Page 30 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

As they left the lower chamber of the Appoline library, with nothing to show for their journey but more bad blood, Versini made a point of walking between Nadia and Seraphine, lest one of them decide to kill the other.

Again. Despite his ongoing disdain for the Shadowsmith, Ransom appreciated his foresight.

As they wound their way back through the halls of the Appoline, scholars watched them from the shadows, peering out from behind statues and pillars. Still carting that black cat around with him, Caruso pretended to lunge at one every so often.

Eventually, they were shooed out of the front door, the provost offering a stilted goodbye as the gatekeepers peeled far away from them.

Ransom was halfway down the path when he realized Seraphine was not with them.

She had lagged behind, her golden hair just visible through the crack in the front door.

Retracing his steps, he silently stepped into the shadows on the other side.

She was standing in the foyer with the provost, her voice low and edged with concern. Despite his obvious disgust for the Daggers, the old scholar seemed to have taken a shine to Seraphine. He was standing with his arms folded and head bent, listening intently.

‘… that it’s troubling me,’ she was saying. ‘It feels like it’s all happening so quickly.’

He hmm’d in agreement. ‘Such is the nature of great change. It is the after that will decide the fate of the kingdom.’

‘Provost, is there such a thing as a bad saint?’ she said, in a small nervous voice.

The scholar scrubbed his jaw. Seraphine wrung her hands as she awaited his answer, her anxiety so palpable it made Ransom’s heart thrum.

‘That I do not know,’ the provost admitted, with a heavy shrug. ‘But I will admit that it is my greatest fear.’

‘Mine too.’ Seraphine’s voice was so quiet Ransom had to lean in to hear her. He stood now with one foot in the doorway and one foot out, the gatekeepers’ curious gazes boring into his back.

‘Although some of my best scholars would argue that goodness, or indeed badness, is a matter of perspective,’ the provost reasoned.

‘The saints of old were not without fault, Seraphine. They were human long before they were blessed. But what they shared with each other was an implicit understanding, a bond born out of the uniqueness of their circumstances, despite the differences in their gifts. The pull to each other was always stronger than the pull of ambition, but of course, with all power, the temptation for more is always there…’ He trailed off.

‘In that way, I don’t believe we can judge Andreas until the rest of the saints reveal themselves.

However many there may be this time around. ’

‘I admit I’m curious about the other saints,’ she said, so very carefully. ‘I wonder whether they will find their way to the prince.’

She was fishing.

And damn if it wasn’t working.

The provost looked at her, his hawkish eyes narrowing. Ransom wondered if he could glimpse the fire in her, if all those decades he’d spent researching the saints of Valterre had prepared him for a moment like this. To look beyond what was most obvious, to the hidden truth therein.

Seraphine turned her face up to him, like she was willing him to see her. To trust her.

Unease needled Ransom. He had to fight the urge to stalk inside and pull her away from the provost, to keep her from unravelling the greatest – and most dangerous – secret of her life to a man who owed her no loyalty.

But then, Seraphine was cleverer than Ransom was, cunning in a way that often caught him off guard.

Perhaps she had a plan even now, a deeper reason for this hushed conversation.

And then the provost spoke again, and Ransom almost laughed at how easily she had snared him.

‘If they were really curious, they could always look for him in the town of Marvale.’

So the wily old bastard knew exactly where Andreas was – he had known this whole time.

‘Marvale,’ echoed Seraphine, a hitch of excitement in her voice. ‘That’s where Oriel Beauregard was born.’

The provost nodded. ‘Andreas believes the other saints will find him there. That is his greatest hope.’

She pressed a hand to her heart, like she was storing the information there. ‘Thank you, Provost Ambrose.’ She sounded sincere… almost relieved .

‘Be careful what you do with that information,’ he said, stepping away from her.

She dipped her chin, conviction rippling in her words when she answered, ‘You can trust me, Provost.’

But can I? Ransom wondered.

The twist in his gut told him the answer.

Stepping back, Ransom flattened himself against the outer wall of the Appoline as Seraphine came striding out, wearing a smile that made her entire face light up. Spying Versini passing through the black gates up ahead, she hurried to catch up with him.

Ransom went after her. ‘There you are!’ he called out. ‘I thought you’d been kidnapped by a scribe.’

She spun around, her lashes fluttering in surprise. ‘Where on earth did you just come from?’ she said, half breathless.

‘I asked you first.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Tell me anyway,’ he said, offering the challenge.

Come on, Seraphine. Tell me the truth .

He watched the lie form behind her eyes, her teeth nipping her lower lip when she said, ‘I had to use the bathroom.’

Frustration curled his lip and made him itch for a taste of Shade to take the edge off. Canting his head, he said, ‘How is it that you trust a wily old scholar more than the man that’s been keeping your head off a pike for the last four months?’

Her face fell. ‘You were spying on me!’

‘You were sneaking around,’ he hissed, walking her back against a nearby stone pillar.

She flattened herself against it, fuming. ‘It’s called having a private conversation.’

He leaned over her, dropping his voice to a deadly quiet. ‘What were you planning to do, steal one of our carriages and peel off into the night with Versini? Find your way to Marvale and throw yourself at the prince’s feet? Beg like a dog for a place on his court?’

She prodded his chest. ‘Watch your mouth, Dagger.’

‘Watch your s,’ he growled. ‘You’re playing with fire.’

‘Good thing it’s my favourite element.’

He resisted the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. ‘You’re going to get yourself killed.’

‘By who? You? ’

‘You made a deal with the King of Valterre, Seraphine. If you intend to survive, then you have to start trusting me.’

‘Why would I?’ She jutted out her chin, blowing a stray strand from her eyes. ‘The second he finds out what I am, I’ll be your mark.’

‘You’ve been my mark for as long as I’ve known you.’ Ransom threw his hands up. ‘And look at you. More alive than ever.’

She eyed him with unconcealed suspicion, her survival instincts making her shoulders stiff, her voice clipped, when she asked, ‘What exactly has the king promised you for this quest? You know, the dead bodies of two newly minted saints, the premature ending of an era divined by Oriel herself. It’s no small thing, Ransom. ’

No, indeed it was not. That much was not lost on him.

But a good Dagger didn’t indulge in moral quandaries.

Therein madness lay. A good Dagger killed, and killed, and killed again.

Let the gloom take him at the end of a long night, and he would rise again the following day, with death prowling at his side.

When he didn’t answer, she pressed again. ‘It’s not coin. It can’t be coin.’

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not coin.’

Something far more valuable, and a hell of a lot more tenuous.

His past. His family. A chance to know that they were all right, that Anouk had grown up and Mama had grown happy.

Even if he might never be able to face them again, even if he was too scared to show them what he had become in their absence.

This tapestry of death. This unholy reaper.

Her brows raised. ‘So what, then?’

He hesitated, not wanting to say. To give her something she could hold over him, when she had lied to him so readily just now, revealed so little of her true intentions.

No, they were not confidants. Not by a long shot.

Her smile was mirthless. ‘I guess the lack of trust is mutual, then.’

‘I guess it is.’

They could be honest, at least, about that.

And yet, he could have sworn he glimpsed a glimmer of hurt in her eyes. She shrugged it off, arcing around him to where Versini was waiting by the gates, firing invisible daggers at Ransom’s head.

Stalking after her, Ransom called out, ‘Good news! It seems fate has dealt us a new lead. We’ll continue north to Marvale.’