Page 23 of The Rebel and the Rose
‘Say that again.’
She ignored the request. ‘Get dressed and follow me.’
Ransom grabbed the sweater hanging over the back of his chair and pulled it over his head. He shrugged on his trousers, his fingers flying over his bootlaces as he tied them in a rush. There wasn’t time to splash water on his face, but it hardly mattered. He was wide awake.
When he left his bedchamber, Nadia was halfway down the passage, marching with a fury he hadn’t seen in some time.
He jogged after her. ‘Hell’s teeth, Nadia, slow down! What’s happened?’
She stalked on, her words flying over her shoulder. ‘Words won’t do this justice. I want toshowyou what she’s done. I want to see your face when you realize you should have killed that manipulative little murderer in the Saints’ Quarter four months ago.’
Ransom’s fingers twitched as he walked. A part of him yearned for a vial of Shade to dull the edges of his anxiety.
Just a taste. A mere press against the lips.
A dangerous impulse Dufort had readily given into, time and again.
Breathing slowly through his nose, he shoved the instinct down. Whatever had spooked Nadia, they would handle it together.Hewould handle it. Just as soon as she started making sense.
Outside, dawn light bled across the sky in streaks of amber and pink. Old Haven was fast asleep, the statue of Lucille Versini staring blank-eyed towards Primrose Square, where a low-hanging cloud filled the space where the Aurore Tower had once stood. The only sound was the soft whistle of the morning breeze, and a robin chirping in the nearby trees.
Nadia was waiting for him at the top of the stone steps, tapping her foot impatiently.
‘What?’ he said, growing impatient himself.
She simply turned sharply and headed straight for the graveyard.
Guilt tugged at Ransom as he stepped through the gate after her. He hadn’t been here in months. He spent so much time around death, he hated to sit in the aftermath of it. He despised the eerie stillness. The rotting flowers. The stench of the mossy headstones. The reminder that his best friend, Lark, was dead because of him. That he was stuck here without him.
Nadia came here every evening before she went to work. She had spent her birthday sitting at the foot of Lark’s grave, reading his favourite book. Lisette had told Ransom that, witha sneer of her usual judgement, and coward that he was, he had never asked Nadia where she’d been that day. He simply left a cream bun and a card in her bedchamber, and that was that.
She made for Lark’s grave now, winding her way towards the south-east corner of the ancient graveyard. Steeling himself, Ransom followed her, averting his eyes as he passed under the statue of Calvin, Saint of Death.
By the time they finally came to Lark’s row, Nadia was silent. Fresh tears striped her cheeks as she wordlessly pointed towards the graveside. Ransom understood then why she couldn’t speak, because when he followed her gaze, words left him too.
Lark’s grave was open.
A pit yawned in Ransom’s stomach as he stumbled forward, trying to make sense of it.
Six feet down, the walnut coffin Nadia had carefully chosen was wide open. The crimson velvet lining was covered in dirt and the upper panel had split in two, as though someone had jammed their foot through it. Over and over again.
Lark’s body was gone.
Ransom swayed on his feet, anger and confusion careening over him. ‘When?’ he managed.
Beside him, Nadia was as stiff as a statue. ‘Some time in the night.’ She stepped back, the empty grave so unsettling she had to steady herself against the bench Ransom had had erected by the grave. For her. ‘Caruso and I were here at sundown yesterday.’
Ransom looked up at that. ‘Caruso?’
‘He walks here sometimes. I think it’s because dead peopledon’t require anything of him. Like interesting conversation. Or the barest shred of empathy.’
Well, at least she had retained her dark sense of humour.
‘Lark’s grave was fine last night,’ she went on. ‘I left peonies.’ She gestured to the shredded bouquet, its delicate pink petals now strewn across the grass like confetti. ‘He used to buy them in the Rascalle every Sunday to take home to his mother…’ She trailed off, her fists scrunching like she was trying to force the tears back inside herself. ‘I couldn’t sleep so I got up early. When I came here, he was gone.’
A graverobber in Old Haven.
Ransom scoured the surrounding grass, looking for footprints.
