Page 84 of The House Saphir
“Le Bleu?” Julie’s tone carried a tinge of revulsion, even as weariness passed across her face. “You really do not know.” Her lips began to tremble. Her voice became paper thin. “It was Armand who married me. Armand who killed… m-me…”
The life left her with an exhale that came churning through the chapel, a cyclone that grabbed at Mallory’s hair and clothes, dragged the dead leaves from the floor, before silence descended again with the darkness.
Mallory had thought she’d prepared herself for the truth, but with Armand’s name still ringing in her ears, it felt like a physical blow. Usually she loved to be right. Not this time.
Armand was a murderer. He had manipulated this girl into marriage. He had taken her life.
Why?
Scholars of witchcraft talked about the power of vows, likethose pronounced in a marriage ceremony. The power of symbolism inherent in the rings, the flowers, the food served and music played. The power of giving yourself over to another person—of relinquishing your heart with complete and total trust.
Bastien Saphir’s marriages may not have been love matches, but still—there was power in a trust betrayed.
Could Armand be attempting a similar spell, like the one his ancestor had begun? But if so, why had he brought Mallory and Anaïs to this place? Was he competing with Le Bleu for the magic? Was there some other reason he needed his ancestor gone? And why ensnare Julie—an innocent maid? Remembering how Julie had blushed and stammered from the moment she and Anaïs had arrived, Mallory had to assume this seduction had started before they had gotten involved.
“We have to leave,” said Anaïs.
Mallory studied Julie—a corpse once more. She adjusted the placement of her arms. Pressed down her eyelids. Brushed back the wisps of hair from her face.
“Mally.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “You get our stuff. Mother’s cards. My sketchbook. Meet me in the stables.”
They gathered up the timer and lantern and slipped out into the storm, separating on the garden path. It was so dark, Mallory lost her way twice, among the never-ending, twisting labyrinth of garden paths, tree limbs grasping at her hair.
She did not relight the lantern until she had ducked into the stable, her skin slick, her hair plastered to the sides of her neck.
The stables were large enough that they might have housed a hundred horses in the day of Bastien Saphir I, but now thereremained only a team of six. Mallory took the first two she saw. It had been years since she had cause to ride a horse, and her movements were clumsy as she worked to get on the bridles, the pads, and the saddles. Sensing her agitation, the horses whinnied and ducked away from her unfamiliar hands, but she managed to have them tacked and ready by the time the stable door opened again, the wood grumbling as it dragged across the stone floor.
She turned, expecting her sister.
Fear seeped into her bones.
Armand stood in the door. Strands of dark hair dripped rainwater across his face. His shirt—that linen work shirt he favored in the greenhouse—clung to the planes of his chest and shoulders. His bare feet tracked muddy footprints across the hard floor.
His expression spoke of bewilderment. Disbelief. Hurt.
“Armand…”
“You’re leaving. In the dark. You’re… running away.”
She swallowed, trying to clear the lump that clogged her throat.
“I… I’m going for help,” she said. “I am not strong enough to banish Le Bleu on my own. I need assistance.”
“Assistance from who?”
“There is a witch who lives not a half day’s ride from here. I’ll be back before tomorrow’s dinner, and we will put this spirit to rest.”
He stepped closer, and it took all of Mallory’s will not to press back against the horse. Armand paused an arm’s length from her, and she watched, breathless, as a drop of water slipped down a lock of hair, over his eyebrow, dripped down into his lashes. He blinked it away.
Even now, knowing what she knew, her fingers tingled with the urge to twine through his hair. Even now, she would have clung to any reason to believe she was mistaken. Her body wanted to be pressed against him again, to feel the thrum of his pulse, the pounding of his heart a reflection of her own. Her mouth yearned to kiss the rain from his.
Traitors, all.
“You’re afraid of me.”
“N-no. I’m not afraid.”
