Grim Lovelies (Grim Lovelies 1)

Are you here still?

She shot Beau and Cricket a look over her shoulder, but they were both too concerned with checking every corner for something that might attack them to notice herbs.

As they continued down the hall, Anouk realized that no one had dusted anything in ages. Cobwebs spanned the exposed wooden rafters, and clumps of curled dried leaves clustered in the corners, skittering in the drafts. Precarious piles of books lined the hallway, as though someone had started to move them from shelf to shelf years ago but abandoned the project. Trying to read the spines, Anouk bumped into a stack and the top book fell open, spilling out dried blossoms that had been pressed between the pages.

She picked up a paper-thin rose.

“You don’t have a maid,” she said in surprise.

Mada Zola stopped. Her eyes went to the cobwebs in the corner. “Is it that obvious? I used to keep house better. For months it’s been just the two of us. I’m afraid we’ve let things go.”

Anouk could think of two things wrong with this statement. First, they couldn’t possibly have been maintaining the entire estate alone. The house was neglected, but the garden wasn’t. Despite what Petra had claimed, someone had to be out there watering the flowers—?tricks and whispers couldn’t keep a garden that size going forever. And second, they hadn’t been alone. Anouk had heard, just two days ago, a person who must have been Mada Zola talking with someone on Luc’s scryboard. A man.

“I don’t mind the mess,” Anouk clarified, even though she itched to attack it all with a feather duster. “It’s admirable that you do your own cooking and cleaning. That you don’t use servants.”

And it was true, the Château des Mille Fleurs wasn’t anything like what they’d feared—?at least not on the surface.

“That’s a kind word for how Vittora treated you,” Mada Zola said. “I might have said slaves.”

She opened a door to a cozy sitting room that was less dusty than the hall, likely because it seemed to be used more often. There was a large banquet table, though it was covered in books and probably hadn’t seen a plate in years. And the portraits. Every inch of the high walls was covered in ornately framed paintings. Anouk turned in a slow circle, taking in the hundreds of painted eyes, feeling like fingertips were walking up her neck.

She recognized various Royals—?there was a painting of Lord and Lady Metham dancing, and one of a rather severe-looking Countess Quine on a horse, and, of course, multiple paintings of Rennar. He was everywhere. It was hard to count exactly how many portraits were of the crown prince, but his handsome face seemed to be looking at her from all angles, from above the mantel, from over the threshold, from at least three corners. She touched her messy hair, realizing she must look awful. Was he watching? Had he taken notice of her? In all the portraits, he was dressed in his frost-gray suit and had a crown of gold briars; in none of them was he the boy with the mussed hair and scarf who’d shown up on her doorstep.

“Mon Dieu,” Anouk breathed, staring at the portraits.

“Don’t mind them,” Mada Zola said. “They don’t watch anymore, not since I’ve been banished. They’ve nothing to watch. Just Petra and me playing cards and pressing flowers.”

Anouk didn’t feel reassured, and as though sensing her thoughts, the witch followed her line of sight to a life-size portrait of Prince Rennar staring back at them with those cool blue eyes.

“You recognize the prince,” she said, somewhat surprised.

“He came to dinner the night Vittora died.” She paused, clutching the clock in her pocket. Had it truly been only one day since she’d opened the townhouse door and seen him there? Since her life had changed so dramatically?

Mada Zola folded her arms, studying the portrait. “Don’t get swept up in his

influence. It’s difficult not to, I know. The power he wields, the way he looks at you as though he sees straight to the person inside you, the person you didn’t even know you were. Some say he was born of a Spanish duke and a witch during the Louis the Fifteenth wars, but I think he’s too patient to bear any witch blood—assuming a witch could even conceive. I’d guess that he came from old Viking royalty. The fair hair. His fondness for the sea.” She gazed at the portrait cryptically. “He’s been prince for only a few decades. He worked his way up in the ranks over two hundred years. In all that time of knowing him, I’ve yet to figure him out. Although I’ve learned that he’s not one to be trifled with.”

Anouk felt a creeping heat spread up her neck, a shiver that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She took in the other portraits. “You’re certain they aren’t watching us?”

“I promise.” Her voice was a purr. She whispered toward the fireplace, “Incendie flaim.”

A fire sparked and caught on the dry wood.

“Petra, our guests look shaken to their cores. Why don’t you fetch the cocoa and put everyone at ease? Bring a bag of those tiny marshmallows too.” She rubbed her hands together briskly before the fire. “Sit, dearies.” She motioned to a dusty divan.

Beau looked ready to bolt back to the safety of the car. “I’ll stand, thanks.” He went to the window, wiped away the grime with his sleeve, and peered out at the gardens. “What kind of security do you have here?”

“Why, who’s chasing you?” There was a guarded note in Mada Zola’s otherwise gentle voice.

“Who isn’t?” Beau answered.

Anouk figured that honesty had gotten them this far—?the greatest threat they’d encountered here was being crushed under a falling pile of books—?so she might as well continue being truthful. “It’s Mada Vittora’s boy, Viggo, and the assassin called Hunter Black. They’ve been following us since we left Paris. Viggo thinks we killed his mother.”

“They can’t reach you here,” Mada Zola assured him. “They can stalk outside the gate and scowl all they want, but they won’t set foot on my territory, meager though it is.”

Anouk’s tight shoulders relaxed, though one hand was still curled around the knife in her pocket. But there was that eternal thumping in her other pocket, the clock. Not so easy to hide from time.

“What did you mean,” Cricket said in a slightly high tone, “when you said that we’d come back? And that name you mentioned—?Cricket, was it?”