The house saphir, p.1
The House Saphir, page 1
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
Thank you for buying this
Feiwel and Friends ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillan.com/piracy.
FOR ERIN ARMSTRONG
I hope you like ghost stories.
GLOSSARY OF MONSTERS
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Though these monsters are inspired by traditional French folklore, numerous liberties have been taken.
Cheval Mallet
A magnificent spectral horse with flaming eyes. Its favorite pastime is to offer a ride to weary travelers and then throw them off a cliff.
Croque-Mitaine
Literally “crunchy mitten.” A humanoid creature that likes to nibble the fingers off misbehaving children, but only the ones who deserve it.
Feu Follet
A small floating ball of light. Very pretty, until it enchants you and leads you to your death. No … it’s still pretty, even then.
Lou Carcolh
A creature with an enormous snail shell, numerous tentacles, and a mouth lined with jagged, sharp teeth. Usually inhabits dark caves but will settle for an armoire in a pinch.
Lutin
A small hobgoblin that can be helpful or mischievous. It particularly enjoys tangling people’s hair into knots while they’re asleep. But then, who doesn’t?
Matagot
A shape-shifting animal spirit that most often takes the form of a black cat. It can bring either prosperity or misfortune, depending on how well it’s treated, or how spiteful it’s feeling that day.
Salamander
A lizard-like amphibian that is as sassy as it is slimy. Most don’t do anything special. Some can breathe fire.
Tarasque
Part dragon, part snake, and part crocodile, with the head of a lion and a tortoise shell on its back. There actually aren’t any tarasques in this book, in part because the author did not think she could adequately describe it in a way that readers wouldn’t think she was just making stuff up. Still, it’s pretty great, as folklore monsters go.
Velue
Another peculiar amalgamation of a creature, sporting the head of a serpent on top of a porcupine-esque body, which is covered in long green fur and poison-tipped spines. It is often blamed for floods, fires, failed crops, and just about every natural disaster conceivable.
Voirloup
A hairy, slobbery, werewolf-like creature that is afraid of fire and allergic to silver. Created when a human sells their soul to a demon in exchange for seven wicked pleasures. (Which might sound tempting, if you forget the hairy, slobbery part. Think of your dignity.)
CHAPTER ONE
If a young lady did not wish to be murdered, it was advisable that she not spend her evenings meeting with strangers on dark street corners.
Mallory knew this. She was an expert on not getting murdered—a skill she tended to value higher than, say, embroidering pincushions or playing scales on a harpsichord or the proper way of holding a salad fork. Mallory knew how to hold a salad fork, thank you very much, and it was in a tight fist while you sent those sharp little tines straight into the thigh of a would-be attacker. Or the eyeball. Or the gullet. The human body had plenty of vulnerable places to choose from, and she didn’t like to limit herself.
Mallory waited, adjusting her grip on her artist portfolio. She heard the distant whinny of a horse. The grind of carriage wheels a block over. A colony of bats squeaking overhead. Though the shadows reached for her, she remained haloed in the light of the street’s single oil lamp, so she would be easy for her clients to spot.
Easy to murder, a voice whispered, and in response she idly scratched her leg with the toe of her boot, feeling the handle of the dagger she kept hidden there. It might have been more respectable to keep it hidden beneath her skirts, but if she was under attack, she hardly wanted to waste time digging through layers of muslin and wool. What was she going to do? Ask her attacker to kindly pause while she searched for the weapon in her garter?
Boot heels clipped on the cobblestones as two gentlemen meandered past. She stood straighter, expecting her clients. One man was dressed entirely in black, while the other wore every color under the sun. She eyed them warily, but they merely tipped nonexistent hats to her as they vanished into the night.
The clock tower in the city square chimed the eleventh hour. Her foot tapped impatiently.
Finally, from the moon-spotted shadows, two new figures emerged on the other side of the street. Mallory studied them as they entered the lamplight. The man was light-skinned, broad and portly, wearing a stylish capotain hat and ruffled cravat. Either high society or pretending to be, in hopes he would eventually get admitted into their exclusive circles.
His companion was a petite girl in a shapeless crimson robe, the trailing hem gathering filth from the street. Her hair had been shaved nearly to the scalp, making way for the delicate tattoo of a bow and arrow above her left ear.
Mallory’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. She’d had many odd characters on her tours. The scholars who peppered her with earnest questions about the mansion’s history and the Saphir family’s current political affiliations. (Luckily, Mallory was adept at making things up, because really, how should she know?) There were those who were intrigued by anything to do with the occult—not because it was strange or taboo, but because it was fascinating. The guests who came for a thrill, so they could proclaim drunkenly to their friends back at the tavern that they had survived the House Saphir. And then there were the romantics. The ladies who were determined to swoon and the suitors who were determined to “protect” them with needless acts of chivalry.
But a priestess of Tyrr? This was a new one.
“Welcome, Priestess,” said Mallory. “You’re a long way from the nearest temple.”
The girl giggled shyly. “I’m only an initiate. I take the vows next week.”
“My sister has decided to devote her life in service to the gods,” the man said dryly. “I cannot fathom why.”
The girl kept smiling, though there was an edge to her expression. “That’s because you can’t fathom devoting your life to anyone but yourself.”
The man shrugged.
Mallory hated to admit it, but a part of her agreed with him. Devotion to the seven gods had become a popular pastime among society’s elite after the fall of the veil nearly two decades ago—but she didn’t see the appeal. As far as she could tell, the gods were taking no more interest in the affairs of humans now than they had back when the veil was still in place.
“This is where the tour begins, is it not?” asked the man.
“The House Saphir tour?” she said. “The one full of torture and dismemberment? Yes, you’re in the right place. Though usually this tour appeals to heathens and outcasts, whereas you both appear so very … respectable.”
The man’s cheek twitched, evidently unsure if she was complimenting or insulting them.
“You must be Sophia and Louis Dumas,” said Mallory, shifting her weighty portfolio to her other hand. “What brings you here tonight?”
“I feel it is my duty to introduce my sister to something of the world before they lock her up in that temple and never let her out again,” said Louis.
“Priestesses are not prisoners, Louis. And there will be plenty of travel. One of my foremost responsibilities will be visiting townships to preside over treaties and peaceful negotiations, attending ceremonial hunts, blessing the weaponry of our great—”
“Yes, yes, what an exciting life you will lead,” Louis interrupted, while shooting Mallory a see what I mean? look. “This is our last night in Morant. We had our fortunes told by a quaint little witch on Rue Tilance, and she suggested we take this tour before we depart. She spoke highly of the guide.”
Mallory smiled thinly. That quaint little witch was her older sister. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“She had the most fascinating wares in her shop,” Sophia said, studying the iron gate that towered above the street. “Louis bought an authentic god-relic—one of Wyrdith’s golden feathers. We were guaranteed it would bring him good luck in the coming year.”
“A rare treasure indeed,” said Mallory, pretending to be impressed. “What did you pay for it?”
Louis puffed up his chest. “Only twelve lys.”
“A bargain.” Mallory turned her head so he wouldn’t see her proud grin. That was well worth the cost of the gold foil and hours that Anaïs had spent figuring out how to apply it to those damned crow feathers.
She glanced up as the moon winked from behind a cloud. Her final guest, a Monsieur Badeaux, was officially late. “We are waiting for one more gentleman to join us, then we shall begin.”
“You mentioned heathens,” said Monsieur Dumas in a joking tone. “I imagine this tour draws plenty of unsavory characters.”
“On occasion,” said Mallory. “But then, you are taking the tour, are you not?
Louis frowned. “What are you implying?”
“Only that it’s rare to truly know a person’s character, whether they are complete strangers or our dearest relations. Most people, if asked to imagine the circumstance of their own murder, will picture a stranger. Perhaps a random attack in some dark alley. But study enough murders, and you’ll come to realize that it’s far more common for the victim and the killer to know one another, sometimes intimately. It’s usually the husband, but…” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Murder between siblings is not unheard of.”
Sophia’s brow pinched in mild confusion, like she couldn’t imagine why Mallory was telling her this, even as her brother sputtered in offense. Before he could defend his honor and proclaim that he did not have any intention of killing anyone (though isn’t what they all say?), Mallory held out a palm.
“While we wait, the cost of the tour is six galets each, paid up front.”
“Six galets?” said Louis. “That fortune teller told us—”
Sophia nudged him hard in the ribs, cutting him off. With a grumble, he dug the payment from his coin purse.
“Fabulous,” said Mallory, tucking the money away. “As our final companion is running late, perhaps we will begin without him.”
She faced the mansion, which sat like a crouched monster in the shadows off the street corner, illuminated by the faintest hint of lamplight and a touch of silver from the waxing moon.
The chains on the gate were an illusion. They were bulky and ominous, crafted of iron and rust, and were generally enough to deter curious passersby from trespassing on the abandoned grounds. But if anyone bothered to look closely, they would see that the padlock on the chains was broken, and had been for some time.
Mallory had absolutely nothing to do with that. She swore.
“Is it … legal for us to be here?” asked Sophia as Mallory unwound the clinking chain.
“Not to worry, I conduct these tours all the time,” Mallory said, pretending that was a proper answer.
Sophia did not press further.
The hinges screamed as Mallory pushed the gate open and squeezed through. Louis made a face as the lichen-covered metal left streaks on his jacket, though Sophia did not seem to mind the same smudges on her robes.
A straight pathway led through the garden to the mansion, but Mallory walked slowly, allowing the tourists to take in the dried-up fountains. The crumbling garden walls. And—before them, the mansion. Narrow but tall, with three floors for living and entertaining, plus an attic that was mostly servants’ quarters. The exterior was entirely white limestone, but soot, dirt, and trailing vines of ivy and wisteria had been doing their best to devour the façade for decades. Leaded and stained-glass windows that had been the height of fashion a century ago were now filthy, broken, or both. The massive entry doors—an arch of dark oak—were carved with medallions of demonic boar heads. A fitting welcome, Mallory thought, to the house that claimed such a sordid past.
“Let us begin,” said Mallory, walking backward on the cobblestone path. “What do you know about Monsieur Le Bleu?”
After a hesitation, Louis responded, “He murdered people.”
“Wives,” Sophia added, her voice quietly reverent. “He murdered his wives.”
Mallory tucked her portfolio beneath one arm and began her recitation.
“His name was Count Bastien Saphir, but most people know him by his moniker: Monsieur Le Bleu, thus named because his hair and beard were so black that in certain lights, they were said to appear almost blue. Of course, the surname Saphir may have had something to do with it as well.”
She paused between two weed-infested garden beds. It was difficult to picture them as they had once been, with manicured boxwoods and colorful geraniums.
“He was born in his family’s country estate outside the village of Comorre, forty miles northwest of here, and grew up an only child, the sole heir of the family winemaking fortune. For generations, Saphir’s estate Ruby Comorre was one of the most expensive and sought-after wines on the market. As it is fortified with brandy, it can be preserved for years, even decades—and many say the flavor improves with time. This has made it particularly desirable with merchants who trade with countries as far as Isbren and Gai-Yin, where it is a rare commodity among the nobility. Connoisseurs also appreciate that the additional alcohol gets you drunk faster.”
She climbed the front steps to the house. “But Bastien was bored with country life, so when he was twenty-one years of age, he bought this parcel of land, here in the heart of Morant, for the construction of the mansion before you. He spared no expense, as you can see from the gold-plated sundial on the south terrace and the decorative medallions that ornament the upper floors—each one unique and hand-carved by a local artisan.”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Monsieur Dumas, whose scowl had been deepening as Mallory had set the stage for her horrific tale. “Are you going to give the entire tour?”
Mallory stared at him. “That was my intention.”
“But you … You’re…” His puzzled expression turned to one of distaste. “I thought you were the secretary, or … You know. The one who would greet us and take our hats and coats. Not the guide.”
Mallory’s jaw twitched. “You were mistaken.”
“But this tour is about … murder.” He dropped his voice. “It isn’t ladylike to speak of such things.”
Sophia grimaced in embarrassment.
Mallory was beginning to understand why Sophia might want to run off and join an order that pledged their lives to the god of archery and war, a god who did not care if you were male or female or something else altogether. If Louis was going to make comments like this all night, she would spend her evening fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
That was a lie. She would roll her eyes without hesitation and without apology.
But it might cost her a tip at the end of the night, and no amount of chauvinism would change the weight of his coins in her purse.
She sighed. “I am Morant’s foremost expert on Monsieur Le Bleu and the Saphir family, and currently the only tour guide operating at this mansion. If your delicate sensibilities would prefer to spend the evening in the gambling hall, I will not keep you. But if you wish to see inside the house, then I suggest you decide quickly so we can move on.” She paused, before adding, “Also, the fee is nonrefundable.”
Monsieur Dumas cast a disapproving look at his sister, as though he didn’t want her getting ideas from such a headstrong woman, which made Mallory wonder how much he knew about the patron god his sister had chosen to serve.
“As I was saying. Once the house was complete, Monsieur Le Bleu began to spend nearly all his time here in Morant. Which is where our tale truly begins.” Taking hold of the handle shaped like a sea serpent, Mallory pulled the door open with a dramatic, creaking groan. “Welcome to the House Saphir.”
CHAPTER TWO
Shadows reached for them as they stepped through the doorway. The foyer was thick with the smell of dust and mildew and rat droppings. Mallory was used to it, but Sophia wrinkled her nose and Louis pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth.
Mallory picked up the lantern she kept on the vestibule table and lit the candle inside, illuminating the foyer. An ornate geometric pattern in white and blue tiles spanned from the doorway into the drawing room. A mahogany staircase curved upward, each balustrade carved into an ominous hooded figure. An arched doorway straight ahead guided visitors into the corridor to the dining hall and ballroom. It was a dizzying way to be received—which was quite by design. This was not a house intended to make visitors feel comfortable. It was intended to make them feel awed, honored, and entirely unbalanced.
Mallory lit the occasional candle as they passed through the ground floor of the mansion, explaining the purpose of various rooms as she went: The parlor where guests had once been greeted with a glass of House Saphir’s famous wine, served ice-cold in the summer months—the epitome of luxury. The solarium where some broken pots still remained, the last vestiges of what must have been a lush jungle encased in glass. Mallory explained how Bastien Saphir had loved oranges and thus insisted on keeping a live orange tree in the center of the room, so he would always have the fruit at hand. She pointed out the empty birdcages that still hung from the ceiling, having once displayed golden canaries and melodic nightingales for the enjoyment of Saphir’s guests.
