Page 16 of The Rebel and the Rose
‘Wait!’ There came a sharp, panicked cry, and from the dark behind the statue, a boy leaped into his path.
Ransom skidded to a stop. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
The boy gasped a breath as he looked up at him. He couldn’t have been any more than ten years old. Short and scrawny, with a mop of black hair and wan skin. ‘Wait,’ he said again. ‘Please.’
‘Have you lost your mind, kid?’ Ransom stepped backwards, conscious of the spill of shadows between them. ‘Do you know what I am?’
‘Ransom Hale,’ said the boy, without blinking. He did well to keep the tremor from his voice, but his glassy eyes were wide and fearful. ‘Head of the Order of Daggers.’
A trap, surely. A trick of some sort. Ransom whipped his head around, searching the night for others who might be lying in wait.
All was still.
‘I came by myself,’ said the boy, reading the suspicion on his face. ‘I’ve been waiting all night.’
Ransom cocked his head. ‘Are you looking to die?’
He shook his head. ‘I want to be a Dagger.’
Hell’s teeth.
Saint Oriel had a twisted sense of humour. Or was this the work of Maud, Saint of Lost Hope, sending a tremulous child to his door?
‘Step back. Into the light.’
The boy nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness to obey. In the flickering lamplight, Ransom could better study him. He noted the tattered hem of his stained shirt, the scuff of his shoes. There was a faded yellowed bruise under his left eye, another along his jaw.
Ransom’s gut twisted. It felt for a moment like he was staring down the barrel of his own childhood, seeing himself the day Dufort had plucked him from the banks of the Verne like a discarded penny.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Fabian,’ the boy said.
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Nowhere, really.’
Ransom arched a brow. ‘Where are your parents?’
‘Don’t have any.’
Ransom folded his arms across his chest.
The boy blushed. ‘Mama died last summer.’
‘And your father?’
‘He ain’t no father. We don’t fit. Him and me.’
Ransom didn’t press the matter. It was sketched well enough on the boy’s face. ‘I see.’
The boy raised his chin, hands fisted by his sides. ‘Can I stay?’
Ransom almost laughed. ‘Obviously not.’
Frowning, the boy began to plead. ‘I can help you. I can—’
‘No.’ The word was crisp and final. Ransom had done a great many terrible things – made cruel, unforgivable choices in life, but he would not become what Dufort had been to him. ‘Run along. The orphanage will have you.’
