She’d always been self-conscious about her jaw. It gave her the look of some half-starved creature, she knew, a look that, every time she glanced in a mirror, she feared betrayed her deepest secret:
Animal. Creature. Thing.
An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. “No,” Anouk told Viggo. “She didn’t say anything else.”
Viggo grumbled in the armchair. His face was pale; the jar of blood was nearly full. He’d be in a foul temper the rest of the day, moody and drained.
“I want you to send her a message. Tell her my mother wants her here tonight to help with the dinner party.”
“But the Mada didn’t say—”
“Tell her.”
Anouk’s jaw clamped tight. Mada Vittora possessed their pelts, not Viggo. And yet refusing him was dangerous. One word to his mother, and Anouk might be locked in the cellar for days.
“I will,” she said quietly.
She escaped back to the hallway, only then realizing she was still holding the tray of herbed crow breasts and the paper-wrapped carcasses clutched under one arm. She tossed the bird entrails out into the courtyard, calling to the stray cats, trying to entice them. But they never came close.
Anouk exchanged her dirty apron for a fresh one and tied her hair back in a ribbon. She started with the feather duster, humming through each room on all seven stories, and then took the mop and polish to the ballroom floor. She’d read about contraptions the Pretties used, vacuum cleaners and blenders and something called a Mr. Coffee, but those things used electricity, and electricity interfered with Mada Vittora’s magic.
The afternoon passed in a cloud of dust motes and wood polish. Only once did Anouk pause; while cleaning the windows, she stopped to gaze out at the city beyond and remember the magic of being on the roof last night with Beau.
She heard Beau and Mada Vittora return sometime in the late afternoon while she was buried under mountains of potatoes and carrots, the cookbook splayed open, apron streaked with peels.
Beau came in, carrying a cardboard box. “Cupcakes from Coquelicot. Lady Metham adores them.” He bent over the pot bubbling on the stove, sniffing. “Hot as hellfire in here. Is this a bouillabaisse?”
“Yes. And scamper off, I’m running behind. They’ll be here in an hour.” It was an old kitchen with poor ventilation, and steam made her hair cling to her face. She pushed it back as she attacked the pile of carrots.
Instead of leaving, he leaned in. “Were you able to find out anything about Luc?”
She paused, knife in hand. “His room was just as he left it. I found the scrying room and a few odd notes in his log, but I don’t know what they mean. And then Viggo saw me.” She shivered at the memory of the snaking tubes. “He was doing a blood harvest.”
“On a Wednesday?” Beau’s face darkened. “He harvested twice last week too. Why does the Mada need that much blood?”
They heard footsteps in the hall. Anouk jerked her head toward the door. “You should go. I’ll keep looking.”
“You’ll be careful?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
Beau brushed a curl off her forehead and sauntered out, unbuttoning his chauffeur’s uniform. She finished the bouillabaisse and portioned it into teacups with rosemary woven around the handles; for the second course, she’d have a summer salad, for the third, the Corpus crow breasts stuffed with Gruyère and plum, and then the cupcakes and coffee. She laid out the table settings, polished the silver wearing white gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints, and was lighting the candles just as the doorbell rang.
“Anouk, the door!” Mada Vittora called from one of the upper stories.
“Yes, Mada!”
She hurried to light the final few candles, took one last look at the ballroom table, and grinned at the beautiful spread. She ran downstairs, expecting Lord and Lady Metham. She hadn’t ever met them but felt as though she had; she’d often seen them, their hair threaded through with glittering silver, their clothes gauzy as spider’s silk. Their faces had watched her cleaning daily from the portrait above the drawing-room fireplace. Not just watched her—spied on her. The portrait was enchanted. There were real eyes behind those painted ones, though Anouk knew chances were slim that they’d ever bother to spy on a maid when they had hundreds of Goblins and witches and Pretty associates throughout France to keep an eye on. It was a requirement that every magic handler in Europe hang the portrait of the Shadow Royals in the most prominent room of the house. To remind them all of whom they served within the Haute. And to ensure no secret meetings escaped the Royals’ ever-watching eyes.
She opened the door and paused, surprised. It wasn’t the Methams. A young man waited on the steps, his back to her, looking down at the sad little tree in the front garden.
He wore jeans and a jacket with the collar pulled up against the night breeze, a wool scarf around his neck, and a hat that hid his hair. For a second, hope pulled taut in Anouk’s chest. Luc had a hat like that.
He turned.
Pale skin, not Luc’s black-brown complexion. It wasn’t him.
The young man tugged off the hat. His hair was honey colored, slightly mussed as though he’d combed his fingers through it distractedly.
He wasn’t wearing gossamer silks. There was no sign of silver in his hair. But he had the same dark eyes that had watched her from the portrait while she swept and polished the drawing room. His was the devastatingly handsome face of the figure in the very center, flanked by Lord and Lady Metham and the other lesser Royals, a golden crown of briars resting on his perfect hair. Once, she’d even hesitantly dusted some fuzz off his pale painted face, half afraid his beautiful mouth might come alive and bite her.
Now his eyes caught the light, flashing dark tapeta like an animal at night.
“Hello.” His voice was deep and not at all unpleasant. “I take it I’m at the right house.”
Anouk found she couldn’t quite speak.
She hadn’t expected the dazzling Prince Rennar ever to wear jeans—or to be standing on her doorstep.
Chapter 4
Prince Rennar’s gaze dropped to Anouk’s midsection, and with a blush, she realized she was thoroughly sprinkled with flour. She took a step back, holding the door open with lowered eyes.
He looked at her expectantly. It took her a moment to remember that the house’s ancient protection spells required an invitation every time the Royals wanted to enter.
“Your Highness, yes. Welcome to Mada Vittora’s home. Please, come in.”
He stepped in, uncoiling his scarf, taking in the grand foyer with mild interest. But then his eyes slid back to her with the same eyeshine that sometimes reflected in the drawing-room portrait. It always gave her that neck-crawling feeling of being watched.
She reached back now, rubbing her neck. Came away with an errant carrot peel.
“So it’s true.” He regarded her with an odd expression. “Vittora does have beasties serving her.”
His eyes were too sharp, too piercing, as though they could see through her skin to the bones beneath.
She wasn’t sure how to answer this, so she stuttered, “May I . . . take your coat?”
He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over her waiting hands, but before she could turn to the closet, he grabbed her wrist, quick and firm.