Page 85 of The Dagger and the Flame
Fontaine’s words trickled down her spine.
The church was empty, save for a few people praying nearthe back. Sera trailed her fingers along the wooden pews as she drifted towards the altar, where twelve statues stood peacefully. They watched over the dais where priests and priestesses gathered to worship them every week.
She removed her cloak and sat down, two rows from the statue of Frederic, Saint of Farmers and Hunters, and waited. She let her mind drift, back to lazy days out in the plains, when she and Lorenzo would sneak away from their tutor’s cottage and hide in the cornfields, finding shapes in the clouds. They would stay like that for hours, making up stories, until they were laughing too hard to speak, or kissing too hard to breathe. Lorenzo had always wanted to be a farmer, to raise cattle in the plains, to keep chickens and in time, a brood of children, too. It was a simple life, but his eyes glowed whenever he spoke of it. Sera was too much of a daydreamer to settle so soon on what she wished to become, and she liked it that way – the future yawning out before her with a hundred different pathways to happiness.
Now, she felt all those possibilities slipping away, the destiny Mama had imagined for her closing around her like a vice. She thought of the Grim in Madame Fontaine’s cards and wondered where this future would lead her – if there was a pathway left for her at all.
In the storm of her worries, the pew creaked.
The air warmed as a figure sat down beside her.
‘I’ve always thought that statue of Saint Frederic makes him look constipated,’ remarked an all-too-familiar voice.
Sera bit back her smile. ‘Hello, stranger.’
Ransom turned to look at her. ‘Hello, Seraphine.’
‘You can’t kill me in a church,’ she said, meeting his gaze. Relieved to find it was not silver… Disconcerted to find it even more arresting in the flickering candlelight.
‘Dagger’s honour,’ he said, pressing a palm to his chest. ‘I thought we were past all that anyway.’
Sera hoped they were, but she couldn’t help being wary. Better to remain on guard.
Ransom had no such concerns. He turned towards her, his forearm sliding along the back of the pew until his fingers brushed against her shoulder. She ignored the flare of heat in her body, the way her skin warmed at the nearness of his touch. He smirked at the rising blush in her cheeks. And what a smirk it was.Saints, save me. ‘Tell me, spitfire. Why am I here?’
She drew a sharp breath, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Lingered there. A black strand curled along his forehead and her fingers itched to push it back, to press her hand to his cheek and see if he might kiss it again. Ransom was distractingly handsome. He might not have his Shade, but he had that face, that voice. Other weapons. Other ways to disarm her.
She pulled back from him. ‘Have you ever killed anyone in a church?’
He blinked. ‘No. Have you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never killed anyone.’
‘Not for lack of trying.’
She dropped her gaze to where she had stabbed him.
He followed her line of sight. ‘Do you want to see my scar, Seraphine?’
Her throat tightened. ‘You can’t lift up your shirt in here,’ she said in a strangled voice.
‘Sopious,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘But you’re probably right. I’d hate to scandalize our saints.’
She turned back to the statues, gathering her composure. ‘If you’re looking for unlucky number thirteen, Lucille Versini is not here,’ he said, reading her confusion easily. ‘For all his power, Hugo Versini never managed to get a statue of his sister into this place.’ He clucked his tongue, tipping his head back. ‘Not even a window pane. Her statue stands above his passage in Old Haven.’
‘I doubt she’d care,’ muttered Sera.
He hummed in agreement. ‘And anyway, Lucille didn’t possess any measure of magic. She wasn’t blessed like the saints of old. She doesn’t hold any lasting influence on this city.’
Not yet, thought Sera, working her way up to talking about the Lightfire. She was surprised he hadn’t brought it up yet but she sensed he was waiting for her to show her hand.
He chewed on his bottom lip, nipping at that white scar. She was seized by the urge to trace it with her tongue. She blinked the thought away and returned her attention to the saints, giving her eyes a break from the terrible beauty of him. She was not here to lust over a Dagger, easy as it was. She was here to ask a favour of him.
She wrung her hands, preparing to come to the point, but he stood up abruptly and went to the bay of candles at the side of the altar. He lit one taper, and then another, setting them side by side, among a sea of other people’s wishes.
Ransom dropped his head in silent prayer. Sera studied the towering shadow of his body flickering in the candlelight, the broad sweep of his shoulders and the curve of his biceps as heclasped his hands behind his back. Here was a devil standing under the eye of the saints, and he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he was acting like he belonged in their company.
She laughed.
