Page 18 of The Dagger and the Flame
She hurried down the hill.
Pippin looked up at the sound of her approach, revealing a sardine hanging from his mouth.
‘Clever wagtail,’ said Sera, bending down to pick him up. ‘I can’t believe you’re a better Cloak than me.’ She was so busy scolding Pippin that she didn’t notice the music box slipping from her pocket. She was already three steps away when she heard the soft trill of music behind her.
She spun around and nearly crashed nose-first into a broad chest.
‘I think you dropped this,’ said a low voice.
She looked up, past that broad chest and strong, stubbled chin, to a generous sweep of black hair and eyes the colour of autumn leaves, flickering somewhere between green and gold.She didn’t know if it was the lilting lullaby, the sheer towering height of this stranger or the way those autumn eyes were looking at her, but she felt suddenly dazed.
‘Why did the swan dance?’ he said, soft enough for her alone.
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘Your lullaby.’ He offered an awkward half-smile. ‘I think it’s called “The Dancing Swan”.’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ She stumbled backwards, the statue of Saint Oriel filling up the space between them as she shook herself from her stupor. Too late, of course. She had already made a prize fool of herself, ogling him like an oil painting. What was it about Fantome, and its distractingly handsome men? ‘Because it was trying to fly.’
‘Ah,’ he said, as if she had answered some great confounding riddle. He stepped towards her, until she had to tilt her chin to look up at him again. ‘And did it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, as she took the box from him. She closed it, extinguishing the music. In the sudden silence, the back of her neck began to prickle. Pippin grew restless in her arms, and it occurred to Sera that they should leave.
‘Thank you,’ she said, willing her legs to work.
‘It was nothing.’ He was already turning away from her, stepping back into the swell of the Rascalle, like a ship disappearing in the mist. ‘Have a nice day, Seraphine.’
It was only after he disappeared that she wondered how he knew her name.
Chapter 6Ransom
‘Dufort wants to see you,’ said Nadia, poking her head around the door to Ransom’s bedchamber. Her brow was furrowed, the look on her face flitting between concern and curiosity. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I suppose I’ll find out,’ croaked Ransom, as he sat up in bed. A glance at the clock on the wall told him it was late evening. He must have drifted off to sleep. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and cleared his throat.
Nadia lingered in the doorway, her brown skin glistening in the lamplight. Her sleek black hair was scooped into a high bun, revealing the scythes of her cheekbones and the smudge of kohl underneath her eyes.
‘Heading out?’ said Ransom, noting her belted tawny coat and high black boots.
She nodded. ‘I need a stiff drink. Long week. Scrappy mark.’ She had the scrapes on her cheek to prove it. Unusual for Nadia, who was quick on her feet, and even better in the air with shadows to swing from. Her mother had been a dancer in the Hollows, her father some rich wandering rake. If she hadn’t been orphaned so early in life, Nadia might have been a dancer too. She might have had a life above the catacombs, a future far beyond the gritty underworld of Fantome.
‘Who was it?’ said Ransom.
‘Some brainless mercenary who had the gall to blackmail the king’s cousin.’ Nadia never learned the names of her marks, never hesitated at the strike. She never slept afterwards, either. Not unless Lark slipped into her room and sang her to sleep. Ransom always pretended not to hear him, but sound carried a long way in the catacombs and most nights the other Daggers cracked their doors to listen, too.
‘I’m meeting Lark and Caruso in a tavern over on Merchant’s Way.’ She bit her lip, frowning. ‘Unless you want me to stay and wait for you…?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ He rolled to his feet and stretched, working out the kink in his neck. He was still wearing the navy cashmere sweater he had worn to the marketplace. It was rumpled now, and sleep had left a sour taste in his mouth. He needed to wash and change. ‘Tell Lark to stay out of trouble.’
‘Sure. I’ll tell the moon not to rise while I’m at it.’ Nadia was still frowning. She clearly wanted to stay, to dilute whatever foul humour Dufort was in. Ransom hadn’t seen the fearsome Head of the Daggers since he had handed him his mark nearly a week ago.
Without warning, an image of wide blue eyes, framed by long black lashes, flashed through Ransom’s head. One eye was half bronze, as though whatever divine being had painted Seraphine Marchant had run out of sky, and had to reach instead, for earth. She looked all the more interesting for it. And he was a fool for admitting it. For noticing it at all.
‘Go,’ he said to Nadia.
She offered a parting smile for courage.
He turned to the mirror on the wall, tracing the black whorl jutting above the round collar of his sweater. It stung faintly, reminding him of just how deep the mark had burrowed. All the way down to his soul. He was not yet twenty years old and already the shadows were inching up his chest, reaching like thorns for his neck. The marks were jet black against his olive skin, a constant reminder that no matter where he went, he could not outrun the reminders etched across his body.
