Page 34 of The House Saphir
Armand lit a fire inside a brick oven and pulled a stool up beside it for Mallory to sit while he prepared the chocolate. They didn’t speak while he gathered a copper pot and his ingredients. His movements were precise and practiced. He knew exactly where to find the large bar of bitter dark chocolate in the larder. How much cream to pour. Where to set the pot on the stove so the chocolate would melt but the milk would not scald. He added a spoonful of sugar, then another, occasionally tasting his concoction as he went. His face was set with such focused attention that Mallory felt like she was watching an artist at work.
And then, realizing that she was staring, she promptly looked away, busying herself with a study of the kitchen instead. It was utilitarian and pristinely organized, with collections of knives, spoons, and ladles hung on hooks above enormous black ovens. A rack of copper pots shone above a stove, and a baker’s table stillhad remnants of flour from the loaves of bread that had been left to rise overnight. Unlike so much of the house that was bleak even in midafternoon, this room had an undeniable coziness to it.
The scent of chocolate and woodsmoke filled the kitchen as Armand unhooked a ring of keys from his belt. He opened a cabinet on the wall and retrieved a glass bottle filled with thick purple-red syrup. The cork made a quiet pop as he pulled it out.
As Mallory watched, he poured a hearty dollop into the pot of chocolate.
“What’s that?” she asked sharply.
Armand started at what must have sounded like an accusation. Perhaps it had been.
“Elderberry syrup.” He chuckled softly. “I didn’t mean to put you on guard with that poison comment. It was intended as a joke.”
“I’m not on guard. I just don’t trust anyone, as a general rule.”
“I see.” He set the jar aside. “Can that trust be earned?”
Mallory’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure. No one’s ever tried that hard before.”
He seemed to be on the verge of another nervous smile. “I assure you, only the stems of elderberry plants are toxic.” He paused. “Well, and also the leaves. And the berries—but only before they get ripe. Or if you eat them raw. And you have to stay away from the red varieties entirely. But when properly prepared…” He filled a spoon with the liquid and drank it down himself. Licking his lips, he replaced the cork in the bottle and returned it to the shelf. “It has many medicinal uses, not the least of which is helping to fend off colds. You’ll feel better after you drink this.”
“It doesn’t prove anything that you drank it yourself,” she muttered. “You could have built up a tolerance.”
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been slowly poisoning myself for years so that my guests will never suspect me when I start to kill them off with mugs of hot chocolate.”
He stirred the pot. The drink was so thick it coated the ladle as he filled two clay mugs. He handed one to Mallory and kept one for himself. Scanning another shelf, which was packed with jars, bottles, and clay pots, he grabbed a small vial with a medicinal dropper and added three drops of clear liquid to his own cup.
“And what isthat?” Mallory asked.
“Royal skullcap. It grows wild in our forest.” Armand pulled a second stool beside hers and sat down. “I used to suffer from nightmares when I was growing up. Skullcap helps me sleep.”
“I suppose any child would have nightmares, growing up in a house like this.”
He tilted his head, studying her. Rather than respond, he asked, “How is your chocolate?”
Mallory blew on the top of the drink, then took a small sip.
She did not want to—rather hated herself for it, in fact—but still, she moaned. “Great gods.”
Armand didn’t respond, but his lowered eyes and smug grin said enough.
They sipped in silence, and between the chocolate and the fire and her warm traveling cloak, Mallory felt the chill slowly leaving her body.
“What did you want the salamander for?” Armand asked. “And don’t tell me you were merely inspecting the artistry again. I know you were trying to steal it.”
She blew out a breath. “I thought it would make an interesting showpiece. For my tours.”
Armand’s face turned incredulous. “You couldn’t have asked for a cobblestone? Or a monogrammed candlestick? Or… I don’t know. The sword he used to kill his wives?”
Mallory perked up. “You still have the murder weapon?”
“Of course. It’s hanging in one of the parlors.” He started to laugh, but it died out quickly. “Though I find it unnerving how eager you looked when I said that.”
“It’s an important historical artifact,” she said, luxuriating in how warm the clay mug felt between her palms. “Nothing strange about that.”
“Some might disagree.” At least he was smiling when he said it. “Please don’t steal it. When you think of some other prop that would add authenticity to your tours that does not require defacing my family estate, it will be my honor to obtain it for you.”
Mallory scowled. He seemed earnest, but…
