Chapter 42 Valerie
Val sat at a desk in the library of House Armand, scowling into a bowl of water. ‘Nothing’s happening.’
Fontaine tsked. ‘You haven’t started scrying yet.’
‘I’m already bored,’ said Caruso, who was rifling through the bookshelf behind her.
Fontaine removed a sewing needle from her pocket and handed it to Sera. ‘Prick your finger.’
‘Why?’ said Ransom, glaring unnecessarily at the needle.
‘Psssht,’ said Fontaine, shooing him away. ‘The Maker is linked to every saint she’s made by the magic in her blood. If you wish to locate the Shadowsmith, this is your best chance.’
Sera pricked her finger and held it over the bowl. After the sixth drop of blood, Fontaine snatched her wrist. ‘That’s enough.’
Val shifted in her seat. ‘Now what?’
‘Quieten your mind and concentrate on Theo,’ said Fontaine, nudging the bowl towards her. ‘The blood is your conduit. Let your magic guide you towards the truth.’
Val leaned over the bowl, watching those six drops bleed into red rivers. Her magic yawned as it awoke, the heat under her skin spreading like a comforting warm blanket.
She traced the first river with her eyes and a terrible chill prickled along the back of her neck. The scent of death filled her nostrils.
Lark.
Her vision slipped, the room dimming around the edges, as though a dark fist was closing around her mind. She recoiled with a whimper, hitting the back of her armchair.
‘What the hell was that?’ demanded Caruso.
‘The wrong one,’ hissed Fontaine. ‘Now shut up and stand back. You’ll throw her off.’
Steeling herself, Val returned to the bowl. Sweat slicked her palms as she cupped the cool clay, her eyes flitting between the remaining streams.
Show me Theo.
The blood drop in the centre of the bowl burst like a star. Her eyes glazed as she poured her mind into it. House Armand fell away, taking the voices of her friends with it. She was alone then, suspended at the end of a long dark tunnel.
Far away, there was candle flame. The echo of voices.
Show me the truth.
Her magic shoved her towards the light and she emerged in the middle of an elegant dining room. She looked down on the table, like a moth perched on a chandelier.
Theo’s silvered hair shone like a halo, drawing her attention to the end of the table.
Listen well, whispered the old voice.
Though Val had journeyed beyond her corporeal body, she was tickled by the faintest semblance of relief. Theo was alive. And by the looks of things, well.
Seraphine Marchant should have struck me when she had the chance. Instead, she ran out of this castle like a dog on the heels of Ransom Hale.
Another voice. Mocking and familiar.
The Silver-tongue.
As she turned towards the other end of the table, relief curdled into unease. The vision wavered as her magic strained. Voices called her from a different realm, but Val couldn’t tear herself away. Not while there was truth to be gleaned.
The table grew larger as she dropped like a money spider from the chandelier.
Theo dined, as Andreas went on, Or perhaps Seraphine is smarter than she lets on. She must have figured out that killing me now will only cement her own doom.
Andreas smiled a serpent’s smile, and back at House Armand, a shiver cut through Val. Someone was shaking her, calling her back.
No.
Not yet.
Further she skittered, darting between candelabras.
Come now, Versini. Put that clever mind to work. A saint who dies is still a saint, is he not? Even in death my compulsions will not be undone. The kingdom is already in thrall to me. Fantome is simply the last bastion of this war.
Whatever Theo responded was lost to the sudden storm of Val’s heartbeat. She had strayed too far from her source, and now the thread was fraying. She tried to follow it back, searching for the tunnel home.
The room flickered and went black. She languished in a liminal in-between, like a seed blown from a dandelion.
She forgot her name. Her purpose.
‘Valerie!’ cried a faraway voice.
It returned with a jolt.
I am Valerie Doe.
I am the Saint of Truth.
‘Get back here, kitten!’
Ire devoured intrigue. She hated that damn name.
I am Valerie Doe.
I am the Saint of Truth.
‘Come home, Val.’
Home was a grand black manor on the edge of the Hollows. Home was a place that smelled like apple cinnamon in the winter and honeysuckles in the summer. Home was warmth and laughter and secrets passed in midnight whispers.
Home was House Armand.
I am Valerie Doe.
And I am going home.
The blackness melted, the world pulling at her again. She surrendered, tumbling back into the bright heat of the library.
Someone was screaming.
Belatedly, she realized it was her.
Her eyes snapped open and she stopped abruptly.
Caruso was before her, his huge shadow-marked hands like weights her shoulders. ‘Are you here? Are you with me?’
She managed a nod.
He huffed a breath, releasing an impressive litany of curses.
Val rubbed her eyes, slowly coming back to herself. With awareness came a thick and violent nausea. She lunged for the fireplace, emptying the contents of her stomach into the flames.
The others crowded her, and a hand fisted the back of her shirt to keep her from falling in. ‘I’ve got you,’ said Sera. ‘You’re all right now.’
Wiping her mouth, Val fell back on her heels. Fontaine loomed over her like a spectre, but before the old crone could open her mouth, Caruso picked up the scrying bowl and flung it into the fireplace. The clay shattered, the bloody water hissing as it evaporated.
‘I hope you got what you needed, kitten. Because you’re never doing that again.’
‘That was my good scrying bowl!’ barked Fontaine.
‘You’re lucky you’re not going in after it,’ he shot back.
Returning to her armchair, Val gulped down a glass of water and told the others what she had glimpsed in her vision.
They listened in grave silence, digesting these new unsettling truths:
Theo was alive at Bellevue Castle.
With Prince Andreas, a saint who could not be killed.