Page 35 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

It was almost embarrassing how easily Seraphine Marchant could command him.

How fast his feet moved, up one narrow stairwell after another.

On the third floor, a warm breeze slipped through the narrow door at the end of the hall.

He followed it up a set of rickety steps, where another door gave way to a small roof garden.

A modest stone courtyard, cloistered by those white sloping gables.

Troughs of lavender and leafy potted plants made a border around the square and in the middle a large paisley rug lay across the stones. Seraphine was lying on it, her long blonde hair fanning around her like a halo. Her eyes were closed, her arms tucked behind her head.

Ransom’s heart stuttered.

Without opening her eyes, she said, ‘I can feel you staring at me.’

‘You look like a painting.’

A beauty in repose, bathing in the moonlight.

What he really meant was, You look like a goddess .

‘So paint me, Dagger.’ A teasing smile tugged at her lips. He wanted to get on his knees and taste it.

Someday .

In another life, when he had all the time and colours in the world. Where this darkness was behind them, and they were free. He didn’t know how to say it, how to promise such a lofty dream. He had done it once before, and she hadn’t forgiven him for it.

‘Did you like my note?’ she said, cracking an eye open.

‘You mean your white flag?’ he said, drifting towards her.

‘Call it what you like.’

‘What made you write it?’

She hummed, sitting up. In the dark, her eyes were wide and star-flecked.

The moon was full and bright above them, so much closer than usual, as though some divine being was looking down at them.

‘I was thinking after the fairground… Maybe you were right about trust. Maybe that’s the only way we’ll both survive what comes next. ’

She removed a small stack of cards from her back pocket. Like a dealer in a gambling hell, she set down three in a row.

Ransom slowly lowered himself to the ground, bringing his knees into his chest. ‘The tarot,’ he said. ‘Where did you get those?’

‘At House Armand, the night we were ambushed. I went to see Madame Fontaine about the magic inside me. About what it meant.’ She swallowed thickly. ‘We spoke of the Second Coming of the saints. These are the cards she drew.’

Ransom’s brows shot up as he examined each one.

The Silver-tongue .

The Stone Maiden .

The Necromancer .

His gaze snagged on the third tarot, a sharp twist in his gut making him frown. The Necromancer. A puppetmaster of the dead. Some bastardized reincarnation of Calvin, Saint of Death. He thought again of the graveyard on the way in, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

‘Who is this meant to be?’ he said, fingering the card.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘But I believe whoever stole Lark’s body back in Old Haven might be here. Somewhere in the north-west.’

Ransom tensed, the muscles in his back straining. ‘The prince?’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ She traced the Silver-tongue with her finger. It was a better fit for the prince, according to the rumours in the capital, and the king’s own words. ‘We won’t know until we meet him.’

‘You mean kill him.’

She lifted her gaze from the cards. Doubt glistened there.

He could see it now, as plain as the moon looking over them.

She did not intend to kill the prince at all.

And she was ready for him to know it. It’s not like he had expected her to do it with her own hands; he didn’t need her to.

But it had never occurred to him that she might try and stop him.

‘Seraphine …’

‘There’s one more card,’ she said hastily, laying down a fourth.

A red rose, gilded at the edges.

Ransom stared at it with mounting confusion.

‘Saint Oriel’s flower. It’s the oldest and truest emblem of Valterre, from a time before this land was conquered by kings and queens, torn apart by war and unrest, rebuilt and flooded with greed and avarice.

When the Rayeres came to power, they crossed two swords in front of the rose and made it their crest. A mixing of nature and man, of beauty and force.

’ She traced the petals, like she could feel them.

‘Madame Fontaine says the rose means a new beginning. A sign that things are changing.’ A beat of hesitation, then, her words softened like she was telling him a secret.

‘That perhaps things are meant to change.’

‘How so?’ said Ransom, though he sensed where this was going.

‘A thousand years ago, Oriel wrote of the second coming of the saints. A new era of light for our kingdom, after centuries of man-made dark. Bad magic. Destructive power.’ She was gazing at his hands now, silently tracing the menacing black whorls there.

‘If we kill Andreas and the acolyte on the Isle of Alisa, we’ll be moving against destiny itself. ’

Ransom inhaled. ‘Seraphine—’

‘Wait,’ she pleaded. ‘Let me say this. I have to.’ She swallowed hard, and he saw now that her hands were trembling.

‘I think it was destiny – Saint Oriel herself – who brought us together all those months ago, Ransom.’ Her eyes were so large now, so soft and full of moonlight.

It was like he could see all the way into her soul.

He had asked her to let him in, and here she sat, offering him her innermost thoughts with a vulnerability that stilled his tongue.

She really believed their coming together was the work of divine intervention, and the truth of it was, a part of him did too.

There was nothing ordinary about their connection, or the tug he felt inside himself whenever she was near.

Finally, she understood. They were not meant to be enemies, to constantly push and pull like restless animals.

They were destined to find common ground, to survive this quest together.

He was beginning to smile, to feel the welcome flutter of relief when she said, ‘I don’t think Oriel wanted us to kill her saints, Ransom. I think she wanted us to save them.’

He frowned, surprise rendering him momentarily speechless.

She turned her hands over, absently tracing the lines on her palm. ‘I don’t know where I fit in Fontaine’s tarot spread or what this strange magic inside me is yet, but I know I can’t use it to harm another saint.’ A pause then, a sudden fierceness hardening her voice. ‘Ransom, I won’t .’

He stifled a groan. ‘It’s too late, Seraphine.’

‘How can it be? We haven’t done anything.’

It hardly mattered. ‘The king is testing you. Testing both of us.’ It was not up to them. It never had been.

She shrugged his words off. ‘I would rather betray a man like Bertrand Rayere than spit in the face of fate itself. It’s not like we’d be the only ones denying him. Soon, the entire kingdom will be in revolt.’

Ransom struggled to find that common ground that had seemed so close only a moment ago, but he couldn’t fathom the scale of the risk, or why she would want to take it.

‘You wish to ally yourself with a violent, untried insurgent, who scatters rebels across the kingdom like marbles while remaining safe and cosseted in Marvale?’ he said, shaking his head.

‘An acolyte who murdered her own sister? A necromancer who pulls dead bodies from the ground and plays with them like dolls?’

He might have laughed if she didn’t look so damn serious.

‘You have no idea what these people are capable of, Seraphine. Just because they’re like you doesn’t mean they’re the same as you.

’ She was scowling now, the moonlight in her eyes like shards of steel.

‘You heard what the provost said back at the Appoline. Even he doesn’t trust the prince. A man he has known for years .’

‘What if Andreas is good, Ransom?’ she said, refusing to back down. ‘What if the kingdom is supposed to change, and he’s the catalyst?’

‘What if he’s not good?’ Ransom shot back. ‘What if he’s poisoned by the same ambition as his uncle? Do you want a power-mad emperor instead of a mortal king?’

She threw her hands up. ‘And what about me? Am I not as bad? I’ve had months to figure out this magic inside me and I still can’t control it. All I’ve done is hurt people with it.’ She closed her eyes, shame casting a blush in her cheeks. ‘Maybe I’m a mistake.’

Ransom bristled. ‘You are not a mistake.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘I understand well enough. You’re wagering on a better world emerging from a ruthless rebellion and you’re gambling with your own life. If you stand with Andreas, you tie your fate to him.’

‘Look at me,’ she hissed, those eyes flickering from blue to gold. ‘I’m already tied to his fate.’

‘No. No . You can’t pledge yourself to a man you’ve never met.’ He couldn’t help his rising voice, his horror at the things he was hearing. ‘It’s madness, Seraphine. And what about Bibi? Do you want her to rot in the king’s dungeon for ever? To hang from the royal noose?’

‘Of course not,’ she said, her own voice rising. ‘We can lie to the king. Tell him the marks are dead. That should buy us enough time to—’

Ransom gave an incredulous laugh. ‘You can’t be serious.’

She broke off, glaring at him. ‘Why are you being so difficult?’

‘Why are you so reckless ?’ he returned, just as angrily.

‘So you don’t want to kill a saint. Fine.

Sit in the carriage and let me do it. Then post up in a nearby tavern and play cards with Versini while I go to the Isle of Alisa.

I don’t need you to help me in this, Seraphine. I just need you to stay out of my way.’

‘I can’t just stay out of your way,’ she shot back. ‘Everything that’s happening right now is a turning point, Ransom. Can’t you feel the threads of destiny at work? The kingdom is stretching, changing.’

‘What does that matter?’