Chapter 43 Seraphine
Ever since they’d returned from Our Sacred Saints’ Cathedral, Nadia had been struggling to come to terms with her magic.
It was guilt that made Sera keep her distance at first, but as Val took to bed to recover from her scrying session and what she’d gleaned bled through House Armand, Sera began to worry that they might lose Nadia too.
As dusk fell, she ventured out to the back garden in search of their fledgling saint. A storm cloud lingered over House Armand, the rain falling with a vengeance as Paola worked tirelessly to keep the baying crowds from their door.
Nadia, who was standing by the old willow tree, turned long before Sera reached her.
Without her coat, she was soaked through.
Her long black hair was plastered to her face, and her clothes were stuck to every part of her skin.
She seemed not to notice. Her eyes were wild and bright, the heat of her magic likely staving off the chill.
Sera waved, shouting over the rain. ‘How did you know I was coming?’
‘I could feel you.’ Nadia scowled. ‘There’s this voice now… I hate it.’
‘I wish I could say you get used to it.’ Sera tossed her the coat she’d grabbed from the closet on her way out. ‘Put this on. You’ll catch a cold out here.’
‘Do saints get ill, or do they just go mad?’ she said as she shrugged it on, pulling the hood up. Roses bloomed in a ring around her. They were every shade of pink and red and purple, pricked with thorns that made Sera think of the ones etched on her body. And how they hurt, even now.
‘Looks like you’re getting the hang of it,’ she said, encouragingly.
Nadia pursed her lips. ‘I’m one of the best assassins this city has ever seen. I can kill a man with the stiletto of my boot. Scale a building in one minute flat. And you went and made me this.’ She waved her hand around. ‘A saint of fucking flowers.’
‘Saint of Spring,’ Sera amended. ‘Of life.’
Nadia rolled her eyes, turning back to her roses.
‘And I didn’t choose it,’ Sera reminded her. ‘The gift chose you.’
‘Well, it’s shit,’ she grumbled. ‘And, worse, it’s useless.’
Sera traced a red petal, admiring its vibrancy. The garden at House Armand had never looked so beautiful or smelled so divine. ‘Saints are not made for war, Nadia. They’re made for peace. Your gift… it’s for what comes next.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When this is all over, Valterre will be bruised. The people here will yearn for the beauty of new life, for light and hope, and a kinder tomorrow. That is your purpose. A kingdom beyond bloodshed. Not war, but a new beginning. Peace.’
Nadia stewed in silence.
Nadia’s gift had come as a surprise to Sera too. It was soft magic, far gentler than the brute force she’d been expecting, but it was no less powerful than the storm that raged overhead or the bloodhounds prowling by the front gate.
‘I’m grateful to be alive, Sera. I want to live.’ Nadia plucked a rose and twirled it in her hands, letting the thorns prick her skin. ‘I just… never imagined it like this.’
‘I understand.’ Sera knew all too well the tight squeeze of destiny’s grip. It was not a gift to be chosen but a responsibility. A tethering to a fate far grander than your own. Even though she had saved the Dagger’s life, she had taken something from her too.
Nadia huffed, tossing the rose aside. ‘A bloody saint of spring. If Lark was here, he’d laugh.’
If Lark was here, he’d be dead.
And Ransom would be burning his corpse to make sure of it.
‘Ransom told me about Val’s scrying session,’ said Nadia. ‘He says Andreas can’t be killed.’
‘Not unless we want to leave behind thousands of compelled soldiers.’
Nadia winced. ‘And what about your soul-eater?’
An even harder quandary. ‘I trust Theo. He must have some kind of plan up his sleeve. And when it’s done, he’ll come back to us.’
Nadia snorted. ‘You really are naive.’
‘What you see as naivety, I call hope,’ said Sera, turning back to the house.
Nadia called after her, ‘What are you meant for, Saint-maker? War or peace?’
‘I suppose we’ll find out,’ she said, continuing into the dark.
There is more to do, whispered the old voice.
Yes, she knew.
She could feel it in her bones.
The gathering of heat.
The pull of destiny.
Long past midnight, Sera lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Pip snoozed at her feet, twitching as he dreamed.
Ransom was on the roof again. Even from here, she could sense the dark cloud of his power billowing into the night.
Her own magic was a furnace. Her nightgown was drenched in sweat and her heart was pounding furiously.
Desperately chasing sleep, she squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the plains in her mind.
All those rolling fields of bees and butterflies.
The ripples of Ploughman’s Lake in the late summer, the whisper of the wind in the long grass and the chirp of the crickets—
A sharp pain near her naval made her gasp. She rubbed the thorn there.
‘Please,’ she begged the empty room. ‘Let me rest.’
After, said the old voice.
The heat continued to climb. Sweat dripped into her hair as she glugged down the glass of water on her bedside, refilling it with the pitcher until that too was empty.
Still sweltering, she swung out of bed and tugged on her robe. Grabbing the empty pitcher, she crept downstairs to the kitchens, where a lone figure sat on the windowsill, staring vacantly into the night.
She thought at first it was Ransom, but then he jerked his head and a pair of icy-blue eyes found hers in the dark.
She frowned at Caruso. ‘I thought you’d be with Val.’
‘She sent me down here to pilfer Fontaine’s brandy. Said if I didn’t come back with a flagon and a cake, she’d throw a lamp at my head.’
‘So she’s recovered from her scrying session then.’
‘If anything, she’s brattier.’
‘So you’re avoiding her?’
He shook his head, tapping on the window. ‘Got distracted by Nadia’s handiwork. Hard to beat the complete uselessness of Tobias’s owls. And yet you managed it.’
‘Her time will come.’
‘Why are you up so late?’
She raised the empty pitcher. Only now, she didn’t feel thirsty any more. The heat in her remained, and she got the sense she was exactly where her magic wanted her to be.
Caruso spoke into the lingering silence.
‘I can’t seem to shake off Saints’ Day.’ He turned to the garden, but not before she caught the haunted look on his face.
‘When we got ambushed, I thought Val was going to die. There was so much blood…’ He rubbed his brow, like he was trying to erase the memory.
‘I know blood. I’ve washed my hands in it since I was a boy.
It never bothered me before. But her blood…
’ He skimmed a hand across his shorn hair, ghosting the patchwork of silver scars there.
‘I don’t fear death. I’ve walked beside it all my life.
I don’t care about dying. But the thought of her dying… ’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Caruso. Andreas bested us.’
His frown was sharp. ‘It feels like my fault.’
‘Hell’s teeth,’ she muttered. ‘You’re in love with her, aren’t you?’
He scoffed half-heartedly.
Sera watched him, waiting.
Her magic burned.
And burned.
And then he said it. ‘Make me a saint, Seraphine.’
She wasn’t surprised by his request. Neither was her magic. It had practically shoved her down here, seeking the inevitability of this moment.
Still, the choice was hers.
‘Why?’ she said, carefully.
‘So I can be useful.’
‘You might end up growing flowers with Nadia.’
He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll give them to Valerie.’
‘So you do love her.’
He ignored the taunt. ‘Gold blood makes me immune to Andreas’s power of persuasion. I might not become a weapon, but I’ll be a better shield.’
Her magic purred in approval.
‘How romantic.’
He gave her a flat look. ‘You’ve lost your soul-eater. Andreas is unkillable. Seems like a good time to stack the odds in our favour.’
It was a fair argument.
He pushed again. ‘Use me, Sera. Make me.’
It was the will of fate that steeled her resolve. That, and the plea in his eyes. This wasn’t about power or ambition; it was about love. She didn’t yet trust Caruso, but she trusted Val. And Caruso would bind himself, and his power, to her cause. Of that, she was unerringly sure.
She didn’t think about the thorns on her body or the saint on the roof or the pain of what would come after. Giving in to the pull of destiny, she tossed a cushion on the floor and told Caruso Dantes, the most unhinged Dagger in Fantome, to lie down and shut up.
For once, he did as he was told.
Rolling up the sleeves of her robe, Sera came to her knees. He opened the top buttons of his shirt, revealing a chest covered in deep black whorls and thick silver scars. The moment she pressed her palm against it, her magic erupted.
Dizziness rushed her, and she swayed, losing herself to her power. She was a vessel. A living conduit made to give, and give, and give.
So she gave.
Oblivion crept in.
And, oh, how it hollowed her out.