Chapter 8 Valerie
Valerie Doe slept like the dead. She always had – ever since she was a foundling left on the doorstep of House Armand eighteen years ago.
She’d been sleeping when Madame Fontaine opened the front door and poked the wicker bassinet with her cane.
And as she was carted up the winding stairwell of Cordelia Mercure’s private turret.
And for the entire hour they stood there debating her fate.
She slept through howling gales and raging thunderstorms, through the constant ruckus of the Hollows and the nights when new foundlings woke screaming from their nightmares.
And yet, Val never dreamed.
When her head hit the pillow, the world disappeared. She liked it that way. Her mind emptying after a day of thieving from rich bastards with too much coin, larking about in the Hollows with Theo or Bibi, or, more recently, dodging the encroaching promise of death.
Every night, Val brushed out her generous curls, slathered on her face cream, donned an expensive pair of silk pyjamas and welcomed the oblivion of sleep.
Except for tonight.
Tonight, for the first time, Val dreamed.
She stood on the edge of a black pond, staring at her own reflection. The water stirred, and the vision – the one who wore Val’s face – reached up towards her. The surface broke, and a scattering of light danced across her face.
Her eyes shone gold, as bright as the crowning dawn.
She waggled her fingers at Val.
Sparks danced between them.
Take it, she said.
Val knelt by the pond.
Well, if you insist.
Their hands brushed, and something erupted in Val. It felt as though she had followed a firework. The feeling … the change … was almost too much too bear.
There came a sharp tug and then the world was ripped out from under her.
The black water crested—
And swallowed her whole.
‘Holy shit.’ Val hinged bolt upright. Head throbbing, shoulders as stiff as pinewood, she flung her hands out, fisting the tassels on her bedroom rug.
Not drowned.
Not dead.
But different.
Val startled. What the hell was that? This strange new echo from within, as though her soul had suddenly sprouted a voice.
Her bedroom was pitch black, save for a sliver of moonlight slipping through her curtains.
And the handprint glowing on her chest.
The Making.
Magic.
Sainthood.
Had it worked?
Yes.
She jolted again at the voice. That was going to take some getting used to.
A muffled groan drew Val’s attention to the chair in the corner of her room. Sera was slumped there, frowning in her sleep.
Val considered waking her, but it was almost three a.m. And the Saint-maker looked like she could do with a few hundred or so more hours of sleep.
She went instead to her mirror, peering at herself in the silvered dark. She looked much the same – hot as hell – but there was a spark in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.
‘All right, Val,’ she whispered. ‘What can you do?’
A sudden flare in her chest, brown eyes turning molten. Threads of gold rose to the surface, as if her magic was peering out at her.
Wait and see.
Val frowned. She was not exactly the patient sort.
What am I?
There was no one to answer her. At least not in here. Leaving her best friend asleep behind her, Val grabbed her dressing gown and went for a late-night stroll.
House Armand was as quiet as a tomb, the slow shuffle of her footsteps filling the halls. At a loss for what to do, she stopped by the music room to tinkle on the piano.
A sorry row of discordant notes.
Not a musical genius, then.
Not by a long shot.
‘Rude,’ Val muttered, shoving away from the piano.
Not that a saint of music would be particularly useful against Prince Andreas. And anyway, music was Bibi’s thing.
Val’s heart ached as she sat alone by the piano, surrounded by the ghost of her best friend. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear her singing.
Val might have lingered in the music room a while longer, wallowing, if it hadn’t been for the sound of snickering in the stairwell.
She followed it downstairs to the lower kitchen, where Fabian and Tobias were raiding the pantry.
She leaned against the door frame, watching them.
They were both wearing long black cloaks, wisps of Tobias’s fine silver hair spilling out from under his hood as he reached for a jar of mint chocolate chips.
Fabian, meanwhile, was pilfering a bottle of lemonade from the cooler.
‘Risky business,’ remarked Val.
Fabian jumped, dropping the bottle, which smashed all over the floor.
She clucked her tongue. ‘Last time I nicked a pear tart from in here, Mercure made me sit in her office and write out: I will not steal from House Armand five hundred times.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Nearly stabbed myself with her fountain pen just to put an end to the misery.’
Fabian’s owlish eyes were wide. ‘How did you know we were in here?’
‘You were giggling like a pair of elves.’
The boy frowned. ‘You’re looking at me.’
‘Is that a crime?’
Clutching the mint chips to his chest, Tobias had gone stock still beside her. She turned on him. ‘Unless you’re going to melt those into hot chocolate, I wouldn’t bother. I nearly cracked a tooth on one last week.’
His mouth hung open. ‘Your eyes are gold.’
‘Oh yeah.’ She tossed her curls. ‘I’m a saint now.’
‘Is that how you can see us?’ asked Fabian.
‘What?’
On closer inspection she saw that the air around them was shimmering. Like looking through sunlit glass. Tobias ripped off his cloak and the distortion disappeared, revealing his mussed hair and woolly pyjamas. The black material pooled on the ground, gleaming like onyx.
Her magic prickled in recognition.
Shade.
Their cloaks were made of Shade.
Of course they were made of Shade. This was House Armand, after all, and those were enchanted garments, intended for sneaking around.
Which was probably why they both looked so aghast at having been caught out.
Fabian ripped off his cloak too, and for the first time since she’d rumbled them, the boys looked at each other.
‘We were invisible.’ Tobias frowned. ‘Weren’t we?’
Val picked up his cloak, passing it between her fingers. It was cold to touch, an antidote to the flame in her chest. ‘I guess not to me,’ she murmured. ‘I saw through it.’
You will see through everything, said the old voice.
Her cheeks drained.
The fog in her mind was starting to clear.
Tobias backed away from her.
‘What are you so afraid of?’ she said, affronted.
‘I don’t want to get in trouble.’
‘You’re not in trouble. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what you two get up to when Mercure goes to sleep. But you should probably clean up your mess.’
Fabian got to work.
Tobias continued to stare at her.
She decided not to linger at the scene of their crime. Backing up, she said, ‘Happy sneaking,’ and disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived.
Eager to see how her magic would reveal itself in the presence of more Shade – and perhaps Lightfire too – she made for the cloakroom. The door was locked, which meant Theo had gone to bed for once, instead of falling asleep at his workbench.
Not so, whispered the old voice.
Val was on her way back upstairs when she caught the Shadowsmith sneaking through the front door.
His aunt Paola was with him and so steaming drunk her arm was slung over his shoulder.
Val whistled. ‘Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.’
Theo looked up, glassy-eyed. ‘Huh?’
‘You smell like a brewery.’
His smile was crooked. ‘I’m pretty sure Paola drank a brewery tonight.’
At this, his aunt raised her head. Wrinkling her nose, she said, ‘You’re slurring, Theodore. Enunciate.’
‘You’re both slurring,’ said Val.
‘At least I can walk,’ Theo harrumphed, which was a fair point. Paola had all the structure of an empty pillowcase. ‘Help me get her upstairs, will you?’
‘Oh!’ cried Paola. ‘Let’s race on our hands and knees!’
‘I’m sure Mercure would love that,’ said Val, sweeping in to take her other arm. They shouldered her up the stairwell towards her bedroom on the third floor, where she collapsed onto her bed with a contented sigh.
They took off boots, tossed a blanket over her and left her snoring soundly.
Out in the hallway, Val looked Theo over. ‘Can you make it to your own room in one piece, or do you need me to sling you over my shoulders?’
‘It’s four doors down.’
‘My offer stands.’
His smile slid away.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Val.
He sighed, raking his hands through his hair. ‘Just drunk.’
Her magic hummed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m fine, Val.’ Gripping her shoulder, he pulled her close and for a fleeting moment, she swore she glimpsed a flicker of gold in his eyes. ‘I’d tell you if I wasn’t.’
Her head spun, a tornado of emotions nearly knocking her sideways. They came all at once: a wash of anger and frustration, then greed and disgust.
And fear.
So much fear it rattled her bones.
There was hunger, too.
An awful, gnawing, aching hunger …
It seethed. It demanded.
It growled.
Theo stepped back, and suddenly Val could breathe again. Her hand flew to her chest, stilling the frenzy of her heartbeat.
Oblivious to her discomfort, Theo turned from her, sauntering off to his bedroom with his hands in his pockets.
Goosebumps raised along her skin as she watched him go, the truth striking her like a bolt.
Theo Branch had just lied to her face.
Val woke the following morning with a singular thought pounding in her head: Madame Fontaine. If there was anyone in this place that could help her figure out her magic, it was that nosy old soothsayer.
Val went directly to the library, passing Albert on the stairwell. Mercure’s Second-in-Command was heading up towards her office with a face like thunder. He was so distracted, the senior Cloak didn’t even glance her way as he stalked past, this morning’s penny papers curled under his arm.
Val stared after him, feeling a sudden curl of dread in her stomach.
Fear, whispered that voice inside her. Albert is afraid.
The library was deserted, save for the old woman standing by the window, as if she had been waiting for her.
Because of course she had.
Fontaine scowled as she entered.
Val hesitated, trying to interpret her mood.
‘It’s impatience,’ said the old crone, like she could read her mind. ‘And a touch of indigestion. Probably shouldn’t have had those sausage rolls for breakfast.’ She stifled a burp. ‘Anyway, it took you long enough. I’ve been waiting all morning.’
‘You could have fetched me.’
‘What am I, a dog?’
A thousand responses danced through Val’s mind. She pressed her lips together, smiling sweetly.
Fontaine leaned on her cane. ‘Have you figured it out yet?’
Straight to the quick. As ever.
‘My magic,’ said Val. ‘It’s got to do with secrets, right?’
Fontaine removed a card from inside her shawl and placed it on the window ledge. ‘See for yourself.’
The image wasn’t even of a person but an old wooden vane, spinning.
Val folded her arms. ‘I can… tell the weather?’
‘Lose the attitude,’ said Fontaine, prodding her. ‘A vane is a teller of things. It knows every shift of the wind. It always points true.’
Fontaine’s words hung between them.
It was a far cry from the brute force of Anouk’s power, or the sweeping violence of Ransom’s shadows. But if Fontaine was unimpressed by Val’s gift, she hid it well.
In fact, a note of reverence crept into her voice. ‘You are a diviner of the most sacred currency in this kingdom, Valerie. Truth.’
Val’s magic preened.
‘Truth is all we can rely on,’ said Fontaine. ‘It is the last bastion of war.’
‘Saint of Truth,’ said Val, trying out. She didn’t hate it.
Fontaine snorted. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? Considering all the bold-faced lies you told me as a girl.’
‘Oh, please,’ said Val. ‘I still lie my ass off whenever I feel like it.’
They were interrupted by a clatter of footsteps. Anouk barrelled into the library, wearing the same look of fear Val had sensed in Albert. Just like Mercure’s Second, she was carrying the penny papers.
She unrolled it to shake at them. ‘Look!’
TERROR STALKS THE WEST: BEWARE THE PEOPLE’S SAINT
In the wake of his uncle’s murder, Andreas Mondragon Rayere, the self-styled People’s Prince, has promised a long-awaited period of prosperity for the people of Valterre: a kingdom where the Crown’s coin purse will always be open, where the saints of this country will take care of their own, and we may bask in the light after a long Age of Darkness.
The People’s Prince is a liar. The scholar who once walked the hallowed halls of this university is long gone. In his place, a dangerous Silver-tongue has emerged.
Beware the rose emblazoned on his banner, for there are thorns lurking beneath. Our informants in the west have reported that another army is gathering behind the prince’s flag. Not the peace-bringing saints he promised but a flock of foreigners intent on mining the magic in our land.
As I write, the Stargrazers of Urnica prepare to take wing.
Yesterday morning, the Strix were spotted circling Castellan.
The border town has already been stripped of its banners and forced to pay tribute to its pretender prince.
Those who refused were hanged. Those who ran were dragged through the village and strung up by their bootstraps.
Andreas Mondragon Rayere’s words are as lethal as the blades wielded by his Rose-bearers.
His promises are silky lies, designed to distract us from his true goal: the destruction of free thought.
If this kingdom does not kneel to its new monarch, it will be forced by magical design to bow.
He will take away our voices until only his remains.
Dear reader, beware: when you see the prince coming, block your ears and turn your back. Resistance is the last weapon at our disposal. It is up to our saints to save us now. May they walk in the light of their forebears, and resist the temptation of power. May Oriel, ever merciful, favour us.
Val read the article twice over. Horror suffused her, the words enough to make even Fontaine shiver.
‘It was written by the provost at the Appoline.’ Anouk pointed to the seal at the bottom, a scroll lit by a rising sun. The scholar’s mark. ‘It was printed at the university.’
‘Dead man walking,’ muttered Fontaine. No need for tarot now.
‘At least the people know Andreas is coming,’ Anouk said.
‘It’s not knowledge they need. It’s protection,’ said Val. ‘If we don’t kill the Silver-tongue soon, Fantome and the rest of this kingdom is as good as lost.’
For once, Fontaine was silent.