Page 56 of The House Saphir
Finally, he paused in front of the largest mausoleum—a tomb of white limestone blocks and a grated iron door, covered in rust. Small winged demons with sneering faces loomed along the cornices, so lifelike it was hard to believe they had been carved from stone.
“Is Bastien in there?”
Armand shook his head. “Bastien is not inside the cemetery. Though he was the one who commissioned this mausoleum to be built. For… his wives.” He hesitated, before asking, “Would you like to see inside?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer before he pulled out the ring of keys. Intrigued, Mallory noted the largest key—dark brass, with intricate scrollwork around the edges.
“What does that one open?” she asked.
Armand stilled. He weighed the key in his palm, and she had the sense that it was unusually heavy. “The wine cellar,” he said simply, before stepping up to the door of the mausoleum and inserting a different key into the lock. She heard the telltale clunk of the internal mechanism, then they were stepping inside.
Though the mausoleum was large, there was barely enough space inside for the two of them. To the left were two narrow altars—one for Velos, the other for Eostrig, each ornamented with candles that had long ago burned down and bouquets of flowers that had decayed nearly to dust.
Facing the altars, three stone crypts, covered in dust and cobwebs, were laid side by side. Carved onto the top of each crypt was the reclining likeness of the entombed woman, her body cast in still, cold marble. The statues wore beautiful gowns, jewelry, and headdresses, and their hands were clasped demurely over their hearts. Though Mallory knew the statues were intended to honor the dead, she couldn’t help feeling that they did nothing to capture the essences of the women she had met. Lucienne’s boisterous cackle. Béatrice’s quiet earnestness. Triphine’s biting wit.
Engraved marble plaques on the wall held a series of dates beside three familiar names.
Triphine Saphir née Maeng
Lucienne Saphir née Tremblay
Béatrice Saphir née Descoteaux
There were platforms prepared for two additional crypts, and two marble plaques remained blank.
Armand divided the wildflowers he had gathered and laid a small bouquet on each of the three crypts.
“He claimed to have had the mausoleum built for Triphine,” he said. “That as the mother of his first child, she deserved to be laid to rest in a palace fit for a queen. That’s why it’s so large. Of course—later, it became clear that he had never intended for her to be alone in here.”
“And the artisans who built it didn’t suspect something strange?” Mallory said. If she were tasked with burying three wives in a crypt with two additional vacancies, she would have had questions.
“I’m sure they did,” said Armand. “But I’m also sure they were grateful for the work, and I have no doubt they were well compensated. Feeding one’s family can be a powerful motive for silence.”
Mallory’s own gut twisted with memories of too many missed meals. “I thought Triphine was buried in Morant.”
“She was, initially. But once this crypt was completed, her body was exhumed and brought here.”
As Armand used his sleeve to brush dust from the surface of the graves, Mallory’s focus drifted to the two empty slabs.
Five total.
She suspected one of them was intended for Gabrielle Savoy—the wife who got away—but it would seem that Bastien had not intended for her to be his final victim. Lucienne and Béatrice had been right. His goal had been five sacrifices. But to what end?
“Have you spoken to them?” Armand asked, his voice deferential.
She swallowed. “I have.”
“What do they look like?”
“Look like?”
“I’ve seen their portraits, of course. And I’ll occasionally see their silhouettes in a window or moving through a hall, but they always disappear so quickly. I’ve always wondered if their spirits were… different somehow. If death changed them.”
“Ghosts look more or less as they did at the moment of their death. The same clothes. But they have a particular appearance. Ghosts are… faint at the edges. It’s never quite clear where their bodies end and the air around them begins. They can be corporeal, when they want to interact with the world—in a physical sense—but it requires a lot of effort. If they wish to do much more than turn the page of a book or… or take a sip from a glass of wine… it quickly tires them.”
He nodded slowly, taking this in.
“And they still have their wounds, the ones that caused their deaths. There is a lot of blood, and… they are still bleeding. It never stops.”
