The old woman nodded sagely, triumph flashing in her gimlet eyes. “Yes, yes. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them. The Thaumas Dozen. The Thaumas Curse.”
I cleared my throat, struggling to find my voice. “That’s not true.”
“You’re telling me none of your sisters are dead?” Marguerite asked, leveling her gaze upon me. It burned like a branding iron. “Your father?Twomothers?”
“It was…Those were accidents.” I turned to Dauphine, terrified she’d believe her and throw me from the house before I could taint any of them. “Terrible accidents. But truly, there is no—”
“The soup course,” announced the valet before opening a side door.
A flurry of servers hurried in, carrying silver domed dishes for each of us. With choreographed precision, they removed the lids at the exact same moment, releasing a waft of steam.
The bowls were made of a mint-colored glass, shot through with clouds of orchid swirls. I blinked at the soup, laden with creamy white flowers.
“Arugula blossom soup,” Gerard explained. “It’s one of Raphael’s specialties.”
Marguerite’s eyes narrowed, the matter unforgotten. “But about the girl—”
“Mother,” he said roughly, silencing her.
“Raphael is our cook,” Dauphine filled in, smoothing out the napkin in her lap over and over. “He’s an absolute culinary genius.” She’d arranged her face into a careful mask, as if wanting to sweep her mother-in-law’s assertions—and possibly the lady herself—under the rug.
“Go on and try it,” Gerard said.
“But I—” I wanted to finish the conversation, wanted to assure my patrons that they’d not invited some terribly unlucky charm into their house, but I stilled as Alexander let out a short cough.
When I glanced his way, he gave a discreet shake of his head, as though beseeching me to let the matter die away.
“I’ve…I’ve never tried a soup with blossoms before,” I finished feebly.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Alexander said, offering a perfectly lopsided grin. He scooped up a bite with theatrical gusto. I was unspeakably gladdened by his small kindness.
“What are these?” I asked, picking up the soup spoon from the lineup of golden flatware flanking the bowl. Bold clusters of pointed flowers bloomed across the handle, circling around the fiery Laurent sigil.
“Euphorbia marginata,” Gerard said. “Snow-on-the-mountain. In our house, each duke chooses one flower to represent the family, to symbolize all our hopes and goals.”
“What a beautiful tradition. We just keep the same octopus, generation after generation. You wouldn’t believe the amount of tentacles dripping throughout Highmoor.” I could feel myself rambling, nerves taking control of my mouth and making me sound foolish. I quickly dipped the spoon into the broth. If I was eating, I couldn’t be talking. “Oh,” I murmured. I’d expected it to taste terribly sweet and floral, like catching a mouthful of spritzed perfume, but the soup was surprisingly savory, spicy and thick, with notes of pepper. “This is delicious.”
Gerard swallowed, then patted his napkin at the corner of his thin lips. “Do you know whatEuphorbiassignify?”
“I didn’t know flowers meant much of anything beyond beauty,” I admitted, trying a second bite.
Gerard let out a loud, boisterous laugh and even Dauphine tittered, as though my ignorance had been a well-timed joke. Marguerite continued to eye me with disdain, pushing the wilted blossoms about the bowl without ever tasting them.
Alexander shifted in his chair, leaning in close over the arm, giving the illusion of a private conversation. “There’s an entire language to flowers.”
“A language?” I repeated, instantly intrigued.
“If you knew their meanings, we could have an entire conversation between us without ever having to say a word. Like”—he pointed toward the bouquet at the center of the table—“the bright white flowers near the top? Those are calledstarworts.They’re meant to welcome a stranger.”
Dauphine nodded. “I had one of the gardeners add them in once I knew you’d be joining us tonight.”
Her thoughtfulness touched me. “And those purple flowers?”
“Those are heliotropes,” Gerard explained. “I picked them myself this morning, for Dauphine.” He gave her a wink.
“They’re meant to show devotion,” Alexander said. He sat back in his chair, studying me with thoughtful eyes. “If I were to pick out a flower for you tonight, I think I would choose…a gardenia.”
“Oh, Alexander,” Dauphine murmured, her voice happy and light.
