Bergamot.
Lavender to signal that they’d successfully stolen the spell and they should all meet at the elevator. Bergamot to mean that something had gone wrong and it was every beastie for himself. Her instinct was to reach for lavender, yet the scoop didn’t move in her hand. She whistled Cricket over, who narrowly ducked a piping-hot tray of madeleines to join her.
“Lavender or bergamot?” Anouk said quietly.
“What are you talking about?”
“It should be your choice, not mine. Viggo’s been awful to you. A brute.” She handed Cricket the scoop. “So you pick. I’m your friend above all else, Cricket. If you say screw the jerks, then we’ll give a tray of bergamot tea to the closest butler to deliver and sneak off to the elevator on our own. Leave them to their fates.”
Cricket was at a rare loss for words. She took the silver scoop and tapped it anxiously against the palm of her hand, leaning toward one canister, then the other.
At last, she scooped out a hefty spoonful from one and dumped it into the pot of boiling water, then picked up the tray and shoved it in Anouk’s direction. Anouk lifted the lid to catch the aroma.
“Lavender. You’re sure?”
“If anyone is going to torture the salaud, it’ll be me.”
Anouk adjusted her lace veil to hide as much of her face as possible, and Cricket did the same, then Anouk carried the tray into the hallway, Cricket right behind her with the broom and feather duster. Cricket glanced at the map on her arm and whispered directions to the salon. The door was cracked open. Anouk could feel heat within and hear the crackle of a fire and voices. A woman’s biting hiss, and then Viggo’s petulant moan.
“In and out,” Cricket whispered, hand on the doorknob. “Like thieves.”
“Like ghosts,” Anouk agreed.
Cricket nodded solemnly and opened the door. Anouk tried to hide the slight shaking of her hands as she entered the salon. She kept her gaze low, taking in the room out of the corner of her eye: Viggo sitting on the sofa, Hunter Black at his side. Countess Quine—?she of the hissing voice—?towering over Viggo with a blade-capped fingertip an inch from his face. Lord Metham in a leather armchair, stuffing a pipe. His wife by the window, looking drearily out at the rain, lips stained green and pink from powder.
Where was Rennar?
His absence made her falter, and she nearly tripped on the heavy fringe of the salon’s rug. The teacups clattered and Countess Quine shot her a look. Fear rippled all the way to Anouk’s toes. Rennar hadn’t recognized her earlier, but Countess Quine had been at the townhouse that night too, and so had the Methams.
“Pardon me,” Anouk said quietly. “I’ve brought tea at the prince’s request.”
She bent forward to set it on the coffee table and was able to catch Hunter Black’s eye. His face was as growl-some as ever, his posture tense and folded in on itself, but when he smelled the lavender tea, she saw that mask slip.
Was that—?could it possibly be—?a look of trust?
“My love!”
Anouk’s short-lived optimism came crashing down. Viggo, the imbécile! He was already pitching himself toward her, almost knocking the tray out of her hands and looking inclined to throw his arms around her. Countess Quine stopped talking and stared at Viggo as though he were speaking in tongues. Lady Metham turned from the window with a quizzical expression. Anouk felt the blood drain from her cheeks, but they were saved by Hunter Black. He slammed his elbow into Viggo’s side, knocking the breath out of him before he could say one more incriminating word.
Viggo collapsed back on the sofa, clutching his side.
“Have you lost your mind?” Countess Quine asked him. “Do you even know this maid?” She started to look more closely at Anouk, her eyebrow rising.
Hunter Black leaned in as though to help Viggo, and Anouk heard him whisper something low and fast. Viggo blinked with understanding.
“I loved,” Viggo choked out. “I meant to say that I loved her. Mada Vittora, of course. I loved her as a mother; how can you think I had anything to do with her death?”
Countess Quine lowered her metallic fingernails one at a time as her suspicion shifted away from Anouk and onto Viggo. “Then who did?”
Anouk set down the tray and quickly poured the tea.
“How am I to know? She wasn’t short on enemies! Mon Dieu, I’d never have come here if I knew I’d be subjected to these accusations. My own mother murdered in my house, and you’re supposed to be the law of the Haute, you’re supposed to find out who did it and bring that person to justice—”
“What about your lapdog?” Countess Quine ask
ed, looking at Hunter Black.
“Hunter Black, like myself, has been trying to solve this murder. What have you been doing? Sipping your tea and . . . and putting pomade in your hair and no one thinks about me, about what I’m going through. Don’t you understand how hard this is for me? Adopted children have attachment issues!”