Page 11 of The Dagger and the Flame
‘That was all Pippin,’ said Sera, sure Madame Mercure knew a tracker when she saw one. ‘If he hadn’t found this place, we would have been sleeping on the street.’
Or dead, she thought grimly, picturing those menacing quicksilver eyes. Her jaw tightened. Mama hadn’t just died yesterday. She had been murdered. And for some sick reason, the Daggers had decided to make a spectacle of it. Beneath the fresh horror of her grief, rage was prickling.Burning.She counted her breaths, trying to quell the sudden, rabid urge to ransack the little room, to rip the mirror from the wall and pull every singed hair from her head, screaming until her voice went raw. Until Gaspard Dufort heard her all the way across the Verne.
Evil, hateful bastard.
You will pay for what you did.
‘Huh,’ said Val, who had been silently observing her. ‘You suddenly look… ravenous.’
‘Saints, you must be starving!’ said Bibi, hopping to her feet. ‘When was the last time you ate?’
Sera frowned. She didn’t feel hungry, but now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember her last meal. Poor Pippin must be starving.
‘I could eat,’ she admitted.
‘But first, you should bathe,’ said Val, a little awkwardly. ‘You don’t want to put the other Cloaks off their food.’
‘Val’s right,’ said Bibi, snooping in Sera’s dresser only to find that there wasn’t a stitch of clothing in there. ‘You only get one chance to make a good impression. Take it from someone who tried to rob Madame Mercure.’
‘That’s true,’ said Sera, still unsure as to whether, at House Armand, an attempted robbery created a good impression or a poor one. She rolled out of bed.
Val took one look at her filthy outfit and grimaced. ‘I’ll get you something to wear before your stipend comes through. Lucky for you, I have impeccable taste.’
‘Thanks, Val.’ Sera was glad when they both swept out of her room, so they couldn’t see her eyes water at their kindness. She was a mess, filthy and bedraggled. Her heart was shredded to ruins, but it was still beating. She was still standing. Somehow.
She reached for her anger, anchoring herself to her fury, rather than her pain. She went to the window to peer out at the wakening Hollows. The dreary taverns were slowly yawning to life, the brothels going to sleep, the cracked streets thrumming with the forgotten folk of Fantome rising to sell their wares in the grey morning haze.
There was no sign of the Dagger. Morning had blanched the shadows from the Hollows and sent him scuttling back to Hugo’s Passage, no doubt to lick Gaspard Dufort’s boots and claim his reward. The man who had ordered Mama’s death, and the burning of her house for good measure. It wasn’t enough to turn on Sylvie – no. Dufort wanted to destroy her too.
Gutless wretch.
Sera would get back on her feet here. She would playMadame Mercure’s game, gather some savings and her wits, and before she turned her back on Shade and the underworld and all the strife it had brought into her life for good, she would find a way to make Dufort pay for what he had done to Mama.
A fatal parting shot from Sylvie Marchant. It was exactly what he deserved.
Pippin whined, startling Sera from her spiralling thoughts of revenge, and reminding her that they were both in need of a good scrub and a hot meal.
‘Priorities, priorities,’ she muttered, scooping him up.
The bathroom on the fifth storey of House Armand was almost as grand as its kitchen. The floors were white marble, the clawfoot tub so big that Sera could lie down inside it without touching the rim. The shelves were lined with expensive soaps and heady perfumes, the shampoo so fragrant she left the lather on for ten minutes. She scrubbed her face three times to get rid of every last particle of soot and smoke. She found a small pair of scissors in a cupboard under the mirror and used them to cut off the burnt ends of her hair, until it was only long enough to reach her chest.
She braided the pale strands away from her face as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her tanned cheeks were wan, darkening the scatter of freckles along the bridge of her nose. Her blue eyes were wide and intense. The fleck of bronze in her left iris was the only feature she had inherited from her mother. That, and her temper.
After she had scrubbed herself clean, Sera washed Pippin. He wriggled and squalled the entire time, so loudly that every Cloakwithin earshot would probably think he was being murdered. ‘Such a drama king,’ Sera chided, as she trimmed his tail and the scruff around his face, until she could see his beady eyes again.
Back in her room, she rifled through the clothes Val had left on her bed. She had multiple options, each outfit as beautiful as the next. It sure as hell paid to be a thief. And probably twice as much to be a Dagger. Sera tried not to wonder about the price on Mama’s head. Was she worth more than Val’s gold-trimmed leather boots? Less than her fox-fur stole?
Sera chose a pair of fitted black trousers that tapered at her ankles, flat black boots and a high-necked knitted cream sweater that made her feel like the wife of a rich merchant sailor. It was a far cry from the practical clothes she wore out in the plains: pale, loose-fitting shirts to keep off the heat of the sun in the cornfields, leathers to ride Scout bareback, her boots always laced high enough to protect her trousers from the mulch in the vineyards. But her rough look never bothered Sera. Lorenzo – her childhood best friend who had recently become something more – always told her she looked beautiful, no matter what she wore – or didn’t wear – and judging by the way he pressed his body against hers out behind the barn, his gaze molten with desire, Sera thought it must be true.
Steeling herself, she followed the sound of morning chatter down to the dining hall, which was located on the second floor of House Armand. It had all the grandeur of a ballroom, with dark herringbone floors and corniced ceilings. The walls were adorned with gold-leaf wallpaper and hung with some of the most exquisite landscapes Sera had ever seen. The dining chairs were cushioned with velvet, while every table bore alarge silver tray of fresh pastries, pitchers of orange and grape juice, heaped plates of bacon, sausages and fried eggs, as well as a steaming pot of coffee.
Yes, yes, yes.
The Cloaks knew how to eat. And steal. Every inch of House Armand dripped with opulence. At one end of the huge dining room, a row of bay windows looked over the back garden. In the morning light, Sera could see that the lawn was beautifully manicured, and bordered by magnificent oak trees. An old woman was sitting alone by the window. Sera recognized her scowling, wrinkled face from the previous night and with fresh ire, recalled the croak of her ‘No!’ as she slammed the door in her face.
She glared at Sera now, through the cloud of smoke that billowed from the pipe in her hand.
Sera fought the urge to offer her a choice finger. Mama had always warned her to respect her elders. Even the tyrants. Sera turned away from the old woman, scanning the other faces in the room. There were forty or so Cloaks down here. Most of them looked around her age, but a handful were older, closer to Mama’s age, and there were a pair of twin boys who looked around twelve or so. Most sat in pairs or small groups, chatting among themselves. Some flicked their gazes towards Sera when she entered but if they were surprised by her presence, they didn’t show it.
