Page 24 of The Dagger and the Flame
Sera had spent the days since then hiding away in the library at House Armand, nose-deep in stories that cast her mind as far from Fantome as possible. At night, she sat up staring at the moon, like she was afraid if she looked away, the light would go out and the darkness would find her and finish her. Grief was a cinder block chained to her ankle, fear sitting heavy on the other. She needed to make a weapon of both if she was to survive here. She needed to stop thinking like a wayward farmgirl and start acting like a Cloak. Or better still, a Dagger.
So today, she would train.
Her first session in the second-floor gymnasium with Albert, the resident self-defence tutor at House Armand, was as gruelling as a hike in the Saravi Desert. By noon, she was bent double, desperately trying to catch her breath. Sunlight poured in from the vaulted windows, gilding the sweat on her face.
She grabbed a towel to wipe her brow, then poured herself a glass of water before downing it in one go. ‘Not to be dramatic but I think I might be melting,’ she gasped. ‘My legs feel like candle wax.’
‘Good.’ Leaning against the nearby mantel of a disused fireplace, Albert grinned as he watched her, his brown eyes crinkling at the sides. He was a Cloak with such skill and leonine grace that he could ballroom-dance her across the room with six twirls and take her knees out from under her on the seventh. ‘That means you’re working hard.’
Despite the hours they had already spent training together, there wasn’t a bead of sweat on the older Cloak’s golden-brown skin.
‘Ormaybe I’m just slowly dissolving into a puddle of sweat,’ muttered Sera, raking her slick hair away from her face. Daily horseback riding had made her fit, and a childhood of climbing up barns with Lorenzo just to swing from their rafters had made her agile, but self-defence was a different beast entirely. It was a kind of dance: a series of precise strikes and careful manoeuvres that worked muscles she didn’t even know she had. Still, she was grateful for Albert’s expert tutelage, and glad she had taken Val and Bibi’s advice to schedule a session with him before her first official job. It would be a damn shame if she unwittingly stumbled into the clutches of a nightguard on her first Break simply because she didn’t know how to get out of a rudimentary arm hold.
The second Sera set her empty glass down, Albert pushed off the mantel, sinking into a crouch. ‘Let’s move on to chokeholds.’
Sera pulled a face, glancing fleetingly at the nearest window, trying to gauge the distance to the nearest oak tree.
‘Not worth the drop,’ said Albert, following her gaze. ‘Though you’re not the first to consider it.’
She groaned in defeat. ‘Fine,’ she said, rolling her aching shoulders back. ‘Chokeholds.’
When Val arrived a short while later, sweeping into the gymnasium in a pair of low-slung trousers and a sleeveless vest, she laughed at the sight of Sera’s red face stuck in the cradle of Albert’s muscular arms. ‘How’s training?’
‘Sobering,’ said Sera, still trying to scrabble free of the hold.
‘Well, as much as I hate to interrupt this delightful little moment, Mercure wants to see you in her office,’ said Val. ‘I suggest you take a shower first.’
Sera’s stomach flipped as Albert released her, and she rose on trembling legs that had nothing to do with exertion.
Madame Mercure was angry. Sera could sense it as soon as she reached her quarters in the high tower of House Armand. Val had told her this was where the ravens came to whisper to Cordelia Mercure of the nightly stirrings in Fantome, but standing here now, in a shaft of morning sunlight, the room simply looked like an office, albeit one sumptuously decorated in shades of burgundy and gold.
There was a large walnut desk littered with maps and ledgers. An ornate globe in the corner. A box of herbs sprouting along the windowsill. A row of bookshelves wrapped around the inner wall, climbing all the way to the ceiling, and on the other side of the room, two saffron wingback chairs and a small coffee table beside a crackling fireplace.
Mercure was standing at her desk, with the penny papers in her hand, glaring at Sera with such heat that she hesitated and hovered in the doorway, unsure whether or not to enter.
‘Come in,’ she said impatiently. ‘I don’t bite.’
Gingerly, Sera stepped into the room.
‘Sit.’ Mercure was wearing a long pewter dress that swished around her as she crossed the room. She seemed taller than Sera remembered, but perhaps that was simply because she was angrier. She settled herself in an armchair, gesturing at the one opposite her.
Sera sat. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
Mercure crossed her legs. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Is this about the Rascalle? Was it a test after all?’
‘No.’ Madame Mercure’s voice was clipped.
‘Is it Pip?’ said Sera, anxiously. ‘I know he relieves himself in the garden but I always make sure to—’
‘It’s not the mutt.’ Madame Mercure sighed, bored of her own game. ‘Tell me,Sera Toussaint, when were you planning on telling me that you are, in fact, the daughter of Sylvie Marchant, one of the most prolific Shade smugglers in Fantome?’
Sera froze. She could feel the colour draining from her cheeks. ‘What—’
‘Careful,’ said Madame Mercure, pitching forward in her seat. ‘It would not be wise to lie to my face a second time.’
Sera scrunched her eyes shut, desperately trying to think of something to say, but she had no lie big enough to cover the truth, and no excuse clever enough to banish the suspicion from Madame Mercure’s face. She had been caught out. ‘My name is Seraphine Marchant,’ she said, in a whisper. ‘I’m sorry I lied.’
