Page 81 of The Rebel and the Rose
‘No.No. You can’t pledge yourself to a man you’ve never met.’ He couldn’t help his rising voice, his horror at the things he was hearing. ‘It’s madness, Seraphine. And what about Bibi? Do you want her to rot in the king’s dungeon for ever? To hang from the royal noose?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, her own voice rising. ‘We can lie to the king. Tell him the marks are dead. That should buy us enough time to—’
Ransom gave an incredulous laugh. ‘You can’t be serious.’
She broke off, glaring at him. ‘Why are you being so difficult?’
‘Why are you soreckless?’ he returned, just as angrily. ‘So you don’t want to kill a saint. Fine. Sit in the carriage and let me do it. Then post up in a nearby tavern and play cards with Versini while I go to the Isle of Alisa. I don’t need you to help me in this, Seraphine. I just need you to stay out of my way.’
‘I can’t just stay out of your way,’ she shot back. ‘Everything that’s happening right now is a turning point, Ransom. Can’t you feel the threads of destiny at work? The kingdom is stretching, changing.’
‘What does that matter?’
‘I think it matters more than anything,’ she said, an edge of desperation to her voice. She reached for his hands, pulling them into her lap. His shadow-marks were so dark against the perfect sheen of her skin. He hated them for it. Hatedhimself. ‘Ransom, if you kill a saint, I don’t think you can come back from it.’ She brushed the whorl along his thumb, tracing it to the underside of his wrist. ‘It’s bound to change you irrevocably. Shred through you worse than all of these already do.’
He dropped his head, lost to her feather-light touch. ‘It’s already too late for me, Seraphine. I can’t come back from the wicked things I’ve done. Let me finish this.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ she said, threading her fingers through his, squeezing, as though to press her hope into his skin. ‘Isn’t there a part of you that wants to try? What if all of this is some kind of test? A chance to do the right thing and remake your destiny one last time?’
His smile was rueful. ‘You always were good at fairy tales.’
She gently laid his hands down, turning again to the cards. ‘If kingdoms can be remade, so can destinies.’ She traced the rose that sat between them. ‘You spend all this time trying to save me. Can’t you see that I’m trying to do the same for you?’
But there was one crucial difference, and despite her pretty words and grand dreams, she must have known it; only one of them was worth saving.
Ransom let the silence settle, too tired to argue over the life of a rebellious prince, though he knew the matter was not yet at rest.
He stayed beside her, stretching his legs out as she gathered up her cards. Glimpses of saints that might yet change the face of the kingdom or drop at the mercy of his Shade. There was too much to think about, and all he wanted to do was talk of something else. Anything else. Take this moment of speechand stretch it out, allow them both a reprieve from the ever-swinging pendulum of death and destiny.
Even if it was fleeting. Even if it wasn’t real.
He didn’t know how long this would last, the whisper of freedom between them, the sense that the world had stopped turning, if only for a little while. It was a gift to be alone with her, and he didn’t want to squander it by arguing.
She must have been having the same thought because she flopped backwards, patting the rug beside her. ‘Lie down, Dagger,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Let’s marvel at the moon together. It might tell us what we’re supposed to do.’
He lay down next to her, one hand tucked behind his head, the other brushing the side of her hip. Absently he threaded his finger in her belt loop, like some part of him was afraid she might float away. He turned to look at her. Her eyes were wide, riveted. ‘Copper for your thoughts.’
She nipped at her bottom lip. ‘I was just thinking of how tired I am of arguing with you.’
‘I suggest a truce.’ He tugged her closer by her belt loop, until their legs were touching, the rest of the courtyard falling away.
‘All right. But only until the whiskey wears off.’
‘You barely even drank any whiskey.’
‘It tasted like lava.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I couldn’t stomach it.’
‘But you can stomach this,’ he said quietly. ‘Us.’
Why else would she still be fighting for his future?
‘That’s never been the problem,’ she admitted. ‘I just know that I’m afraid, Ransom. I’m afraid all the time.’ She turned back to the sky, her brows drawn. ‘I get these recurringnightmares,’ she said, in a faraway voice. ‘Sometimes, I find myself in other people’s heads… Falling from that clock tower back at the Appoline or trapped and choking in the dirt… it makes me feel like I’m going mad.’
He took her hand, folding it in his own. He knew little of saints and destiny, but nightmares were second nature to him. He had known them all his life. ‘If you’re mad, then they haven’t come up with a word to describe what I am.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When I sleep, I see monsters. Predators with dripping fangs and razor claws, surrounding me in my bed. Snapping at my feet. Tearing at my skin.’ Lately, the nightmares had been constant. Some nights they were so bad, he refused to sleep at all, sitting red-eyed and exhausted in his bed, waiting for the sun to come up. ‘Sometimes, I see my father, red-faced and cursing, his cruel fists raised like weapons. I can even smell the spirits on his breath. In those dreams, I’m still a boy, hiding under my bed. And every time he finds me.’
