Page 6 of The Dagger and the Flame
Madame Mercure rolled her hand. ‘Well. Get on with it, then,’ she said, in a bored voice.
‘I’m Sera Toussaint.’ A half-lie, but better to keep things simple for now. Madame Mercure might know what happened to her mother. If Seraphine revealed herself, then as Head of the Order of Cloaks, she would decline to interfere in Dagger business, and Sera would lose her chance at sanctuary. No. She had to be smart about this. ‘I—well, my mother died.’
Madame Mercure arched a slender eyebrow. ‘And what do you want me to do about it?’
‘I’m… lost.’ The last word stuck in Sera’s throat. She had been trying to elicit sympathy from Madame Mercure, but shehad only managed to make her own eyes prickle. The sudden recollection of her loss was like a rock in her throat. ‘I have nowhere else to go.’
Madame Mercure reached into the pocket of her robe. When she withdrew her hand, it appeared empty but as she moved it under the lantern and flicked her wrist, a handkerchief appeared as if from nowhere. ‘Crying is such desperate business,’ she said, handing it to Sera. ‘It makes me terribly uncomfortable.’
Sera took the cloth and knew at once it was made with Shade. As it passed through a shadow, it seemed to disappear, only she could still feel it tingling between her fingers. She dabbed her cheeks and a smudge of soot came away with the tears. The stain melted before her eyes and the handkerchief looked brand new again. Pippin raised his head to sniff it.
Madame Mercure startled at the movement. ‘Gracious. A rodent.’
‘Pippin’s a dog.’ Sera bristled before she could help it. ‘He’s friendly.’
Madame Mercure peered closer. ‘Mange?’
‘No. He’s been well cared for.’
‘He doesn’t look it.’ She looked Sera over again, her gaze lingering on the singed ends of her hair, then the golden teardrop at her throat. Sera noticed it was glowing faintly in the dark. ‘And neither do you. What did you say happened to your mother?’
Sera was seized by the image of Mama lying on the kitchen floor, her face so grey it looked like the ash falling around her. The whites of her eyes had turned black. Her lips too. It wasthe mark of a Dagger’s kill, that shadow magic choking all the light and life out of Mama in ten heartbeats.
‘Plague.’ Bile pooled in Sera’s throat. ‘Her lungs gave out.’
Madame Mercure’s mouth twisted, tasting the lie.
‘And now, you wish to be a Cloak?’ she said, taking back her handkerchief.
Sera nodded. What choice did she have? There was nowhere else to hide.
Madame Mercure’s gaze flitted over her shoulder, her nostrils flaring as though she could sense something moving in the dark. Pippin raised his head like he could sense it, too. ‘Tell me, Sera Toussaint. Do you have the nerve for thievery?’
‘Yes,’ said Sera, curling her fingers, crushing the lie in her palm.
Madame Mercure studied her a moment longer, as if she was making some silent calculation in her head. Then, at last, she stood aside. ‘Vincent will make up a room for you tonight. He will arrange a small stipend for clothing and toiletries. Your first month of room and board is an advance on your first job. That will also be your test. All profits go to the House. Ensuing jobs will be split fifty-fifty. I’ll call upon you soon for your first assignment. Be ready.’
‘Thank you,thank you.’ Sera leaped through the door, terrified the invitation might expire. As the shadows of House Armand folded around her, she trembled with relief. Pippin licked her hand to settle her, and she looked up to find herself in the grandest kitchen she had ever seen. Every black granite surface was gleaming, and the room was graced with several crystalline vases of fresh roses. The tall corniced ceiling washung with no less than three flickering chandeliers, and there were enough priceless oil paintings on the walls to sustain an art gallery.
Madame Mercure moved in front of Sera, eclipsing the view. ‘The shears in your pocket. Leave them on the back step. Weapons are not permitted in House Armand.’ She removed a set of door keys from the pocket of her robe and Sera noticed a miniature black eye mask dangling on the chain, the winged tips curving into sharpened points. ‘Unlike our morally corrupt brethren, the Cloaks do not dance with death. We are noble folk, you see.’
‘Of course. I understand.’ As Sera removed the shears and reluctantly set them down, she reminded herself that it would take more than a rusty blade to skewer the Dagger that had killed Mama.
But that would come later.
Chapter 3Ransom
It was midnight in the city of Fantome, and Ransom Hale was on the hunt. Not that anyone noticed him, sauntering through the deserted streets in a high-collared charcoal coat, dark trousers and leather boots, his inky black hair curling in the rain.
Tonight, the mark was a girl. He had been tracking her from the outskirts of the city, long after she fled the burning farmhouse. She had been easy to spot even from a distance. Her pale face was marred with soot and the ends of her hair were singed black. Her low sobs had reached him on the wind. A wretched, sorrowful sound.
He kept his eyes on her as he stealthily crossed the Bridge of Tears. She was still crying, clutching helplessly at her chest like she was afraid her heart might fall out. In another life,Ransom might have felt sorry for her. He might have felt the loss of her mother as keenly as he had suffered his own, but he had been taught long ago that a good Dagger did not indulge in sympathy. And Ransom was one of the best.
And yet, tonight, he felt uneasy. The girl was younger than he had been expecting. Much younger than any of his previous marks. As he followed her into the Scholars’ Quarter, using the night’s shadows to climb a nearby building and swing seamlessly from one rooftop to the next, he wondered if they were close to the same age.
Gaspard Dufort doesn’t kill innocents, he reminded himself. The Head of the Order of Daggers might be ruthless, but he was not without a soul. If he were, he wouldn’t have taken Ransom in almost ten years ago and raised him as his own son.
According to Dufort, the girl’s name was Seraphine Marchant, but Ransom preferred to think of her simply as his mark. It was always easier that way. Dufort hadn’t mentioned the dog. Pitiful little thing.
