The Magestaff Page 2

  “At least let me wheel the barrow. I’m going to the town center anyway.”

  The old woman’s face relaxed, and she stepped back. “Ah, thank you.”

  Rilla nodded and took the barrow’s handles. “It’s no problem.”

  Together, they walked down the country lane towards the shopping district, nodding at passing farmers in greeting. Moissan was in a country called Serotin. It was in the west of the continent and the largest producer of agricultural goods in the United Kingdom of Seven. With its eternal summer climate, Serotin was ideal for elderly artisans to make a living producing blueberry preserves.

  “Rilla, what are you doing up and around so early?” asked Madame Airelle.

  “I wanted to visit Madame de Morceau at the Commissary Court. She’s usually around in the morning, isn’t she?”

  Madame Airelle shook her head. “Madeleine has been unwell this week. Her granddaughter is taking up her duties.”

  Rilla’s heart sank. “Oh.”

  The old lady fumbled into the wheelbarrow and pulled out a bottle. She slipped it into Rilla’s hessian shopping bag and pressed a small flask of into her hands. “Why don’t you bring her some blueberry wine? I am sure she would appreciate the gift.”

  Her eyes widened. She had been certain Madame Airelle needed the drink to give to the doctor. “Are you sure?”

  The old lady nodded. “I had been meaning to give her a sip. Now you’ve saved me from making the trip across town to her house.”

  Rilla nodded. She would visit Madame de Morceau’s house after shopping. They continued down the country lane in silence. By now, the haze had lifted, leaving them walking in lush, green, sun-soaked surroundings. She squinted against the morning glare, enjoying the breeze cooling the sweat on her brow. Eventually, they reached the home of Dr. Coin. Rilla wheeled Monsieur Airelle through the doors into the reception area, bade the old woman goodbye, and thanked her for the wine. She hoped that the old couple had enough liqueurs to pay for setting the broken leg.

  * * *

  Rilla stood in line at the butcher’s, eyeing the rainbow fowls hanging in the display. They were a favorite of Mother’s and one of the most expensive meats available, as they were imported from the distant island of Merfolkstone. At two crowns per bird, they were a frivolous waste of money. That much gold could buy enough beef and lamb to feed the household for a month. She pursed her lips, trying to keep her breathing under control. While Mother and the twins had been frittering Rilla’s money on imported delicacies, Rilla had been surviving on their leftovers.

  “No, I cannot spare any bones,” snapped Madame Viandine. “You’ll have to pay like everybody else.”

  Margo, the woman at the head of the queue, sagged and walked out of the shop, head bowed.

  “No wonder her husband ran off,” muttered the butcher’s wife. “Who’d want a woman who could only muster up broth?”

  Monsieur Viandine snorted and cleaved a joint in half. Rilla turned around, following the woman with her eyes. Everyone had heard of Margo. It had been a huge scandal around Moissan when the local woodcutter had married a woman from Pampas, a country outside the United Kingdom of Seven. Although people had celebrated when he left his wife for a local girl, Rilla had felt bad for their children. From the swell in Margo’s belly, it looked like she was expecting a third.

  Rilla glanced down at her money pouch. It was the day’s allowance for food, but she could easily replace it with the cash she’d hidden in the kitchen. Unlike Rilla, Margo had no one to fall back on. So many people had been kind to Rilla over the years. She immediately thought of the twins’ tutor. The man had never kicked her out of the library, even when it was obvious she was eavesdropping on the lessons instead of cleaning.

  Rilla left her place in the queue and ran after the departing woman. “Excuse me?”

  Margo turned around. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. “Yes?”

  Rilla gulped. While it was obvious the older woman needed help, she didn’t want to insult her by offering her charity. “I heard you can draw.”

  Margo nodded.

  “Can you make a picture of me?” It was the best excuse Rilla could come up with for giving the woman money.

  Margo’s hazel eyes widened, and Rilla flushed. She shoved the coin purse in her hands. “I’ll pay, of course, and you don’t have to make it anything fancy. Just a drawing on parchment, that’s all.”

  Margo’s face lit up, and tears shimmered in her eyes. “Thank you, Mademoiselle!”

  A warm feeling spread through Rilla’s chest. It felt good to be the person helping others. She bade Margo goodbye and set off back home to collect some of her hidden money. It was still so early, Mother and the twins would still be in bed. Angelique sometimes woke a little earlier than the others, but she almost never ventured into the kitchen or around the back of the house. Nobody but Cook and Benoit would notice Rilla, and they weren’t likely to say anything.

  By the time Rilla arrived home, the sun had fully risen, illuminating the limestone facade of the Perrault Manor. Rilla stopped at the gravel driveway and her breath caught. All this—the manor house, the grounds, the surrounding house—belonged to her! She wasn’t the freeloading servant, she was the true lady of the house. And as soon as she worked out how to claim her inheritance, she would show Mother the same kindness she’d received all her miserable life.

  A petite, elegant figure stepped out of the front door, arms folded. It was Mother. Rilla’s heart sped up, and her face fell. Mother’s pretty features twisted into a scowl, and her lip curled. Her gaze flickered down to Rilla’s chest. “I see you’ve been flaunting yourself like a dairy cow. You’re an utter disgrace and burden to the family. Where have you been?”

  Heat rose to Rilla’s cheeks, and she adjusted her kerchief to hide her overgrown bosom. “I… to the shops, but I forgot something.”

  Mother waved away Rilla’s excuse with her closed fan. “Yes, yes. Get dressed and cleaned up. We are expecting a special guest today.”

  Rilla gulped. Now that she knew the gentleman from the day before could not throw her out of her own home, she didn’t know how she would respond to his ugly taunts. “Mr. Engel?”

  Mother’s smile curdled into the sharp grin she reserved for the most salacious of gossip. “Lord Bluebeard.”

  A jolt of fear shot through Rilla’s heart. Everyone had heard the gossip about that man. He had moved to Moissan two years ago with a massive entourage of servants. The man was a six-time widower, and according to the gossips, he had killed each wife and used his wealth and influence to escape punishment. “W-why would you entertain such a person?”

  Mother reared back, her mouth curled into a snarl. “What gives you the right to question me in my own home?”

  Rilla clenched her teeth, swallowing back a retort. As much as she wanted to spit the truth into Mother’s face, she knew the older woman well enough to know that rash outbursts would backfire on her. Cook was right. People had killed for less, and Rilla wouldn’t give Mother the excuse to dispose of her. She closed her eyes, picturing the day when she would throw Mother out through the front gates, and exhaled. “You’re absolutely right. In my worry for your safety, I forgot my place.”

  Rilla glanced up to find Mother smirking.

  “Put on the blue dress.”

  Rilla parted her lips to protest. Mother had acquired that monstrosity three years ago. Before Rilla’s attributes had grown out of proportion. “But—”

  “Do as I say, you ungrateful wretch!” Mother snapped.

  Rilla curtseyed and scurried around the back of the house before she said something Mother would make her regret.

  * * *

  Hours later, Mother and the twins sat in the parlor on the gilded chairs, waiting for their guest. The tea service lay on the table, along with four cups. Bergamot from the Earl Fae tea scented the room, adding to the atmosphere of sophistication. Mother had made Rilla polish the gold-plated chandeliers, cornices, mirror, and pict
ure frames. Her eyes flickered to the exquisite portraits of her so-called family. Acidic resentment bubbled in her stomach, threatening to spill over into a tirade. One day, she would teach Mother a lesson for wasting Rilla’s money on fripperies. For now, she clamped her mouth shut.

  “I want you both on your best behavior,” said Mother to the twins. Her gaze traveled to Rilla’s ill-fitting, brown, cotton gown. “I told you to wear your best. You look like a constipated boar.”

  Gabrielle and Angelique snickered. The corner of Mother’s lip curled.

  “My blue dress no longer fits.” Rilla rubbed her hand over her mouth, wanting to say, ‘because you spend all my money on your daughters.’

  Mother narrowed her eyes.

  The bell rang, and Benoit’s footsteps echoed through the hallway.

  “He’s here.” Mother’s voice was an excited squeak. “Turn on your charm, everyone.”

  Benoit opened the door. Moments later, he announced, “Lord Bluebeard, Madame.”

  Lord Bluebeard stepped into the parlor, and Rilla pressed her back against the wall, not wanting to be noticed by such a brute.

  Mother and the twins stood. From where Rilla waited by the door jamb, she could only see the back of the man. He stood a head taller than Benoit. Lord Bluebeard’s shoulders were broader than that of any farm-hand, yet his coat was of the finest navy silk. His black hair, which in the light of the parlor appeared a dark blue, cascaded down his back in huge, glossy curls.

  In profile, with his long, wavy facial hair, Lord Bluebeard reminded Rilla of a picture she’d once glimpsed of a centaur. She’d never seen such a large man so richly dressed. He appeared to be about the same age as Mother, with strong features, and his brows stuck in a permanent frown. From the size of the man, and his stern demeanor, Rilla had no problems picturing him crushing a woman’s neck in a fit of rage.

  “Lord Bluebeard!” Mother’s words came out in a breathy rush. “Please, have a seat. My daughters are delighted to make your acquaintance. Girls, greet our guest.”

  “Good day, My Lord,” the twins chanted, giving pretty curtseys before retaking their seats.

  Lord Bluebeard fixed them with a stare, but his expression didn’t change. “Good day, My Ladies.”

  Mother sat, fluttering her eyelashes.

  “Would you like some tea, My Lord?”

  “Lemon, no sugar,” he replied.

  “Cendrilla!” Mother called, false affection dripping from her painted lips. “Please pour our guest a cup of tea.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Rilla stepped forward, rounding her shoulders to make herself appear small and unnoticeable. She caught a whiff of the camphor-scented oil older gentlemen used to groom their hair and beard.

  Lord Bluebeard’s head snapped up. “Mother? She is your daughter, too?”

  The man’s gaze fixed on Rilla as she poured the tea and brought it to him with a shaking hand. His attention made her cringe. She kept waiting for a comment on her size or lack of charm, but he remained silent. He took it from her with a smile which froze halfway to his glinting, sapphire eyes.

  Mother scoffed. “Oh goodness, no. She’s simply my ward.”

  “I see,” he murmured.

  Rilla added two slices of lemon to the drink.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said to Rilla. “And how old are you?”

  Rilla’s cheeks burned at being the topic of conversation. “S-sixteen, My Lord.”

  Lord Bluebeard continued to stare, and Rilla’s heart pounded so hard, she thought it would break her bodice. “Sit with us.”

  Rilla’s breath caught. She had never been permitted on the good seats or to use the good china. For as long as she had remembered, she had eaten with the servants. “Oh, no, My Lord. I couldn’t…”

  Mother’s face froze into a grimace. “Be social, dear, and sit down.” She let out a nervous titter. “Girls of today are so willful.”

  A meaty hand clamped around Rilla’s wrist, pulling her into the embroidered seat, next to Lord Bluebeard.

  “Are you not drinking?” he asked.

  “I’m…” Rilla cleared her dry, scratchy throat. “I’m not thirsty.”

  Lord Bluebeard’s frown turned into a glower, and Rilla’s heart jumped. The only gentlemen who visited the Perrault Manor were the twins’ suitors. Rilla glanced at Mother. From the heated gaze Lord Bluebeard was sending Mother, it was clear who Lord Bluebeard had come to court. Rilla’s heart sank. She didn’t want a rumored murderer to marry into the family, and she dreaded the man becoming her stepfather.

  The tea party continued in silence. Rilla sat as stiff as a tin soldier on the unfamiliar seat, her insides cringing away from Lord Bluebeard. Every so often, he would shoot Mother aggressive looks, causing her to hide behind her fan. The twins shared confused glances. Usually, suitors entertained them with stories of their wealth and exploits. Lord Bluebeard did nothing of the sort, instead, filling the atmosphere with the sense of impending violence. After what felt like an hour, the man stood.

  “I will see you again.” The words sounded more like a threat, making Rilla’s skin crawl.

  Rilla swallowed back her fear. All thoughts of inheritance could wait. She had a more pressing issue to deal with: the potential killer entering her household. If Mother continued to entertain Lord Bluebeard, he might use some nefarious method to get her to agree to become his wife. And the entire family would be doomed.

  As soon as Benoit had shut the front door, Rilla grabbed the tray containing the tea things and rushed down to the kitchen. She had to tell Cook about the events of the day. As they washed the dishes together, red blotches appeared on the older woman’s plump cheeks. “Why in the Seven Kingdoms would Madame allow such a monster into her house? I heard he beats his servants bloody!”

  “Maybe she hasn’t heard the gossip?” asked Rilla.

  “Or doesn’t believe it. She herself has been the subject of enough rumors.”

  Rilla pushed aside the urge to ask. The matter of the serial killer at the table was far more pressing. “I’ll go to Sergeant D’Armes.”

  Cook furrowed her brow and handed Rilla a saucer to rinse. “I can’t see the constables giving you information. Besides, if they had strong evidence about Lord Bluebeard’s deadly hobby, they would have arrested him by now.”

  Rilla plunged the saucer into cold water. “You’re right. But they’re the only ones who might have the facts.”

  “Not true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Faisselle Beaufort is the Sergeant’s sister-in-law and the biggest gossipmonger in town. Go to her cheese shop. If anyone knows the facts about Lord Bluebeard, it will be her.”

  Nodding, Rilla took a china cup from Cook’s hands. She would get the facts from the cheesemonger. With enough evidence, Mother would reconsider entertaining him.

  Lord Bluebeard’s Proposal

  Since Rilla had finished her chores and had helped Cook with the washing up, she decided to venture back to the center of Moissan. She needed to ask Madam Beaufort everything she knew about Lord Bluebeard. The sooner Mother stopped entertaining a suspected wife-killer, the sooner Rilla could to investigate her inheritance.

  She gathered her coins into a pouch, set off through the back door, and walked the gravel pathways around the main building. A warm breeze blew the sweet scent of honeysuckle across the air, and the buzz of bees mingled with the chirping of hummingbirds. As usual, the gardens were in full bloom, exploding with shades of scarlet, imperial purple, and crocodile green.

  Mother would likely not believe the word of a cheese seller, even one related to Sergeant D’Armes. But what choice did she have? Newspapers tended not to report the crimes of the rich and powerful these days. Not since the riots sparked by the article about Le Sanglier, the Crown Prince of Serotin, who had married and killed three sisters. The owner of the paper was still languishing in prison.

  “Cendrilla,” said a voice.

  A tingle of dread froze Rilla’s insides
, and she turned her head. Mother stood at the doorway, clad in a white, lace dress and a wide-brimmed hat. In her hand, she held a bronze sickle. Rilla gulped. “Yes, Mother?”

  “You have neglected the grass for too long.” She held out the sickle. It was not bronze, but covered in rust. “Cut it into an inch off the ground.”

  Rilla sagged. “But the afternoon sun—”

  “You should have thought about that before gallivanting around town this morning,” Mother snapped. “People will think I’m running a hospice for the terminally idle.”

  “Can I at least use the scythe?”

  Mother smirked. “No.”

  “Fine.” Rilla snatched the sickle from Mother’s delicate fingers.

  “What did you say?” Mother’s voice was cold and clipped. It conveyed the caution of cupboard confinement.

  “Nothing.” Rilla muttered. She headed across the lawn to what was supposed to be the gardener’s hut. No such employee worked at the Perrault Manor. Cook made the meals, Benoit answered the door and drove the carriage, and Rilla did everything else. The sun beat down on her back like a vindictive parent and weighed her steps with bitter rancor.

  Rilla knelt on the grass. Its blades were only three inches long and perfectly neat from when she had cut it two mornings ago. Imagining it to be Mother’s hair, she hacked away at the vegetation, breaking out into a sweat. If she’d been allowed a sunhat, the chore would at least be bearable. If she’d been allowed the scythe, the chore would be completed sooner. Instead, Rilla trudged on. She suspected Mother was watching, waiting to dish out punishment for the slightest of mistakes.

  By the time Rilla had finished, she was a dizzy, nauseous, sweat-soaked mess. She pulled herself up, swaying on her feet, surveying the wide expanse of lawn with bleary eyes. It looked even, but she was sure Mother would find fault in her work. From the long shadows cast by the trees, it would be about an hour before the shops closed. If she was going to get the information she needed about Lord Bluebeard, now was the time to leave.