Page 14 of The Dagger and the Flame
Sera was reminded of the giant marble statue of a naked man on the fifth-floor landing.
‘It’s coin, mostly. Sometimes jewellery.’ Bibi grinned. ‘Once, Val nearly broke her leg stealing a pouch of pebbles she swore were diamonds.’
‘I was thirteen. And clearly an idiot.’ Val turned to Sera. ‘Last year, Bibi stole a dead ferret for a patron because she thought it was a mink stole. When she presented it to Madame Mercure, she nearly got her cloak revoked.’
Bibi scowled at her. ‘You have to stop bringing that up.’
‘What about the king?’ said Sera, thinking of the palace that sat at the mouth of the Verne, where King Bertrand and Queen Odette often summered with their children. There must be enough riches in that place to launch a fleet of ships to Urnica, and it wasn’t like the royal family, who had a hundred homes across Valterre, would even miss half of them. ‘Do you ever take from—’
‘Never.’ Val regarded Sera as though she had suddenly sprouted horns. ‘The Cloaks can steal on his behalf, but neverfromhim. It’s an accord that goes right back to the time of Armand Versini himself. To dare steal from the King of Valterre would attract an entirely different kind of trouble.’
‘What about the city guards? Don’t you ever worry about getting caught?’
‘They can’t arrest what they can’t see,’ said Bibi, smugly.
‘And any nightguard foolish enough to try and catch a Dagger in the throes of Shade might as well fling themselves in the Verne and be done with it,’ said Val.
Sera took another generous sip of coffee, if only to hide the revulsion on her face.
Val watched her drink. ‘So, your mother died. What about your father?’
‘I don’t know him,’ said Sera, her chest tight. It was easier than saying his infrequent visits over the years were like thunderstorms, that he often arrived in a fury that sent her hiding under her bed. She hadn’t spoken to him since her thirteenth birthday, when he had stomped in through the back door and caught Mama by the throat. She had clawed his face bloody to get free before Sera chased him from the house with a rake, swinging with such wild abandon that she decapitated three shrubs.
They should have run that day. They should have run and never looked back.
Val let the matter rest, returning to her breakfast, while Bibi bent down to feed Pippin under the table. Sera let her gaze wander, taking in the rest of the dining hall. At the other end of the room, an oil painting of Armand Versini, the founder of the Order of Cloaks, hung above a stately fireplace. He waswearing a leather eye mask, the same style and shape as the symbol Madame Mercure kept on her key chain. A constant reminder of the importance of her role.
The menacing mask had marked the first in Armand’s experiments with disguise, but the painting suggested it had done little to hide his good looks. He had suntanned skin, thick black hair and a finely trimmed moustache. His brown eyes were strangely soft, and his lips were quirked, betraying the barest hint of mischief.
Underneath, engraved into a gold plaque, was the motto upon which the Order of Cloaks was founded:
Take only what your cloak can carry, and your conscience can bear.
Sera wondered whether a portrait of Armand’s brother, Hugo, hung somewhere in the catacombs, and if the air down there smelled like the rotting skulls he had buried in the walls.
‘Please don’t tell me you’re drooling over Armand Versini,’ scolded Val, waggling her butter knife in remonstration. ‘Don’t they have handsome men out in the plains?’
As though she had conjured one up with her question, the door to the dining hall swung open and a man stalked in, walking with the kind of lazy confidence Sera had only ever read about in books. He was tall and lithe, dressed in dark trousers and a loose blue shirt. His skin was golden tan, and his silver hair was slicked back, revealing a straight nose and strong cheekbones. His lips twitched, as though he was on the verge of smiling and his eyes were a perfect turquoise, like the south sea of Valterre.
When they met Sera’s, her breath hitched.
Bibi and Val groaned in unison.
‘Why do theyalwaysswoon?’ said Bibi.
‘I knew he’d come,’ said Val. ‘It’s like he could smell her.’
‘Who is that?’ said Sera, tearing her gaze away.
‘That’s Theo,’ said Val, rolling her eyes. ‘And if you’re wondering whether he’s a good kisser, the answer is obviously yes.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Sera hotly.
Val smirked. ‘Whatever you say, farmgirl.’
‘Theo’s the Shadowsmith at House Armand,’ said Bibi. ‘He might be a bit of a flirt, but he’s a skilled artificer. He’s the one who turns Shade into things we can use. Clothing. Footwear. Weapons.’
Sera stole another glance over her shoulder. Theo was now sitting with Griffin two tables over, but he was facing her. His smile was dazzlingly bright, but it wasn’t directed at Sera. He was grinning at Pippin, who had peeked out from under the table to see what all the fuss was about.
