Page 18 of The House Saphir
She suspected the reason Madame Cellier hadn’t tossed them out on their rumps ages ago was out of some long-held deference to their mother, who had been the most respected witch in the entire province. People had come from miles away to hear their fortunes and purchase everything from medical tinctures to magicked charms, love elixirs to fertility potions to talismans meant to ward against evil. Though it was never talked about, Mallory suspected it was due to one of her mother’s enchantments that Madame Cellier had come into the windfall that allowed her to acquire seven shop fronts on Rue Tilance, the income from which had made her one of the wealthiest women in Morant.
Their mother had been the first to let the space that had become her shop and sanctuary, where she had warmly greeted those who sought her, until the day influenza took her life. Evidently, magic couldn’t cure everything, a fact that had been hard for Mallory to reconcile with all she’d known of her mother—endlessly compassionate, reliable, competent.
Mallory had been eleven when their mother left this world, and Anaïs barely thirteen. They wasted no time. Within hours of their mother’s death, they gathered the same tools she herself would gather when her clients wanted to speak to their deceased loved ones. Candles and incense, wands of whittled ash and a memento—in their case, the small emerald ring that had been passed down through generations.
They had drawn sigils on the floor. Held hands. Prayed to Velos. Called their mother’s name. It was their second attempt tosummon the dead, and Mallory was determined that this time, they would succeed. She couldn’t fail, not this time. She didn’t know how to exist without her mother. She didn’t know if she could.
For hours they had begged and pleaded for their mother to return to them.
But she did not come.
By the time the candle had burned out, Mallory had a plan. She did not have magic, and the only magic her sister had was… Well, they didn’t like to talk of it, and they certainly weren’t going to make any money off it.
But they were the daughters of Noele Fontaine. They had watched their mother for years. They knew the words to say. They didn’t know what, exactly, went into those potions on the wall, but neither did anyone else. Mallory and her sister might be without a drop of witchcraft in their blood… but no one else in the world had to know that.
She’d been wrong before. Mother or no mother. Magic or no magic. She would not let them go hungry. She would not let them be cast out into the streets. She would survive.
The next day, she flipped the Open sign on the shop window, the same as her mother had done every day since before she could remember.
When Madame Cellier came to escort the two girls to the orphanage, Mallory had handed her a bag of galets instead, and the two of them had been allowed to stay.
The Fontaine sisters, purveyors of petty magic and Morant’s most renowned witches.
Or so she’d thought.
It had been a good run—but as was evidenced by their dwindling income and the investigators’ accusations, their luck was running out.
The tours had been going so well, too. Anaïs had thought Mallory was mad when she suggested the idea, but Mallory was convinced there was a market for tours of the House Saphir, and she’d been right. Let people judge and call her an unladylike heathen. When it came to disturbing tales of murder, everyone—lord and peasant alike—was eager to pull up a chair.
“Well?” Madame Cellier said, foot tapping on the floorboards while Mallory dug through the pockets of the gown she’d hastily discarded in her impatience to crawl into bed the night before. Only when she found her purse, buried in the folds of her skirt, and felt its surprising lightness—did she remember.
The voirloup. The coins.Armand Saphir.
Her heart sank.
Gripping the coin purse, Mallory faced her adversary with an expression she hoped might elicit at least a little sympathy.
Madame Cellier snarled in response. “You haven’t got it.”
“Ihadit,” Mallory insisted. “I was set to pay this morning. I truly was. But then… there was this count.”
Madame Cellier’s gaze narrowed.
“A total kouglof, if I’m being honest. But a charming one. You know how counts can be. Anyway, we happened to run into a voirloup, and it was—”
“A voirloup,” the landlady interrupted.
“Ghastly beasts. Used to be human, then sold their souls to thedark ones in exchange for seven wicked pleasures… but in the end they become this grotesque, slobbery—”
“Mallory,” Anaïs warned.
“Right. Sorry. So… a voirloup dislikes silver, and this count didn’t understand that Ilikesilver, rather a lot, and he made the mistake of… feeding my coins to the beast.” Her mouth puckered with a sour taste. “Every last one of them.”
Anaïs gaped at her. “Who’s the awful liar now?”
“It’s not a lie! But the good news is that I’ve got a new business opportunity right around the corner, and it’s going to make loads of money, and you will be paid in full by the end of the month.”
A twitch had formed in Madame Cellier’s jawline. “You said that last month. And the month before.”
