Page 29 of The House Saphir
“Did you know,” Mallory said, scooting her glass closer to the maid as she brought out the wine decanter, “before slashing his wives’ throats, Le Bleu poisoned them with something mixed into their wine, the concoction making them slow and confused, too weak to fight back? Rather ingenious, actually.”
Yvette gave a disgusted noise as she distributed the butter dishes. “This is no laughing matter.”
“Yvette, please,” started Armand.
“My lord, I do not see that the horrific deeds of your great-great-grandfather should make for an amusing spectacle in polite conversation.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Armand, “but neither do I think it is best if we pretend it didn’t happen. Those women, his victims—”
“Areallthat anyone thinks of when they hear the name of Saphir,” she interrupted. “It is only by the grace of the Seven that this household has not suffered further.”
“Yes, but Mallory is something of a scholar when it comes to our family history. I’m sure it’s natural for her to wish to talkabout it… openly and without any semblance of propriety whatsoever.”
“It’s quite a talent of hers, actually,” piped up Anaïs.
With a wry, tired smile, Armand turned back to Yvette. “Would you please prepare the third course? I’m sure our guests are famished from the long journey.”
Yvette’s face turned purple. “There is no third course, my lord.”
“Oh. Well. Perhaps you could bring out more… butter, then?” He gestured meaningfully at Mallory’s empty butter dish, and she wondered if maybe she wasn’t supposed to useallof it on a single slice of bread?
Regardless, the dismissal was clear. Sucking in a sharp breath, Yvette turned on her heel and marched out of the room.
“I am so sorry,” said Armand. “Yvette can be… Well. It isn’t personal.”
“Oh, we prefer that it is,” said Anaïs, taking a sip of her wine. “Makes the grudges easier to hold on to.”
“You seem to have a very cordial relationship with your staff,” said Mallory.
A shadow passed over Armand’s expression as he dug the meat of one of the snails out with a tiny fork—not, Mallory noted, the fork that she had chosen. “It is exceedingly difficult to maintain our staff here. Yvette has been with the household for more than half her life, and her loyalty has, perhaps, lent itself to some entitlements that would not otherwise be tolerated.” He shrugged helplessly. “The truth is, I could never dismiss her, and she knows it.”
“That is commendable,” said Anaïs.
“Commendable? Bah!” said a chirpy voice, the words slightlyslurring together. “More like he hasn’t the spine to show the outspoken wench to the door.”
Mallory’s own spine stiffened.
At the far end of the table, Lucienne and Béatrice sat together, both of them bleeding from puncture wounds in their chests. Mallory easily recognized Lucienne by her upswept blond hair, cherry-red cheeks, and elaborately embellished, if outdated, ball gown. She held a near-empty wineglass in one hand, and in the other a hunk of bread stolen from the tray when no one was looking.
In comparison, Béatrice was far more demure in a simple linen day dress, her chestnut hair falling around her shoulders in messy ringlets. She sat slightly hunched, as if afraid that someone might notice her, even though she’d spent the last century being invisible to almost everyone.
Their figures carried the ephemeral gray-tinged glow of spirits, and their arms were marked with deep slashes cut into words that Mallory could not read, though she nevertheless knew what they said. Before killing his wives, Le Bleu had carved a single word into each of their arms—echtrauson the left arm andgreischton the right.
Written in the old language, the investigators at the time had to confer with a local fae expert in order to discern their meanings: “trust” and “betrayal.”
She whipped her attention back to Armand, but too late. Everyone was frowning now, glancing toward the opposite end of the table.
“What is it?” Armand asked.
“Nothing. I was just… admiring that tapestry. I love a good tapestry.”
The tapestry behind the wives depicted a man and woman in dated finery dancing in a meadow. Mallory hated it.
But Lucienne whispered, “Nice save.” Then hiccupped. Then grew excited when the butler uncorked one of the dusty bottles on the side table. “Oh,goody! They’re opening the thirty-year vintage.” She finished off the wine in her glass.
“How much have you had tonight?” asked Béatrice—her voice a meek but irritated whisper. “You’re going to make yourself sick again.”
Lucienne batted the comment away and stood, helping herself as soon as Claude had set down the bottle. Moments later, the butler turned around to pick up the bottle again and jolted in surprise to see that it had been moved to a different shelf.
