Page 7 of The Rebel and the Rose
A rainswept autumn had bled into an unforgiving winter, the snow falling so thick and fast it froze the Verne and crusted the rooftops of Fantome like powdered sugar. Ransom had the fireplace in the Cavern repaired in time for Saintsmas, but the chill still found the Daggers deep in the underbelly of Fantome, making their teeth chatter as they gathered round the crackling flames to drink whiskey and exchange trinkets.
No one mentioned Dufort.
No one sat in his chair.
Caruso suggested burning it for warmth.
While the stores of Shade in Hugo’s Passage were full, Ransom didn’t spare a thought for the comings and goings of his network of smugglers. He focused, instead, on rebuilding the Order and meeting their clients’ growing demands, earning back the trust of his comrades and grieving the loss of his best friend. The dirt on Lark’s grave froze too, the nearby statue of Saint Lucille weeping crystalline tears as winter gripped Fantome in its icy grip and refused to let go.
Slowly, reluctantly, Ransom rose to the challenge of the position he had never truly wanted. Seeking solace in the familiar lick of Shade, in the bone-deep sting of every new shadow-mark, he pretended his destiny was always meant to play out in the bowels of Fantome under the ancient eye of Calvin, Saint of Death.
Those first few months were long, and the nights were often sleepless.
But when he dreamed, he dreamed of her.
Seraphine.
The spitfire who had torn down the Aurore and made an enemy of herself. To the Daggers and the Cloaks, to the city and the king himself.
There had been no sign nor word of her since the morning after the Aurore fell, when she had fled north with her trio of fellow Cloaks, her little dog scurrying alongside her.
Ransom was glad Seraphine was gone. Far from the chaos rumbling in the capital, and the danger of his own Order.
And yet…
Sometimes he woke from dreams of her with such longing pain lanced through his chest.
For the sake of his sanity he shut all thoughts of her away, allowed his memories to freeze in the endless cold snap that followed her departure and hardened his heart like the ice that slicked the streets of Old Haven.
It worked for a time.
Then, one morning in late winter, Lisette banged on the door to Ransom’s bedchamber to tell him their stores of Shade were beginning to dwindle. In the last couple of weeks several of their most prolific traders had vanished, seemingly overnight.
The first disappearance had struck Ransom as unfortunate.
The second had made him suspicious.
By the time Othilde Eberhard went quiet, Ransom knew something was amiss. And he was sure as hell going to find out what.
He had intended to make the journey to Othilde’s place by himself, but as his Second, Nadia insisted on joining him, and when Caruso met them coming out of Hugo’s Passage on his way home from a job, he invited himself along for the journey.
As the rising sun dragged itself over the snow-swept city of Fantome, the three Daggers took a carriage out of the city and travelled west towards the village of Aberville.
The journey was long and slow, the winding roads made treacherous with melting frost. Spring was coming but it was taking its damn time.
In the back of the carriage Caruso and Nadia sat next to each other, with their boots kicked up on either side of Ransom. Built like a bear and as tall as one too, Caruso crowded the narrow seat, nudging Nadia over towards the window. Absently, she toyed with the drapes as they traded theories about their disappearing smugglers.
‘Maybe it’s a matter of loyalty?’ Nadia suggested, her frown just visible over the high collar of her wool coat. ‘Now Dufort’s gone, they don’t have the stomach for it any more.’
Caruso snorted. ‘People don’t lose their appetite for coin. And they all hated Dufort. He was a callous prick.’
‘And that’s coming from you,’ said Nadia, with a snort.
Caruso had always been a wildcard. Restless, destructive, forever angry at the world. He was quick to lash out and never one to apologize. He would have been a killer either way. Even if Dufort hadn’t put that first vial of Shade in his hands at thirteen years old. Saints knew, he was built like one, and he never fell victim to paltry feelings like regret, or remorse. Or soRansom assumed. If Caruso was capable of human emotion, he certainly hid it well.
But he was loyal to the bone.
The Daggers were all Caruso had.
