Page 59 of The Rebel and the Rose
Caruso had nearly pissed himself laughing.
Nadia had fired it back, clipping Versini in the ear.
Seraphine had met Nadia glare for glare across the all but deserted tavern, before offering Ransom her middle finger.
So she was holding a grudge.
At least now he could be sure she wasn’t their graverobber. Which begged the question… who the hell had taken Lark’s body? And to what aim?
Beneath it, another question stirred: what kind of saintwasSeraphine Marchant, and where did her loyalty truly lie? He wasn’t fool enough to think they were on the same side just because they were on the same journey.
On the nights when they stopped to rest at inns, Seraphine shared a room with Versini on an entirely different floor to the Daggers.
It sent Ransom half mad with jealousy, thinking of them sharing a bed, imagining her peeling off her chemise after a long day of travel, cosying up to that arrogant Versini prick. He spent those nights ignoring the furious tugging in his chest by staying up far too late and necking whatever Caruso slammed down on the table in front of him. Nothing helped, but the screaming hangover made for a nice distraction the following day. As the hours wore on, and they entered the north-west province of Valterre, Nadia’s worsening mood began to rival his own. With every mile closer to the Appoline, she grew antsy, restless. It didn’t take a scholar to figure out what was eating away at her. And it had nothing to do with their troublesome prince.
Nadia wasn’t satisfied with Ransom’s recounting of his argument with Seraphine – or her staunch outright denialabout Lark’s grave. She wanted to have it out with Seraphine herself. If not for the grave robbery, then for Lark’s death.
Resentment simmered.
Sooner or later, it would come to a boil.
On the fourth day, they reached the Appoline University. Ransom could tell by the generous tree-lined driveway that now cloistered them from the rest of the countryside, the oaken leaves whispering as they watched them go by. Up ahead, he spied towering black gates, the verdant university grounds spilling out beyond. Over the high stone walls, ivy-wreathed turrets jutted up like stakes.
His heart gave a painful thud. In another life his destiny might have led him here. To a haven of learning to study the great artists of old. To paint his own landscapes, first under the tutelage of the masters, and later, across the far-flung lands of the continent, where he would answer to no one but his paintbrush. It was the dream his mother had fostered in him long ago, the life they whispered about at bedtime, when the oil lamp flickered low, and her burnished eyes made him feel like anything was possible.
You will be one of the great artists, my darling boy.
You will paint a world far lovelier than this one.
Ten years on and the only thing Ransom had managed to paint was his own body, the dark marks on his skin burrowing deeply and painfully. What would his mother and his sister think of him now? If the king truly did manage to track them down, how could Ransom ever face them? How could he explain the monster he had become? Late at night, when his thoughtsturned from Seraphine, they always settled on his family, on the scouring need to find them again, and the fear that they might not love the man he had become in their absence.
Who could stand him, when he could barely stand himself?
Who could love him, when he hated himself?
Seraphine had said it well enough. All thiswilful wrecking of his eternal soulwould leave him hollow in the end, with nothing but the residue of Shade in his bones and the nightmares in his head. Already it was so much worse than before, the pathway back to himself so dark and twisting he was losing sight of it.
As ancient trees towered over them, blotting out the sinking sun, Ransom clenched his hands into fists. The hideous skull ring glinted up at him. He imagined it laughing in the deep baritone of Gaspard Dufort. Long before he became a Dagger, Ransom’s father had trampled his dreams beyond recognition. Dufort had simply finished the job.
You have made yourself the canvas, Ransom.
And marred it all with shadow.
‘Uh-oh. He’s brooding again.’ Caruso’s voice cut through his reverie.
Nadia nudged Ransom with the toe of her boot. ‘What’s wrong?’
Everything.
‘Hangover,’ he said, raking his hair back. ‘That’s the last time I play saint or sinner with Caruso.’
At last, the carriage trundled to a stop, pulling into a narrow side bank under a gnarled hawthorn tree. Just ahead, the black gates glimmered.
Seraphine and Versini had already disembarked. Thesoldiers got out to stretch, joining the coachmen in the long grass to smoke cigarillos. They would not be accompanying Ransom and the others inside the Appoline. Since this was not anofficialroyal visit.
Smoothing the lapels of his long black coat, Ransom stalked towards the Flames. They were waiting by the gates.
For the first time in three days, Seraphine deigned to speak to him. ‘Well, Dagger, what’s the grand plan?’
