Page 4 of The Rebel and the Rose
Gong!
Gong!
Lightning skewered her like an arrow, lancing through her in a shock of bone-melting heat. Pain erupted, the world spinning as she fell. In the centre of it all, shone a moon-white clock face, slowly tick-ticking on.
Screams rang out, calling her name.
Only it was not her name.
Not my memory.
Not me at all.
Then came the hard slap of earth—
Waking with a strangled gasp, Sera shot upright in her seat. Pippin, who had been napping on her lap, pricked his ears up, a low growl rumbling in his chest. On the bench across from her, Bibi pitched forward, grabbing her hand. ‘You’re all right,’ she said, squeezing gently. ‘You were just dreaming.’
Still panting, Sera swept the ribbons of her blonde hair back from her face. ‘I must have dozed off.’
Bibi’s blue eyes pooled with concern. ‘Was it the same one again?’
Sera frowned, nodding. ‘The clock tower.’
It was almost always the clock tower, those screams that didn’t know her, that place she didn’t recognize.
‘We’re here,’ said Bibi, tugging her away from the memory. ‘Take a look.’
Peering out of the back of the wagon, Sera watched the sleepy village of Aberville unfurl like a setting from a storybook. This quaint town of winding cobbled streets and stone cottages, charming shopfronts crowned in frilled awning and the clustering pine forests that cradled it from the chaos of Fantome. The last of the winter frost made everything glitter, crusting the windows and clinging to the rooftops like diamond teardrops.
Nestled in the rolling countryside, Aberville was a considerable journey from the northern mountain village of Halbracht, where they had made their home these past three months. Not that Sera had been bored on the way down here, with Bibi and her beloved mutt Pip for company.
They had passed the days playing cards in the back of the wagon, Pip chewing happily on Sera’s bootlaces while Bibi insisted on a game of I spy whenever they passed through a town or village. They spent their nights in whichever local inn was closest to them when the horses began to tire, Sera smuggling Pippin in underneath her coat, before devouring whatever local stew was on offer.
Bibi leaned out of the window as they came to a stop outside the yellow-bricked cottage that belonged to Othilde Eberhard, the most seasoned smuggler in Valterre. ‘Look at the size of that garden. I think I see a lake back there.’
Outside, birds chirped in the trees, heralding the coming of spring. It had been months since Sera had heard that sound. The mountain hawks of Halbracht preferred to shriek, and if a rogue robin ever chirped, it was quickly outmatched by the braying horses and bleating goats. She took it as a good omen.
They hopped out of the wagon, Sera calling to Remy, their driver, ‘We won’t be long. An hour. Maybe two.’
‘Show time,’ muttered Bibi, just as Pippin jumped out after them.
The smuggler’s scowling face watched them from the window.
Scooping him up before he could urinate on the snowdrops, Sera cradled Pippin in her arms, hoping to all hell Othilde Eberhard liked dogs.
An hour later, Sera found herself pacing by the lake at the bottom of Othilde Eberhard’s garden. She could practically feel the old woman’s eyes on the back of her head, watchingfrom her kitchen window. Contemplating the offer Sera and Bibi had just made. In essence, this:
Leave behind the only trade you’ve ever known.
Wager everything you have on Lightfire.
Lightfire, the antidote to Shade. A golden dust-like substance that could easily nullify the power of Shade’s lethal shadows. After managing to sweet-talk themselves into Othilde’s cottage, they had presented their offer to her, along with a precious vial. The smuggler had heard about the monsters of Fantome and the power of Lightfire already, and had been intrigued by their offer, listening intently as they explained how they had first discovered the ancient magical antidote to Shade and then what they planned to do with it: perfect the final recipe and flood the city of Fantome until every single person had a store of Lightfire at their fingertips. Protection against the Daggers would weaken their hold on the capital, and eventually banish the dark power of Shade magic for good.
They weren’t just presenting a new vocation. They were presenting a new Order. A new world. And they wanted Othilde, who was seasoned and clever and quick with her hands, to be a part of it. Not only as an asset to the Order of Flames but as a vital loss to the Order of Daggers.
After all, fewer smugglers meant less Shade in circulation.
Othilde had broken her silence to call them a pair of disruptors, nicknamed SeraTrouble(with begrudging affection) and then shooed them from her house so she could think.
