Page 106 of The Dagger and the Flame
‘You used to be fun,’ she said, flicking him in the cheek.
‘Do you know where Dufort is?’
‘Last I saw, he was in the graveyard,’ she said, evidently deciding to be helpful for once. ‘Beingpensive. Meeting the king always puts him in a shit mood. I swear he’s jealous of that big shiny crown.’
Ransom shot to his feet and made for the door, leaving her glowering at the back of his head. Above ground, dusk was sweeping through Fantome, the sky blooming like a freshbruise. Though the rain had abated some time that afternoon, thunderclouds prowled overhead, the humidity so oppressive he felt like he was moving through steam.
Dufort was exactly where Lisette said he would be, perched at the far end of the graveyard, between weathered tombstones that jutted up from the earth like rotting teeth. He was sitting under a moss-eaten statue of Saint Calvin of Death, his eyes closed as though he was saying a prayer.
Dufort looked up at the sound of Ransom’s footsteps and said, by way of greeting, ‘There’s a storm coming.’
Yes, there is.
Ransom looked down at the Head of the Daggers and was surprised at how swiftly his rage returned. The sight of those cornflower-blue eyes staring back at him, the wheat-blonde hue of that shorn hair – it was so obvious.
He blinked slowly.
I am such an idiot.
Seraphine had inherited few of her mother’s characteristics, save for that shining fleck of bronze in her eye. The rest had come from Dufort, and it was so searingly obvious to him now that he couldn’t have doubted her confession even if a small part of him desperately wanted to.
‘Why do you look like you’ve swallowed a fucking thorn bush?’ said Dufort, scrunching up his face to mock him.
‘I want to talk to you about my mark,’ said Ransom without preamble.
Dufort frowned. ‘Is she dead?’
‘No.’ He watched Dufort swallow, noted his fingers twitching on his lap. ‘Why do you want her dead, Gaspard?’
‘What did Hugo Versini say about curiosity, Ransom?’
‘Why do you want her dead?’ Ransom said again.
Dufort scrubbed a hand across his face, so much calmer without Shade in his system. ‘I’d rather not get into it.’
‘Get into it,’ said Ransom, holding his nerve. ‘Please.’
Thunder rumbled in the distance as though the saints themselves were echoing his request.
Perhaps that’s why Dufort gave in. ‘Sylvie was working on something that could destroy everything our Order stands for. A kind of magic that can take the very core of our power and nullify it. Nullify us. She had been meddling from afar for years, and I suppose the fool in me let her get away with it.’ He paused, a flicker of some unchartered emotion passing behind his eyes. Nostalgia… Or perhaps it was the remnants of love. He blinked the moment away. ‘But Lightfire…’ His lip curled. ‘No. I could not abide it.’
Ransom was so surprised Dufort knew the name of Sylvie’s magic that his eyebrows shot up.
‘Destructive stuff,Lightfire,’ he went on, spitting the word. ‘Mark my words, Ransom, if it ever got out, it would be our undoing.’
Ransom had to work to keep his face neutral. ‘What does any of that have to do with the girl?’
Dufort looked away. ‘The girl holds her mother’s secrets. She has to go too. The longer she stays at House Armand with Mercure, the more danger we’re in.’
Ransom let the silence swell, giving Dufort the chance to fill it with the confession he had come for. That Seraphine Marchant was his daughter, that the thought of killing herfilled him with guilt, or inspired even the slightest hesitation. Dufort conceded nothing.
‘What if she left Fantome?’ said Ransom, because he had to know if there was another way to free her. If Dufort could be reasonable, just this once, he could save his own life. ‘What if she took those secrets and disappeared?’
‘Thenyouwould find yourself in a world of trouble.’ Dufort’s gaze sharpened as he rose from his seat. ‘I need you to show me you can take care of this. Storm that damn house and drag her out by her cloak if you have to, but get it done. And do itfast.’
Go to hell.
Ransom slumped against a tombstone, swallowing his anger.
