Page 1 of The Dagger and the Flame
Part I
‘Take only what your cloak can carry, and your conscience can bear.’
Armand Versini,
FOUNDER OF THE ORDER OF CLOAKS
‘Those who refuse to wield the dagger are doomed to die by its blade.’
Hugo Versini,
FOUNDER OF THE ORDER OF DAGGERS
Before
Out beyond the glittering city of Fantome in the wild heart of the plains, the midnight moon hung like a lantern in the sky, bathing the farmhouse that belonged to Seraphine Marchant’s mother in a soft silver glow. The light crept in through Seraphine’s window and danced along the pages of her book, and for a moment, she imagined the curious moon was reading over her shoulder. She turned a page, the words blurring as her eyelids grew heavy. She should be asleep but she couldn’t rest at such a crucial point in the story. Even if she had read it eight times already. Even if, at seventeen years old, she was too old for fairy tales.
Pippin slumbered at her feet, warming her toes. As a dog of considerable age and with only three legs to carry him, he had no interest in the inky whispers of imagined adventures. He cared chiefly for naps, river sprats and, on occasion, Farmer Perrin’s chickens.
At the sudden sound of swearing, Seraphine turned her face to the window. Out in the garden, Mama was on her handsand knees hissing at the lavender, whorls of her thick black hair veiling her face. Unusual behaviour, even for Sylvie Marchant. Seraphine frowned, closing her book. Down below, a cat darted from the bushes. Mama pounced, snatching up the startled tabby. It was Fig, so named because Seraphine often found the stray napping in the fig tree behind their house. Not that Mama had ever taken the slightest interest in him until now.
Seraphine watched as her mother pulled a familiar glass vial from the pocket of her cardigan before removing the stopper with her teeth. The cat yowled as Mama tipped the contents into his mouth. Pippin raised his head, a growl rumbling in his throat. Unease rumbled through Seraphine, too.
Mama set the cat down. Fig scampered a couple of steps, then jerked. Another step, and a howl burst from him. It was not a sound Seraphine had ever heard before, and the agony of it raked claws down her spine. Pippin’s hackles rose.
She pressed her nose to the window, watching in silent horror as Fig’s little body thrashed. In a matter of seconds, he grew to twice his size, then larger still. Soon, Fig didn’t look like himself at all. Not a cat, but a beast. His fur was so black it seemed to join with the darkness. Strange shadows poured from his barrel chest like tentacles, some sweeping through the low bushes, others lashing out, high and fast. Mama jumped backwards to avoid one, a laugh springing from her as though it was a jump rope.
Seraphine’s blood ran cold.
The moon dipped behind a cloud and in the sudden dark, Fig disappeared entirely.
‘Pss pss pss,’ hissed Mama.
A deafening roar cut through the night. As the cloud passed and the moonlight returned, Fig lunged from the bushes, with saliva dripping from his fangs. He cornered Mama.
Seraphine leaped to her feet, the book tumbling from her lap as she bolted for the bedroom door. Behind her, she felt, rather than saw, a snap of bright golden light, and then heard Mama’s shout rising in the dark. Seraphine took the rickety stairs two at a time, grabbing the kitchen broom at the bottom. With Pippin barking at her heels, she burst out into the night.
And ran head-first into her mother. She stumbled backwards, broom raised, eyes wild. The beast was nowhere to be seen, but Seraphine kept her guard up. ‘Get behind me, Mama!’
Mama’s bronze eyes were wild, too. ‘What are you doing out here, little firefly?’ she demanded breathlessly. ‘You should be asleep.’
Seraphine blinked, then stared hard at her mother. Sylvie Marchant was uninjured, grinning with two neat rows of pearly teeth. But there was an edge to that smile. A faint smell of burning lingered in the air, and beneath it, Seraphine scented a strange citrus tang, like lemon blossoms. She craned her neck, searching the darkness. Pippin was already tramping through it, inspecting the bushes.
‘Where is Fig?’
Mama cocked her head. ‘Fig?’
‘The cat,’ said Seraphine, her heart beating so loudly she could scarcely think. ‘He changed. He charged at you. I saw him.’ She was still brandishing the broom. ‘I thought you were hurt. I came to rescue you…’ she trailed off. She felt unsteady on her feet. Unsteady in her mind.
Seraphine knew Shade magic. She had grown up with it, watching Mama grind and bottle it long before Seraphine started helping with the task. She had washed the dust of it from her fingers more times than she could count, but what she had seen just now…thatwas something else. Something bigger. A dent in the rules they had followed so very carefully, for so very long.Touch, but don’t use. Never taste.The thought etched a scowl on her face. ‘What are you up to, Mama?’
Mama gently flicked her on the nose. ‘Watch that frown before the wind sets it. Or we’ll have to start using you to frighten off the crows.’
Seraphine tossed the broom aside. ‘You know we’re not supposed to mess around with—’
‘I know the rules,’ said Mama, swishing the words away. Refusing to be interrogated. Or scolded. ‘I think you’ve been reading too many stories, darling girl. I only crept out to look for my ring. I thought I dropped it in the bushes when I was gardening this afternoon.’
The lie was so effortless, so comforting, that Seraphine felt herself leaning into it, like a slant of sunlight in winter.
