“Are you always so witty?”
“And charming,” he said quickly. “Don’t forget charming.”
Alexander paused at a wide set of doors, already opened, and gestured for me to go through ahead of him.
A long table stretched out in the center of the hall. It could easily have held fifty guests but was set for five. A series of tall windows ran along one wall. Their curtains, long swags of rosy velvet, were left open, showing a moonlit balcony full of artfully arranged potted plants.
Dozens of candles lined the lacquered table in shades of pinks and greens, creating a more intimate space in the room’s vast void. Above us hung three chandeliers, unlit yet glittering like ice.
A footman stepped forward to pull out a chair for me. Alexander rolled up to the spot at my right. Gerard took his place at the head of the table, to my left. Dauphine sat across the table from her son, leaving the seat in front of me open.
A strange hum filled the air, a sound of grinding gears and mechanisms set in motion. It sounded as if the whole house was groaning under sudden duress.
“The lift,” Alexander explained softly.
“Mother must be on her way,” Gerard said.
I jumped at the loud thunk that seemed to punctuate his words.
In an identical sweep, he and Dauphine rose from their seats as a figure entered the room. Alex gave me a short nod, indicating I should stand as well. A pink warmth spread over my cheeks as I followed after.
She was small and gray, swathed in a dour little dress of black beaded damask, hunched over a bamboo cane. Its glass topper caught the candlelight, momentarily dazzling me as she picked her way across the room. Gerard motioned to leave the table to assist her, but she waved him off with a grumpy gesture.
“Stay where you are, stay where you are.”
Thin white curls were twisted and carefully pinned into a pouf on the top of her head, but some parts of her pink scalp still peeked through. As frail as she appeared, her face was remarkably smooth, her gray eyes sharp and alert, aided by a small pair of silver spectacles that perched low on her button nose.
We waited for her to take her seat before relaxing again.
“Mother, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Verity Thaumas. She’ll be staying with us for the next few weeks. She’s come to paint Alexander’s portrait.” She made a harumph noise, acknowledging him, but her eyes remained on the table before her. Gerard turned to me. “Miss Thaumas, this is my mother, Madame Marguerite Laurent.”
I remembered what Alexander had said about Salann’s stiff formalities and tried smiling warmly at the older woman. “Marguerite, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
Slowly, her eyes drifted to mine. “I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice sounded as creaky as an old wooden rocking chair. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
“We haven’t,” I clarified, wondering if her mind wandered with age. One of my aunts suffered from a similar malady. My cousins were forever having to remind her of where and when in life she was. Sometimes even who they were. My heart softened at her plight. “I just arrived at Chauntilalie this evening.”
The line of her lips tightened. “Then why on earth would you choose to address me as though we are acquaintances?” Her eyes squinted at me with obvious disdain.
“I…I’m so sorry, terribly sorry, Lady—Madame Laurent. I—”
“If I wanted to address the help, I would have hired you on myself, but as I have not…” She puffed herself as high as her constricting bodice would allow and looked away.
“Mother, Verity Thaumas is more than just—”
She frowned. “Thaumas, did you say, Gerard? She’s one of those Thaumas girls?”
He nodded, shooting me a look of apology. “Ehhh, yes, Mother. Her oldest sister is the Duchess in Sal—”
“I know where they’re from, boy,” she snapped. Marguerite peered across the table with sudden interest. “Thaumas…I remember hearing about you. You and yours,” she corrected herself, wetting her lips with a quick dart of her tongue. “Yes…So, Gerard. You’ve brought one of those cursed girls into my house.”
“Cursed?” Dauphine echoed, the color draining from her face. It left her stained lips bright as a bloody slash.
The old woman nodded sagely, triumph flashing in her gimlet eyes. “Yes, yes. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them. The Thaumas Dozen. The Thaumas Curse.”
I cleared my throat, struggling to find my voice. “That’s not true.”
“You’re telling me none of your sisters are dead?” Marguerite asked, leveling her gaze upon me. It burned like a branding iron. “Your father? Two mothers?”
“It was…Those were accidents.” I turned to Dauphine, terrified she’d believe her and throw me from the house before I could taint any of them. “Terrible accidents. But truly, there is no—”
“The soup course,” announced the valet before opening a side door.
A flurry of servers hurried in, carrying silver domed dishes for each of us. With choreographed precision, they removed the lids at the exact same moment, releasing a waft of steam.
The bowls were made of a mint-colored glass, shot through with clouds of orchid swirls. I blinked at the soup, laden with creamy white flowers.
“Arugula blossom soup,” Gerard explained. “It’s one of Raphael’s specialties.”
Marguerite’s eyes narrowed, the matter unforgotten. “But about the girl—”
“Mother,” he said roughly, silencing her.
“Raphael is our cook,” Dauphine filled in, smoothing out the napkin in her lap over and over. “He’s an absolute culinary genius.” She’d arranged her face into a careful mask, as if wanting to sweep her mother-in-law’s assertions—and possibly the lady herself—under the rug.
“Go on and try it,” Gerard said.
“But I—” I wanted to finish the conversation, wanted to assure my patrons that they’d not invited some terribly unlucky charm into their house, but I stilled as Alexander let out a short cough.
When I glanced his way, he gave a discreet shake of his head, as though beseeching me to let the matter die away.
“I’ve…I’ve never tried a soup with blossoms before,” I finished feebly.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Alexander said, offering a perfectly lopsided grin. He scooped up a bite with theatrical gusto. I was unspeakably gladdened by his small kindness.
“What are these?” I asked, picking up the soup spoon from the lineup of golden flatware flanking the bowl. Bold clusters of pointed flowers bloomed across the handle, circling around the fiery Laurent sigil.
“Euphorbia marginata,” Gerard said. “Snow-on-the-mountain. In our house, each duke chooses one flower to represent the family, to symbolize all our hopes and goals.”
“What a beautiful tradition. We just keep the same octopus, generation after generation. You wouldn’t believe the amount of tentacles dripping throughout Highmoor.” I could feel myself rambling, nerves taking control of my mouth and making me sound foolish. I quickly dipped the spoon into the broth. If I was eating, I couldn’t be talking. “Oh,” I murmured. I’d expected it to taste terribly sweet and floral, like catching a mouthful of spritzed perfume, but the soup was surprisingly savory, spicy and thick, with notes of pepper. “This is delicious.”