The Beautiful and the Cursed: Marco's Story by Page Morgan

Author:Page Morgan [Morgan, Page]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2013-07-15T20:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ONE

PARIS

SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS

DECEMBER 1899

So this was what a nightmare looked like by the light of day.

Ingrid stared through the window as the coach drew to a halt along rue Dante’s snowy curb, a single block from the ice-crusted Seine. Mother could not be serious. This place, this ruin, was to be their new home? Ingrid rubbed the fogged glass and saw the ancient and desolate abbey clearly.

“You’ve completely lost your mind,” Ingrid whispered. Her mother ignored her and continued to gaze out the coach window.

Pockmarks riddled the blocks of dirty gray limestone, leaving the abbey looking like a ravaged victim of the pox. The four front-facing arched windows held dull and warped stained glass that had more cracks and gaps than lead and glass. The two planks of desiccated wood acting as doors had been left slightly ajar, as if beckoning someone, anyone, to enter. Ingrid didn’t think she’d ever seen a lonelier place.

Her mother’s eyes began to mist over. “Isn’t it marvelous, girls?”

“Mama, please don’t start crying again. You’ve gone through all your hankies.” Ingrid’s younger sister, Gabriella, opened her beaded reticule for one of her own.

Their mother, Lady Charlotte Brickton, had been sniffling ever since their steamer had reached Calais and her feet had met solid French soil for the first time in over sixteen years. She was overjoyed to be home. Ingrid was just relieved to be gone from London. She never wanted to go back there. Not now, not after what had happened and what she’d done. But this abbey … it only added insult to injury.

“Marvelous? It looks condemned,” Ingrid said.

The place was a hulking wreck. Even the new layer of powdery snow couldn’t soften the blow. It coated the spikes of a tall wrought-iron fence like icing. Thick twists formed the gate, which was draped with ivy, roses, and thorny vines forged from the same metal. It was all as cold and uninviting as the white-capped waters of the English Channel had been.

“It’s absolutely horrifying,” Gabby whispered. An awestruck grin bowed her lips. Ingrid’s sister pressed the tip of her nose against the cold pane of glass to get a better look.

“Gabby, among the sane, horrific things don’t generally bring about smiles.” Ingrid flipped up the black mink hood of her cloak.

Gabby pushed out her full lower lip. “It has charm.”

“If you find abandoned and haunted churches charming,” Ingrid shot back.

Their mother spared them an irritated glance as the footman opened the coach door. “Don’t be so dramatic, girls. The abbey is a masterpiece, and entirely fitting for my gallery.”

The footman kicked down the short flight of steps and helped their mother to the curb. Behind them, a second carriage carrying their lady’s maids and luggage rolled to a stop.

“Do you really think it’s haunted?” Gabby asked. “We’ll have to ask Grayson if he’s sensed anything. Oh! I know—we’ll host a séance!”

Ingrid sighed and held her tongue. Her twin brother, Grayson, would have better luck talking Gabby down from her idea of a resident ghost.

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