#Review - A Lie for a Lie by Ren DeStefano #Thriller #Suspense

Series: Standalone
Format: 320 pages, Paperback

Release Date: March 10, 2026
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thriller, Suspense

A deadly game of cat and mouse unfolds when a housewife with a secret life takes on a tech billionaire with secrets darker than her own . . . from the author of How I'll Kill You.

Margaux leads a double life that would make most people dizzy. By day, she's a seemingly ordinary interior decorator with a picture-perfect marriage. By night, she works for a mysterious employer known only as Mr. X. Her specialty: infiltrating the lives of dangerous targets, gaining their trust, and ultimately exposing their crimes. 

Her latest assignment: unraveling the reclusive life of Bertram Casimir, a billionaire tech CEO whose career is as mysterious as his past. His sister claims he stole her app to build his fortune. Not only that, his girlfriend may or may not have recently gone missing.

Bertram sees through Margaux’s carefully constructed facade, matching her move for move. As the lines between hunter and prey blur, Margaux finds herself unexpectedly drawn to Bertram. They share more than she'd like to admit—a dangerous intelligence, a taste for high-stakes manipulation. When the evidence begins to shift, threatening to destroy everything she knows, Margaux realizes this is far more than just another job.

Her hidden past—and her life—are now on the line. One lie remains, and it might just save her.

A Lie for a Lie by Ren DeStefano is a high-stakes story centered on deception, double lives, and moral ambiguity in a modern spy-thriller framework. The novel follows Margaux Blue, a woman living what appears to be an idyllic suburban existence but a past she's been hoping to change. She's an interior decorator, married, and mother to a young daughter. But this carefully curated facade hides her true identity—she's a skilled operative working for a shadowy figure known only as Mr. X. 

Her assignments involve infiltrating the lives of dangerous individuals, earning their trust, and ultimately exposing (or eliminating) their crimes. When she's tasked with targeting a powerful tech billionaire whose secrets prove far darker and more personal than expected, the mission spirals into a tense game of cat and mouse that blurs the lines between hunter and hunted. As Margaux gets closer to her target, her own past catches up, forcing her to confront the cost of the lies she's told—to others and to herself. 

The story starts with a slower burn as we settle into Margaux's dual worlds, but once the stakes rise, the pages practically turn themselves. The first-person narration pulls readers deep into Margaux's conflicted psyche—her calculated coolness, moments of vulnerability, and the constant tension of maintaining her cover. This intimate perspective makes the twists feel personal and unpredictable. DeStefano updates the formula with contemporary elements—tech surveillance, billionaire culture, and the psychological toll of living a compartmentalized life—without ever feeling gimmicky. 

The cat-and-mouse dynamic is electric, packed with deception, unexpected alliances, and reversals that keep the momentum high. Character development is strong, particularly for Margaux. She's not a flawless action hero; her choices are messy, her loyalties are tested, and her internal struggle adds real emotional depth. The supporting cast, including her family, Elodie Blevins, and the target, is well-sketched and serves to heighten the stakes rather than just fill space.

If there's a minor critique, it's that the deliberate setup in the early chapters might test the patience of readers craving immediate action. But that slow build pays off richly in the second half, where the revelations come fast and furious. Some twists are audacious, though a couple hinge on convenient timing or withheld information. Lastly, I truly believe that DeStefano is not finished with Margaux or her family. Not when the villain of this story was not only cunning, but vindictive as well. 

One

The courtroom is packed.

Today, the highly publicized six-month murder trial comes to an end. At seven this morning, the jury announced that they had reached their verdict. Now we gather to hear the fate of the defendant, Emma Graham.

"Mom," Collette whispers, "I can't be late for school. I have a math test today."

At eleven years old, my daughter is going on thirty.

"It's fine." I wrap my arm around her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze. "Not everything is learned in the classroom. This is educational."

Collette cranes her neck to see over the rows of people seated ahead of us. We didn't get here early enough to sit directly behind the attorneys, but with the popularity of this case, it's a miracle we got in at all. Through the window, I can see that the sidewalk outside the courtroom is also packed with people, all of whom are huddled over smartphones waiting for the next update.

Collette was interested in this case because it fascinated her that this crime went down long before even I was born, but also because the murderer could still be found guilty. I explained the statute of limitations to her-how some crimes, like petty theft or even assault, have an expiration date. But murder never does. Even if they find you when you're a hundred years old and on your last days, justice will come for you.

I stare at the back of Emma Graham's head. Her gray hair is cut short, and her skin is still tanned from her long days spent on sunny beaches. Back in 1985, when her husband went missing, she was youthful and radiant, only thirty-two. She wept on the news and pleaded for her husband to return to her, safe and sound. She begged the public to be on the lookout. She alluded weakly to poorly planned-out and vague mental health issues, claiming he'd "been depressed" and that she'd "always known" he "might do something."

This didn't stop her from cashing the insurance check when his van was later found submerged in a river, with him at the wheel. No attempts to escape had been made, and it was deemed an accident. He'd fallen asleep at the wheel and perhaps hit his head, rendering him unconscious on impact.

That was forty years ago. Since then, she's remarried three times-no children-and retired to an upscale condo in sunny Florida. When her husband's death was ruled accidental, the case disappeared from public discussion. And because there are so many tragedies to fill the evening news, the world eventually forgot about her.

The room falls silent when the jury files into the room. Collette eyes them curiously. The jurors aren't shown on the cameras, so this is the first time she's having a look at them.

My husband, Waylen, would be angry if he knew I've taken our daughter here. Yesterday, when he caught Collette watching the trial recap on YouTube, which contained salacious details about Emma's affairs during her first marriage, he took her iPad away. He said the topic is too grown up for her.

But whether or not he wants to admit it, Collette is smart. She knows that criminals exist and finds it reassuring that they can be punished for their crimes. Like me, she's interested in how a grave injustice can be corrected. How criminals who thought they'd gotten away with it can finally be punished.

"You're a good mother," Waylen told me recently, during one of our hushed little late-night arguments while Collette was sleeping across the hall. "A perfect one, really. But you're trying to make her too much like-"

"Like me?" I'd pressed.

"Like an adult," he'd amended, with irritating calm. "Shouldn't she be-I don't know-collecting stickers and coloring books?"

"She's not five, Waylen."

"She's not thirty-five, either." He'd had to fight to keep his voice low. He didn't say the rest of it-the part we've hashed out a thousand times. He wants our life to be more . . . normal. My obsession with spying, he doesn't understand. "What are you trying to prove?" he's asked. But I can never tell him. There's only one person who truly understands, and that's Mr. X, who agrees with me.

Now I sit in the courtroom with Collette, who is eleven-and admittedly I do forget she's not thirty-five sometimes.

The teachers at Collette's esteemed private school would be horrified to know that I'm exposing her to this case. But I wasn't much older than she is when I was in a courtroom as a defendant and stood trial for murder.

I already know the verdict will be guilty. The head juror is a petite college student named Mira Hart, and she's working for me. If there was any evidence of jury tampering that led to this conviction, the courts would have to throw the whole thing out. But that won't be an issue.

Emma Graham sits tall and straight. Maybe she's trying to maintain her pride, or maybe she still thinks she can get away with the crime she committed forty years ago. It happened before they had things like DNA testing, and small-town cops thought a man was more likely to take his own life than his loving wife was. This was back when the news media lined their pockets with sad stories of pigtailed girls who were stolen from their beds or snatched from their bicycles.

I found Emma's story while browsing a thread on Reddit. "What's a solved case that you think the cops got wrong?" Investigators never looked into Emma's motives. Just two months after her husband was found, she cut all communication with her extended family and ran off with a man she'd been having an affair with. These could have been the actions of a desperate widow looking to escape her grief. But the case still intrigued me.

Someone on the forum claimed to have a taped confession. He was an Uber driver, and he'd recently shuttled an intoxicated Emma home from a senior center bingo night. She told the Uber driver that he shouldn't get too cocky about his good looks, because one day he would also be washed up and ugly, like the man she'd murdered for a fifty-thousand-dollar insurance settlement.

Most people assumed the post was a hoax. No shortage of those on the internet. But I reached out and obtained a copy of his dashcam footage. I took on the case-no easy feat-and was able to piece the evidence together.

But I'm not a cop. I'm not even an investigator. I am part of an organization that handles things a bit differently.

Dear Emma, I began my letter to her. Although nothing can bring your loving husband back, today you are given the chance to redeem yourself. In your backyard, below the seashell where you keep the spare key, you'll find a cassette tape of the night you confessed to positioning your sedated husband behind the wheel of his van, putting it in drive, and watching him roll forward into the lake. Some details the police never released, to prove that I'm serious: You'd given him Benadryl in a late-night smoothie, and he threw up on impact. You had tried to tape a rock to the gas pedal, but it kept falling off, so you had to push it yourself. You tell people that your husband was planning to leave you and that's why you were having an affair. But after the truth cocktail my contact slipped into your drink at the bar, you confessed. You don't remember this, but I have the proof.

By signing your latest dearly departed husband's pension checks over to the safe home for battered women and children, you can save lives like the one you ended and make things right. You will not go to prison if you comply.

I'll contact you soon with instructions.


Sometimes, the criminals I contact know a gift when they see it. Not Emma. She was used to the accusations-all of which had been proven false-and she must have assumed this was yet another hoax. She didn’t shutter herself in the house or call an attorney like some have, but she did become increasingly paranoid. Looking over her shoulder when she sat at the seaside bar, jolting whenever the voices of strangers grew too close as she sunned herself in the sand.

Still, when the police finally showed up at her door, I imagine she was surprised.

Throughout the trial, Emma searched the faces of the jurors and sometimes turned to the people in the pews behind her, no doubt searching for her letter writer. No doubt wondering who was watching, who knew her darkest secret. But now that I'm here in person-rather than watching the recaps in my kitchen as I make dinner-she doesn't look for me. She's given up.

The judge, for her part, gives a passionate speech about the abhorrence of Emma's crime, and then she summons the head juror to read the verdict.

Mira Hart, twenty-one and with a melodic theater major's voice, reads from the paper in her hands. "To the charge of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant guilty."

There are more charges, but that was the big one. Collette is perched on the edge of her seat, biting her lip.

When Mira finishes speaking, for a moment it's quiet enough to hear a pin drop. The judge has instructed all of us that we'd be removed from the courtroom if we caused a disturbance.

I wait until the room is mostly empty before I take Collette's hand and lead her outside. She's somber, but when we reach the last step of the courthouse, she leaps into a dancer's pirouette. "That was really cool, Mom," she says. "Thanks for bringing me. Now I can tell my friends I was sitting five feet away from a murderer. Her shoulders got all hunched up when they found her guilty."

"Maybe this should be our secret," I say, opening the door to the SUV for her. "Your father didn't want me to take you."

"Why not?" she asks. "It's not like she's going to kill me, too. They had her in handcuffs."

Collette has Waylen's gold hair and blue eyes. She has his prowess for art and science, and they both love to bake bougie French desserts.

But even though we don't match up on everything, Collette is more like me than she realizes. I knew it very early on. Waylen sees it too, and it scares the hell out of him.

"I don't want this life for her," he's whispered to me while we're lying in bed. He doesn't mean my day job as an interior decorator, or his salaried job editing manuscripts for a Big Five publisher. He means the thing we don't say. The life he gave up. The things I do when I disappear for hours at a time, and the reason Emma Graham will spend the rest of her miserable life in prison.

"She can do anything," he's told me. "Anything but that."


I arrive at the school twenty minutes late. As I turn into the driveway, I hand Collette the note that was tucked in the sun visor. “Give that to your teacher.”

She reads it-the only child on earth to question a permission note that allows her to be late to class. "But we weren't at the dentist," she says. "Isn't that lying?"

"No, it isn't," I say, glancing at her in the mirror. "No plaque buildup. The technician said you did a perfect job."

She hesitates, tucks the note into her pocket.

She hates lying, which as a parent is a trait I appreciate. But I'm working on teaching her the subtle art of playing her cards close to the vest and knowing when to keep a secret.

"Collette, all of that 'honesty is the best policy' stuff you learn about in kindergarten isn't always applicable."

She unbuckles her seat belt. "What's 'applicable'?"

"It means sometimes the rules are bullshit." She doesn't flinch at my language, even though I don't talk this way often. She knows that this morning is special, one of those rare times when we're on the same level. And she knows that I'm going to answer the questions she normally wouldn't ask me.

"Why does Daddy get so mad when I watch trials with you?" she asks.

"You can't be too hard on him," I say. "He still thinks you'll be little forever. That's why he keeps buying you unicorn Squishmallows on your birthday."

"I still like them," she says. "I mean, a little bit." It is true that Waylen wants to preserve her innocence, but that isn't all of it. Really, it's that he doesn't want her to be like me. He doesn't want her to grow up and fall in love with someone like who he used to be when we met.

Collette opens the door, but before she can set foot on the pavement, a woman comes bursting through the double doors of the school's entrance. She paces toward us like a mad bull in pink heels and perfectly dyed platinum hair.

"Who's that?" I ask. Cynthia Nyugen does morning drop-offs, but seeing as we're late, I was expecting the drop-off to be empty.

"Mrs. Blevins," Collette groans. "Finnegan's mom."

"Who's Finnegan? I don't recognize that name," I say.

"The Blevinses just moved here," Collette says. "She's the worst."

"Which one is the worst?" I ask. "Mrs. Blevins or her daughter?"

Before my daughter can answer, Mrs. Blevins is knocking on my passenger-side window and motioning for me to roll it down, as though she's a cop pulling me over for a bank heist.

As the glass comes down, I give her my brightest smile. The one that Waylen says makes me look like a Miss America contestant whose onstage talent is dismembering a corpse. "Good morning," I say, in my best Stepford wife tone.

"This is the drop-off for students who arrive on time," she says by way of greeting. Her perfume floods the car, flowery and potent, like Natalie Portman's fever dream. I suppress a cough. "For tardy students, you're supposed to pull into the commuter lot and walk her into the main office so that she's not marked absent for the day."

"Is that really necessary?" I ask. "She's got a note."

"It's for everyone's safety," she says. Up close, it's infuriating how beautiful she is. Her makeup perfectly blended and contoured, not a single clump in her mascara, perfectly manicured nails. She exudes newness. Someone who understands the power of a first impression.

I can feel Collette's eyes on me, pleading for me to make this easy on her.

I extend a hand to Mrs. Blevins, my smile relaxing into something less robotic. "Margaux," I tell her. "My daughter has spoken so highly of your Finnegan. I'm just sorry that you've caught me on an off day."

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#Review - A Ghastly Catastrophe by Deanna Raybourn #Historical #Mystery #Romance

Series: Veronica Speedwell # 10
Format: 336 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: March 3, 2026
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Historical / Mystery / Romance

Veronica and Stoker are practically dying for a new adventure, but when their wish is granted, they find themselves up against a secret society and a darkly seductive duo in this landmark historical mystery from beloved New York Times bestselling and Edgar® Award–nominated author Deanna Raybourn.

When the corpse of an entitled young man is found entirely drained of blood in a carriage next to Highgate Cemetery, Veronica’s interest is piqued. And then a second victim is found, his death made to look like a suicide—and Veronica and her intrepid beau Stoker know the hunt is on. The two men share one link: they were both members of a society so secretive that only a singular mention of it can be found anywhere.

Thirsty for more clues, Veronica and Stoker hear that a young Romany boy may know more about their first victim, and the only way to the boy is through an old acquaintance of Stoker’s, Lady Julia Brisbane. Lady Julia and her dashing husband, Nicholas, occasionally track down murderers and are only too happy to help. But as it becomes clear that the secret society is a dangerous sect looking to entice immortality seekers, Veronica and Stoker find themselves ensnared by a decidedly more sinister couple.

The professed leader of the society claims to be a creature of the night; his partner practices witchcraft and they both fancy themselves emissaries of the otherworldly. Just as Veronica and Stoker get closer to learning the true purpose of the society and unraveling this macabre mystery, another body turns up, and they quickly discover they’ve gone from being the hunters to the hunted. . . .

A Ghastly Catastrophe is the Tenth installment in author Deanna Raybourn's Veronica Speedwell series. This story takes place in Victorian England in 1890. The key players are Veronica Speedwell, a natural scientist specializing in butterflies, and Revelstoke Templeton-Van, a natural scientist and former medic in the military. The story kicks off with a bang when a young man’s corpse—entirely drained of blood—is discovered in a carriage near Highgate Cemetery, complete with suspicious fang marks on his neck. 

Scotland Yard’s Inspector Mornaday of the Special Branch brings the case to Veronica and Stoker, and soon they’re tangled in a web involving a possible secret society, a second “suicide,” shady Romany connections, and a pair of gloriously theatrical fraudsters: the vampire-esque Lord Ruthven and the witchy Asphodel. Journalist J.J. also joins the investigation after finding herself in a precarious situation. Raybourn leans into the gothic vibes with nods to Dracula and classic vampire lore, but grounds everything in clever, rational twists that keep the supernatural elements fun rather than silly. 

What makes this book (and the series) shine is the sparkling dynamic between Veronica and Stoker. Their banter is sharp, witty, and laced with genuine affection and chemistry that has only deepened over ten books. Veronica’s fearless, scientific mind clashes delightfully with Stoker’s more pragmatic (and occasionally exasperated) nature, and their arguments—especially about whether vampires could possibly be real—had me laughing out loud. 

The supporting cast feels just as alive: Mornaday’s long-suffering presence, a welcome cameo from Lady Julia Brisbane (bridging Raybourn’s Lady Julia Grey series), and even the eccentric Rosemorran household add warmth and humor. The mystery itself is twisty and well-paced, blending historical detail, secret societies, and a touch of the macabre without ever losing its sense of playfulness. 

Raybourn uses the vampire trope as both a red herring and a commentary, delivering a satisfying resolution that feels earned rather than gimmicky. 

The Victorian London setting—Highgate Cemetery, Romany camps, glittering fraudulent séances—comes vividly to life, and the stakes rise nicely as Veronica and Stoker shift from hunters to hunted. If you enjoy clever historical mysteries with strong female leads, slow-burn romance, and just the right amount of gothic flair, this series is definitely for you. 

Chapter 1

London, 1890

Do you want to do the deed or shall I?" I asked as we stared down at the carcass.

Stoker sighed. "I suppose I will." The lackadaisical air he adopted would have been cause enough for concern; the sigh was terrifying. Stoker had always been a man of extraordinary vigour, striding with purpose and energy through all of his endeavours, no matter how small.

But our lives had, in recent weeks, grown very small indeed. Despite a physically hectic and thoroughly enjoyable winter holiday together in the Isles of Scilly, Stoker and I had returned to a London bedevilled by bad weather and worse moods. After an autumn which had seen us crack our most extraordinary case yet, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness had given way to choking fogs and a deep, creeping damp which settled into our very bones. Both of us had suffered through a series of lengthy colds, snuffling and sniffling until we were quite mad with it. We smelt of mustard plasters and liniments and other assorted unguents. The tip of my nose was, for the whole of March, the unbecoming shade of a ripe plum. Spring was slow in arriving; a series of late frosts blackened and withered the snowdrops, and the daffodils shivered in their pretty yellow caps. It was, in short, a dismal time, and if it had been only the weather and our various ailments to assail us, our spirits might not have fallen so low.

But I was conscious of a new and unwelcome feeling that spring. I had, for the first time since I had made Stoker's acquaintance, experienced ennui. My boredom lay not with him-never think it! He was as engaging and maddening a companion as ever, offering sustenance for both body and mind through a combination of vitality, intellect, and charm that was as heady as it was rare. No, our intimate friendship was as intimate and friendly as it had ever been.

Our regular work was likewise fulfilling. We had been engaged by the Earl of Rosemorran to catalogue his extensive collection with an eye to someday opening a museum. While Stoker and I were natural historians by trade-he a naval surgeon turned taxidermist and I a lepidopterist-we had been given charge of the entire collection with the result that all of our spare hours were spent in study of the various artefacts in our care. From coins to corals, stamps to suits of armour, the previous earls had collected it all, and it was the present earl's task to bring order to the hotchpotch of his forefathers. The collection was enormous and not particularly orderly, but most of the entries were exquisite, chosen with taste and purchased at great expense. (I do not include the present earl's acquisitions in this assessment. Whilst his ancestors applied standards of beauty and worth to their additions, the present earl simply buys what he likes. This accounts for the puppet theatre, the moth-eaten camel saddle we use as seating for guests, and an assortment of prosthetic limbs in questionable states of hygiene.)

The collection had come to be housed in an enormous freestanding ballroom on the earl's estate at Bishop's Folly in the heart of Marylebone. The ballroom-called the Belvedere-was only one of the various buildings that had been placed at our disposal. Stoker and I each had a folly for our private quarters, and an elegant glasshouse had been refurbished for my use as a vivarium where I might breed and study butterflies and their mothy kin. We had been given free rein over the collections, empowered to either deaccession or purchase as we saw fit, and we were beholden to no one for our time. We lived in extraordinary comfort, and we enjoyed interesting work as well as harmony in our own relationship-spiced with the occasional spirited debate when Stoker proved overly emotional. (I have long held that the male is the less logical of the species and have yet to see evidence to the contrary.)

What then ailed us that long and gloomy season, I hear you wonder, dear reader. With so many advantages, we ought to have been content-nay, we ought to have been as happy as angels.

And yet. We did not speak of it, but souls cannot be as linked as ours and have secrets. I intuited Stoker's restlessness as clearly as I felt the itch in my own blood, and the cause of it was the same as my own: we wanted a mystery. It had been nearly six months since our last investigation, and while we were certainly not professionals, we had fallen into the habit of murder-the sleuthing and not the committing, I hasten to add. And we had found it a difficult one to break. How could any mind trained to logic and observation, any person that thrilled to challenge, not find these deductive puzzles utterly intoxicating? They were as delicious to us as the rarest of wines, and we were, quite simply, suffering from the lack of a body.

I stared down at the corpse in front of me, knife in hand.

Stoker's lack of enthusiasm for the present job was not lost upon me. "Oh, let me," I said to Stoker as I bent to my task. Swiftly, the deed was done, and I held the bone out to him.

He curled his littlest finger around the bone and I did the same.

"On three," I instructed. I counted in Latin, and we pulled. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the bone snapped with the larger part resting in my hand.

"The wish is mine!" I crowed. I closed my eyes and made it quickly.

"What did you wish for?" Stoker asked as he helped himself to a drumstick.

"I cannot tell you or it will not come to pass," I reminded him.

Just then, George, the hallboy, entered brandishing a letter.

"Post, miss!" he called as he fought his way through the pack of dogs which we had somehow acquired in the course of our adventures. From Huxley the bulldog to Betony, the enormous Caucasian sheepdog, they represented every possible variation of the canine species. We had lazy dogs and dogs possessed of enough energy to pull a sled of Olympian proportions; we had affectionate dogs and dogs that would very probably stand by and watch us be devoured by Stoker's collection of dermestid beetles. The only thing they had in common was an abiding adoration of George, doubtless because he invariably smelt of interesting things. The boy had come from impoverished circumstances, and it was not until he had come into his lordship's employ that he had known food that was both wholesome and delivered at regular intervals. Still, the habits of the starveling are difficult to break, and George invariably tucked away some portion of each meal against any future hunger. A chicken wing, a bread roll, a sliver of good English Cheddar-his pockets were emptied each day either into his own stomach or that of one of his grateful siblings, but the delectable aromas remained for the dogs to sniff out.

By the time George had fought his way clear of the snufflings of each wet black nose, Stoker had finished carving the chicken and was portioning slices of juicy fowl onto our plates.

"Have you eaten, George?" he asked, poised to serve another portion.

"I have, sir," George said, although he eyed the roast potatoes with avarice in his gaze.

I did not blame him. The potatoes were golden and crisp and piping hot. I plucked one from the platter and offered it. It disappeared with a conjuror's skill into his pocket as he handed over the letter.

"From Mr. Mornaday, that detective fellow," George announced helpfully.

Stoker and I were both eager to instill in George the skills and accomplishments necessary to make something of himself. He was a Cockney child, born out of wedlock to a mother who had repeated the process of giving birth without benefit of a husband several times over. As the eldest, it fell to George even at his tender age to contribute to the household expenses. Lord Rosemorran had employed him as a hallboy whose duties included the running of errands, some of the less arduous of the heavy cleaning chores undertaken by the footmen, and whatever assorted tasks might be reliably handed off to a diligent child. In return, he was paid a modest wage and given bed and board with leave to visit his family often. So long as he attended church once a week and kept himself free of vice, he was assured of a position which might one day lead to his promotion to footman, provided he grew to at least six feet and had shapely calves. Otherwise, he would be turned over to the gardener for training in heavier labours.

Everyone seemed thoroughly pleased with the arrangement-everyone except George. He was an ambitious imp who was determined to rise from the ranks of servitude. By way of his lordship's generous gift of a library for the servants' hall, George had taught himself his letters, believing literacy would be the key to his future ambitions. He had wheedled basic numeracy out of the butler, and Stoker had undertaken to give him weekly lessons in the essential sciences, including geography and astronomy. Stoker was pleased with his progress, saying that he was very nearly ready for the fundamentals of chemistry, but I had my own thoughts upon the matter.

It had occurred to me that a slender and unprepossessing child would make an excellent observer, undetected and underestimated by everyone. A wiry lad, small for his age and agile, George was slippery as an eel when it came to finding his way through the teeming streets of London. There was not a cobbled alley or paved court he did not know; from knacker's yard to noble's garden, he had made a study of the capital, committing its secrets to memory. Each day upon his various errands, I set him a task to develop his powers of observation. I would tell him to find a man with a bowler hat and follow him for thirty minutes to see where he went and give me an account of it. Or he might count the number of butchers in a given street and tell me the price each charged for a Cumberland sausage. On days when the weather was too abominable to permit such excursions, I would give him an envelope or a bit of brown paper that had wrapped a parcel, and ask him for his conclusions about the senders.

"Veronica," Stoker had inquired after one memorable day when George had deduced the contours of a concealed Wardian case from the size of its packing crate, "is there a point to these exercises? These are the sorts of skills one would expect to be mastered by a criminal apprentice. Do you intend to set George upon a career as a pickpocket?"

"Certainly not," I had replied with some asperity. "His talents may be put to excellent use in the pursuit of justice-as have our own," I reminded him.

"How?" Stoker demanded.

"In the course of our investigations, we would often have profited enormously from another pair of eyes, youthful and sharp eyes to keep watch upon suspects and inform us of comings and goings. I am training George to be our assistant."

"Our assistant?" It is seldom that one actually witnesses someone tearing at one's hair, but Stoker threaded his hands through his tousled witch-black locks, tugging in frustration. "Veronica, we are natural scientists. Teach the boy to identify one of your bloody moths, or let me train him to the taxidermic arts, but for the love of all things holy and good, do not think to make a sort of detective of him. We are not the police."

"No, and that is a pity," I told him as I made a mental note to introduce George to the study of handwriting. "If we were the police, there would be far fewer criminals about."

Stoker tugged harder upon his hair, and I let the conversation drop solely out of concern for his follicles. Naturally, I carried on with my plan to instruct George in the detectival skills with the result that he-quite correctly-identified the hand of our sometime partner in the investigative arts, Mornaday of Special Branch.

"Well done, George," I told him. "I imagine you noticed the peculiarity of his 't's.'"

"That it smells of macassar oil," he said. "I should like some of that. It's how a gentleman ought to smell," he added with a reproachful look at Stoker.

"If you mean to shame Stoker on that score, you shall be a long time at it," I advised George absently. "He will always smell of leather, honey, and good whisky." As these were not unpleasant to me, the reader must not mistake my observation for criticism.

"And glue. And linseed oil," George murmured under his breath. He was not wrong. The tools of Stoker's trade were often to be detected clinging to his person, but I found the combination quite arresting-intoxicating, even.

I skimmed the missive, reading it over a second time as a slow smile spread across my face.

"What is it?" Stoker demanded.

"Mornaday says he will call upon us shortly. And this letter is proof that wishes on a chicken bone may come true," I told him as I pushed away from the table, dinner no longer of any consequence.

George slid smoothly into my chair in my stead, picking up my fork and helping himself to a wing and another roast potato. He eyed the broken wishbone as he crammed a forkful of potato into his mouth.

"Whahdyewhshformis?"

"Chew, George," I instructed as I made preparations to receive our visitor. "And if you are endeavouring to ask what it is that I wished for, I am only too happy to tell you. A body, George. I wished for a body."

Chapter

2

Horsefeathers," Stoker said succinctly as he handed the note back with a gesture of lofty disdain. "Mornaday says only that he will call. There is nothing whatsoever about a body. Your rampageous imagination has got the better of you. Again."

I gave him an indulgent smile. I could afford it. I was certain we were perched once more upon the precipice of adventure, and the resulting exhilaration made me generous with Stoker's impatience.

"I know you have never properly warmed to Mornaday," I began.

Stoker made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a heave of unwellness. Naturally I ignored this and went on.

I cleared my throat. "As I said, I know you have never properly warmed to Mornaday, but I think he is quite fond of you."

[NB: Stoker's reply was unsuitable for delicate readers, and I decline to repeat it here. -VS]

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#Review - The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer #YA #Fantasy

Series: Standalone
Format: 432 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: November 4, 2025
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends
Source: Amazon
Genre: YA, Fantasy, Fairy Tales

The #1 New York Times-bestselling "queen of fairytale retellings" is back with a thrilling romantasy and murder mystery based on the legend of Bluebeard.

Mallory Fontaine is a fraud. Though she comes from a long line of witches, the only magic she possesses is the ability to see ghosts, which is rarely as useful as one would think. She and her sister have maintained the family business, eking out a paltry living by selling fraudulent spells to gullible buyers and conducting tours of the infamous mansion where the first of the Saphir murders took place.

Mallory is a self-proclaimed expert on Count Bastien Saphir - otherwise known as Monsieur Le Bleu - who brutally killed three of his wives more than a century ago. But she never expected to meet Bastien's great-grandson and heir to the Saphir estate. Armand is handsome, wealthy, and convinced that the Fontaine Sisters are as talented as they claim. The perfect mark. When he offers Mallory a large sum of money to rid his ancestral home of Le Bleu's ghost, she can’t resist. A paid vacation at Armand’s country manor? It’s practically a dream come true, never mind the ghosts of murdered wives and the monsters that are as common as household pests.

But when murder again comes to the House Saphir, Mallory finds herself at the center of the investigation—and she is almost certain the killer is mortal. If she has any hope of cashing in on the payment she was promised, she’ll have to solve the murder and banish the ghost, all while upholding the illusion of witchcraft.

But that all sounds relatively easy compared to her biggest challenge: learning to trust her heart. Especially when the person her heart wants the most might be a murderer himself.

The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer marks a welcome return for the acclaimed "Queen of Fairytale Retellings." Known for her Lunar Chronicles series and other imaginative spins on classic tales, Meyer takes on the dark French folktale of Bluebeard—reimagining it as a standalone YA romantasy murder mystery blending gothic atmosphere, supernatural elements, ghosts, witches, and a touch of steamy romance. The story centers on Mallory Fontaine, a young woman from a long line of witches who feels like a complete fraud.

Her only magical ability is seeing (and communicating with) ghosts like former Duchess Triphine Maeng, which she exploits by running sensational tours of a historic site tied to the infamous Count Bastien Saphir—aka Monsieur Le Bleu—who notoriously murdered three wives over a century ago, while one wife managed to escape. Mallory and Anais are sisters who come from a line of powerful witches but have no real powers themselves. They are con artists, total frauds whose schemes never end. They basically fake it until they make it!  

When Armand Saphir, the handsome, wealthy great-grandson and current heir, shows up and hires Mallory and her sister Anais to exorcise lingering spirits from the family estate (the titular House Saphir), Mallory sees it as an easy payday and a chance to get closer to the real haunted mansion. But as new murders echo the past horrors, Mallory is thrust into a genuine investigation, navigating dark magic, monstrous creatures that have invaded the world after some veil between realms fell, family secrets, and her growing attraction to Armand—who may or may not be as innocent as he seems. 

The gothic vibes shine through in descriptions of the sprawling, eerie House Saphir, complete with locked rooms, ghostly apparitions (some helpful, some vengeful), and a creeping sense of dread. The Bluebeard inspiration is handled cleverly—she preserves the core elements of forbidden chambers, suspicious husbands, and deadly marriages while subverting expectations in fresh ways. The addition of a post-veil world where monsters roam like pests and witches are real (but not always powerful) gives the retelling a unique fantasy flavor, feeling somewhat connected to the universe of her Gilded duology without requiring prior reading. 

The romance between Mallory and Armand develops with solid chemistry—there's banter, tension, and that classic "I shouldn't trust him but I kind of want to" dynamic that romantasy fans crave. Mallory's internal conflict over her status as a fraud and her desire for genuine belonging adds emotional depth, while the murder mystery keeps the pages turning with twists that feel earned rather than shocking for shock's sake. A small critique I had was with Mallory's character. At times, she felt a little naive, especially in certain situations where I thought she should have been more cautious. Still, she’s a likable protagonist, and her journey through the story was satisfying.

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.

They passed through the dining room with its paneled walls and ornate chandeliers that now boasted as many cobwebs as crystals, while Mallory spoke of the lavish parties, the fine soirées, the endless feasts that Saphir had hosted for Morant’s elite.

“With a reputation for generosity, he was said to be the most upstanding of gentlemen. Invitations to his home were highly coveted.” Mallory approached a wall where a painting was concealed behind a swath of black velvet. “He was also devilishly handsome.”

She pulled back the velvet. The glow from her lantern danced across a portrait of a gentleman wearing a richly embroidered blue-and-gold cape over a matching doublet. The portrait had been commissioned when Bastien Saphir was in his midtwenties, and his features were startling in their severity—as if a sculptor had taken a chisel to his jutting cheekbones and sharp jaw. A tidy beard and mustache were as black as ink, as was the long dark hair tied at the nape of his neck. Most striking were his eyes. Even in the dim lighting, they were alarmingly blue, a distinctive family trait.

An unladylike sound filled the room—the noise of someone sticking out their tongue and blowing out air.

Mallory had been expecting it, and she tried not to cringe.

“If he’s devilishly handsome,” said a high-pitched, nasal voice, “then I’m the queen of Lysraux.”

Mallory didn’t answer. It would have made her guests uncomfortable, given that they hadn’t heard a thing. Rule number one when it came to interacting with ghosts—never, ever engage with them when a living person was nearby. Do not look; do not react.

Most people already thought she and her sister were peculiar. No point making it worse.

Instead, she surreptitiously scanned the room.

Triphine was sitting at the head of the dining table, her feet propped up beside a candelabra, her slight figure dressed in a nightgown and pale blue shawl, the edges of her physical form shimmering slightly. All ghosts shimmered, their bodies trapped somewhere between corporeal and ephemeral. Triphine had been beautiful in life, and was just as beautiful in death—with the delicate bone structure of a duchess descended from Gai-Yin royalty. Her luster was only slightly marred by the blackish-red blood that covered the front of her chest, compliments of the sword that had impaled her.

“I always pictured him as a pirate,” Sophia said quietly, still staring at the painting, unaware of the ghost’s presence. Her voice had a dreamlike quality to it as she took in Le Bleu’s secretive grin. “I thought he would be … rougher looking. Less genteel.”

“A pirate,” said Triphine haughtily. “Where do you find these people?”

“It’s a common misconception,” said Mallory. “The Saphir family owned many merchant ships for exporting their wine, and so had a lucrative trade business on the side. Though Monsieur Le Bleu did occasionally travel by ship for work, he was no pirate. Come, I will show you the ballroom.”

“Oh, you’re going to ignore me again, are you?” said Triphine, standing to follow as Mallory led the couple through a set of double doors. “That’s exceedingly impolite, Miss Fontaine. You know I was struggling with a horrid cough last week. Could feel the sickness all through my chest. Was bedridden for days. And you’re not even going to ask how I’m feeling?” She let out a stream of wet coughs to punctuate her irritation.

Mallory walked faster, hoping the clack of her boots on the ballroom’s parquet floors would drown out the ruckus of Triphine’s complaints. She busied herself lighting a few of the wall sconces while Sophia and Louis took in the space. There was a raised platform where musicians would have played, and heavy curtains to hide stage performers. Tall arched windows and walls lined with glittering mirrors. It would have been glorious in its day, but now their reflections were eerie and faint in the flickering candlelight, the still air dank and suffocating.

Triphine clutched her shawl against an imaginary chill. She alone did not cast a reflection. “You know, I had something important to tell you, Mallory. But if you’re going to ignore me, then I won’t say a word, and you’re going to wish I had!”

Mallory doubted that. Triphine had her uses, but she was also a constant thorn in Mallory’s side.

“What happened there?” said Louis, pointing to a corner of the room, where black scorch marks marred the floors and walls. Some of the gilded wallpaper was missing, revealing blackened wood beneath.

“Some children sneaked in years ago,” said Mallory. “Thought it would be amusing to light a few candles and try to summon the spirit of Le Bleu back from the dead. Instead, they nearly burned the place to the ground. Luckily, a few neighbors saw the smoke and managed to put out the flames in time.”

A thump came from overhead.

Everyone stilled, nervous gazes rising to the ceiling with its tin panels and chandeliers that had not seen candles in decades.

Mallory cleared her throat. “Well. It is haunted,” she said with a light laugh.

“Mallory,” said Triphine. “That wasn’t me.”

“Monsieur Le Bleu’s first marriage was to Duchess Triphine Maeng,” Mallory interrupted, ignoring Triphine’s affronted harrumph. “Their wedding ceremony took place right here in this room. Nearly three hundred guests were in attendance. But she was not only his first wife.” Mallory paused dramatically. “She was also his first victim.”

Sophia shivered. Her brother, checking his teeth in one of the mirrors, did not.

“Fine, ignore me,” Triphine said. “But if you’re going to talk about me like I’m not even here, then you’d better at least tell them about my flowers.”

“Le Bleu was the most eligible bachelor in Morant. The wedding was quite a spectacle.” Mallory opened up her drawing portfolio, revealing the first page—a charcoal sketch of the ballroom they now stood in, bedecked with elaborate flower arrangements on every wall. “The décor for the event was well-documented. The florist hired to decorate the house earned undeniable fame for the extravagant arrangements made of tropical fruits and fragrant flowers, the kinds of which most of the guests had never seen before. They were brought to Morant under special glass domes to retain the heat and moisture from their natural habitats.”

“They were beautiful,” Triphine crowed. “The wedding of the century, they called it.”

“Did we pay to hear you talk about flowers?” grunted Louis. “Get on with it.”

Sophia smacked him on the arm.

“Fourteen months after the wedding,” Mallory continued, “Triphine gave birth to Bastien the second. He was the only child Le Bleu would sire. Almost immediately following the birth, rumors began to circulate that Triphine had fallen ill. That childbirth had been too much for her. She was overcome with fatigue, eating poorly, spending weeks at a time in bed, too frail to venture into society.”

“My mother always said I had a weak constitution,” said Triphine. “But I was actually feeling quite invigorated after a few days of bed rest. Still, Bastien wouldn’t let me leave. Kept saying I needed more rest, to be strong to raise our child.” She snorted. “Manipulative bastard.”

“Less than three months after the birth of their son … Duchess Triphine Maeng-Saphir was dead. No doctor had been called to see to her ailments. No coroner came to view the body. The sacred rites of Velos were not to be followed—no anointments or prayers, no adorning her with flowers, no preparation for a proper burial.”

Sophia gasped, apparently more appalled at the lack of ritual than she was at the thought of murder.

“Bastien claimed to have conducted the rituals and buried the body himself,” said Mallory. “He claimed it was out of fear that Triphine’s disease was contagious and he did not want to risk the lives of his servants or the townspeople. As he was so very good at playing the part of the mourning widower, no one thought to question him.”

“Lying scumbag,” Triphine muttered.

Mallory let her voice drip with irony. “If ghosts could talk, perhaps Duchess Triphine could tell us the truth of what happened to her. But as it is, we are left to our own speculations.”

“Oh, har har, very funny.”

Mallory gestured to the ballroom’s wide expanse. “Rumor has it that Triphine still haunts these rooms. To this day, you might catch a glimpse of her wandering the halls in her pale nightgown and blue shawl. They say that at times her spirit will reach out to those who come to visit.” Mallory stretched out her hand, as if she would tap Monsieur Dumas on the shoulder, though he was halfway across the room. “And that she asks for one thing. The same question. Over and over aga—”

A shriek pierced the heavy air. Sophia, deathly pale, pointed at something behind Mallory.

A shadow fell across the floor.

She saw him, a figure reflected in the mirror. A man, tall and slender, with black hair and a long jacket, looming from the darkness, not two steps behind her.

Fingers grazed the sleeve of Mallory’s dress.

Her mind lurched.

Intruder. Murderer. Le Bleu.

On instinct, Mallory reached behind her and caught hold of the hand. She twisted his arm, throwing her weight into the movement as she drove the figure to the ground. The floors shook as he landed with a grunt, the air knocked clean out of him.

Mallory stared down at … a boy.

Maybe an intruder. Maybe a murderer. But not a particularly threatening one, and certainly not the ghost of Monsieur Le Bleu.

He pressed a hand to his chest as he attempted to draw in breath.

“Who in Velos’s name are you?” Mallory cried.

He wheezed slightly, then managed to suck in enough air to mutter, “Ar—er. Axel. Axel Badeaux.” He coughed. “I’m here for the tour.”

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