Page 17 of The House Saphir
Mallory flipped the card over. The other side was blank.
She raised her eyes, a question perched on her tongue—
But the strangers were already gone.
“I knew you weren’t a fraud.”
She twisted her neck so fast it gave her a crick. Wincing, she rubbed her fingers into the muscle as she slipped the card into her pocket.
Armand gazed at her blearily. “I saw that flash of light. You cast magic.” He grimaced, eyes briefly squeezing shut, before he opened them again and gave her a wry, knowing smile. “Mallory Fontaine, you really are a witch.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mallory’s sister often said that no matter how bad things were, they would always look a little better under the bright morning sun.
Obviously, this was hogwash, and Mallory had no qualms telling Anaïs as much. Mallory much preferred darkness and gloom. It was better for hiding secrets. Better for hiding unsavory curiosities. And best of all, it was better for hiding from their landlady.
“Get up! She’s here!” Anaïs shouted in Mallory’s ear, tearing away the worn quilts.
Mallory groaned and flopped onto her stomach. She mumbled something into the pillow, but even she wasn’t sure what it was.
“Mally, don’t fight,” Anaïs hissed. “Up, up!”
Footsteps on the narrow staircase. Pounding at their door. Madame Cellier—the owner of their little shop and the evenlittler attic apartment above it—screaming in her harsh voice. “Mallory! Anaïs! I know you’re in there. I’m here to collect the rent.”
“See?” said Anaïs, grabbing for Mallory’s arm. “You need to get up.”
“Nooo,” said Mallory, trying to shove her off. “Bad night. Not ready.”
“We’re out of excuses, Mally. Do you have the money?” Anaïs hauled her up to sitting as a key jiggled in the lock.
Damn Madame Cellier and her ring of skeleton keys.
“Invasion of privacy!” Mallory shouted, to no one in particular. “We have rights!”
“We do not have rights,” Anaïs reminded her. “No rights whatsoever. Would you get—” She drew back suddenly, her face twisted in disgust. She plucked something from Mallory’s hair. “Why do you have twigs in your hair? And…” She took in Mallory’s blood-spotted chemise, which she hadn’t bothered to change out of when she got home the night before. Anaïs ripped back the blankets, noting the smears of mud and flakes of dirt. “Freydon’s whiskers. What happened to you?”
“Long story.” The door burst open, revealing a red-faced Madame Cellier. “Tell you later.”
Anaïs spun around, smiling sweetly. “Good morning, madame. We were preparing for our weekly jaunt to the creek, where we discuss our lessons on the sacred poetry of Solvilde.”
Mallory muttered, “Hate poetry.”
Anaïs shoved her in the side.
Mallory shoved her back. “If you’re going to lie, at least come up with something believable.”
Madame Cellier snarled. “I don’t care what you do in your free time. I care about being paid my due, when it’s due. And your rent wasdueten weeks ago.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not running a charity house. You told me you were coming into the funds, so pay up, or get to packing.”
“I can pay. I can pay. With the late fee, as promised.” Mallory clambered from the bed.
The landlady hissed at the ragged sight of her, then gave a disapproving shake of her head. “There’s been talk lately that the two of you have been swindling honest folk from their hard-earned coin.”
“Skeptics,” said Mallory through a yawn. “Can’t please everyone.”
“You’re lucky I don’t double the rent on you, for all I have to deal with.” She pressed three fingers to her mouth as she offered up a prayer to whichever of the gods might be able to grant her patience today. Then she spat on the floor. Mallory wasn’t sure what the point of the spitting was, but she thought it might have something to do with cleansing the space. That, or Madame Cellier was a vulgar old hag. Not that the two were mutually exclusive.
Mallory knew they were already paying more than this dingy room was worth. The apartment over their shop was hot in the summer and frigid in the winter and home to a giant house spider they had named Hugo and a disgusting barn swallow that left excrement all over their dresser and refused to migrate south when it was supposed to. The room was barely large enough to hold the bed that she and Anaïs shared, Anaïs’s sewing table, a couple of their mother’s spell books, and Mallory’s art supplies.But at least it was a roof, which was more than some people in Morant could claim, so Mallory bit her tongue.
