Page 79 of The Rebel and the Rose
In the stairwell, he read Seraphine’s note.
Ransom,
Come and find me on the roof…
I want to try.
S
Chapter 20Ransom
It was almost embarrassing how easily Seraphine Marchant could command him. How fast his feet moved, up one narrow stairwell after another. On the third floor, a warm breeze slipped through the narrow door at the end of the hall. He followed it up a set of rickety steps, where another door gave way to a small roof garden. A modest stone courtyard, cloistered by those white sloping gables.
Troughs of lavender and leafy potted plants made a border around the square and in the middle a large paisley rug lay across the stones. Seraphine was lying on it, her long blonde hair fanning around her like a halo. Her eyes were closed, her arms tucked behind her head.
Ransom’s heart stuttered.
Without opening her eyes, she said, ‘I canfeelyou staring at me.’
‘You look like a painting.’
A beauty in repose, bathing in the moonlight.
What he really meant was,You look like a goddess.
‘So paint me, Dagger.’ A teasing smile tugged at her lips. He wanted to get on his knees and taste it.
Someday.
In another life, when he had all the time and colours in the world. Where this darkness was behind them, and they were free. He didn’t know how to say it, how to promise such a lofty dream. He had done it once before, and she hadn’t forgiven him for it.
‘Did you like my note?’ she said, cracking an eye open.
‘You mean your white flag?’ he said, drifting towards her.
‘Call it what you like.’
‘What made you write it?’
She hummed, sitting up. In the dark, her eyes were wide and star-flecked. The moon was full and bright above them, so much closer than usual, as though some divine being was looking down at them. ‘I was thinking after the fairground… Maybe you were right about trust. Maybe that’s the only way we’ll both survive what comes next.’
She removed a small stack of cards from her back pocket. Like a dealer in a gambling hell, she set down three in a row.
Ransom slowly lowered himself to the ground, bringing his knees into his chest. ‘The tarot,’ he said. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘At House Armand, the night we were ambushed. I went tosee Madame Fontaine about the magic inside me. About what it meant.’ She swallowed thickly. ‘We spoke of the Second Coming of the saints. These are the cards she drew.’
Ransom’s brows shot up as he examined each one.
The Silver-tongue.
The Stone Maiden.
The Necromancer.
His gaze snagged on the third tarot, a sharp twist in his gut making him frown. The Necromancer. A puppetmaster of the dead. Some bastardized reincarnation of Calvin, Saint of Death. He thought again of the graveyard on the way in, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
‘Who is this meant to be?’ he said, fingering the card.
