment, before giving a quiet harrumph. “Maybe I will.”

Mallory shook her head, watching the ghost float up the staircase and disappear into her bedroom. With Bastien gone and the spell for which Triphine had been sacrificed completed, her spirit was no longer trapped in this world. No longer tethered to her wedding ring. She could have gone to Verloren with the others after all.

But she’d chosen to stay, and Mallory was beginning to think that, despite all her complaining, Triphine was actually quite happy here.

Mallory would never admit it, but she was actually quite happy to have her.

She returned to arranging the cabinet of merchandise she and Armand had ordered, including salamander figurines and potted plants grown from cuttings from the Saphir estate’s own conservatory. The first official tour of the House Saphir, Morant, was scheduled for that evening—a half hour past sunset—and while she wasn’t exactly nervous, she wanted everything to go well.

The house had changed significantly since she had given the tour to Armand and the investigators. She and Armand had worked tirelessly to fix the holes in the roof, the broken windows, the crumbling plaster. With Yvette’s help, they had eradicated every cobweb, expelled every bat, evicted every rodent. They had cleaned and waxed the floors until they shone like mirrors. Replaced the broken lanterns, repaired and rehung the torn drapes, filled the common spaces with secondhand furniture—much of it purchased with a bottle of Saphir wine and a Wyrdith card reading.

Mallory was getting pretty good at reading the cards, in fact. It was one of the many roles she had easily slipped into. She was her mother’s daughter. Mallory Fontaine—medium, apothecary, fortune teller.

Well, Armand was much more adept at the art of preparing herbs, roots, and flowers for medicines and spells than she was, so perhaps he was the true apothecary. Either way, it was a service that the people of Morant were happy to pay for.

The investigators had come for her when she and Armand had first returned to Morant. But what could they possibly arrest her for? All those people who called her a fraud? Just rumors and lies.

Mallory Fontaine was a witch, a master of petty magic. The same as her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother—the famous Gabrielle Savoy herself. It had taken some time to prove her legitimacy, but now, even Investigator Louis Garneau was one of her regular customers, requesting a monthly dose of emerald brittlegill potion. She thought it best not to inquire why.

It was not a bad living that she and Armand had carved out for themselves, and they even had some money tucked away, thanks to the sale of the vineyards and winery—a merchant from Chablac had been thrilled to purchase such historic land. Perhaps someday they would hire a larger staff. Pierre and Gideon had both chosen to find other employment in Comorre, to stay close to their families, and it was a lot of work for Yvette alone. It could be nice to have a chef, or a maid, or even a gardener. Though Mallory and Armand were in no hurry. If the house was in a bit of disarray, the garden a tiny bit overgrown … well, they weren’t running a bed-and-breakfast. They were running a haunted house, and a little mayhem was good for business.

She heard the opening of the front door and went to meet Armand in the entryway, where he was removing his boots and jacket. He beamed when he saw her—the look bringing the same flutter to her stomach that it had a hundred times before.

“You have a letter,” he said, holding out a piece of parchment, stamped with a wax seal. “From your sister, I presume.”

Mallory grabbed it eagerly. Anaïs’s letters were one of the great highlights of her life these days, detailing her travels as she, Fitcher, and Constantino made their way across the country—living her very own real-life adventure.

“They’ve reached Stivale,” she said, recounting the letter to Armand as she meandered back toward the study. “Constantino has promised to take her to a masquerade, and she is hoping they’ll have an opportunity to see the floating city of Caprietti, though Fitcher is eager to move on to Piermo. Evidently a borda has been terrorizing the countryside.”

“What’s a borda?”

“No idea. But other countries do have entirely different monsters than we have here.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.” Armand smirked. “I guess we’ll have to go visit someday.”

Laughing, she sat down at the writing desk and smoothed her sister’s letter out before her to finish reading it.

You should see the fashion here! I’m beginning to see where Constantino got it from. I’m planning to buy myself the most extravagant gown I can find the moment I can afford it.

Fitcher has not said anything more about my god-gift, though their business does frequently involve not only monsters but corpses and ghosts. Though I dread being called on to use this abysmal curse, I draw strength in knowing that it may help bring justice to the deceased.

I hope that your life in Morant is as fulfilling, dear sister, though I know it is not half so exciting.

I do love and miss you so.

Yours,

Anaïs

Mallory had just finished reading when a warm kiss on her neck sent pleasant tingles dancing across her skin. After Bastien’s demise, the wound on her chest had finally healed, the scar fading to pale pink, almost nonexistent. She had even begun to wear gowns that revealed her throat, her clavicle, and even—how dare she?—a hint of décolletage.

She shut her eyes, luxuriating in her shiver of pleasure as Armand kissed his way from her neck to her shoulder, his fingers brushing the strap of her dress … before she turned and smacked him on the arm.

“Go away,” she said, trying to hide her breathlessness. “I have to write back to my sister.”

His eyes glittered as he cupped her face in both hands. “Are you going to tell her our news?”

She scowled at him. “I’m considering it.”

He pressed a kiss to her mouth, teasing and slow. “By all means,” he murmured, pulling away, “don’t let me keep you.”

It took a fair amount of effort for Mallory to keep from calling him back as he left the study, her skin flushed.

She grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, dunking it into the inkwell.

Dear Anaïs, as it should so happen, I have news of my own to share …

As she wrote, her engagement ring glinted in the light from the candle that burned on the desk.

The love was real. The trust was unbreakable. But the ring? Cheap brass beneath a thin layer of silver plating, the sapphire nothing more than shiny blue glass.

But no one else would ever have to know.