Page 106 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘And I won’t let them hurt you.’

He leaned close, his breath on her lips. ‘I love you, spitfire.’

‘I love you, too,’ she whispered. The taste of copper pooled at the back of her throat, warning her what would come next. She turned from him before he caught the fear in her eyes.

He left, returning to his vigil on the roof, and she rushed to the bathroom to face the ghost of her own reflection. The circles under her eyes were getting darker, the strands around her face stark white.

The coughing fit came fast and violent, blood splattering the sink as she gripped the basin.

Afterwards, haunted eyes stared back at her. Fine gold threads moved inside the blue, flickering like faraway lamps. Her magic there to remind her, There is more to do.

‘What are you taking from me, Oriel?’ she whispered.

Silence.

Her magic watched her, and she stared back, trying to unpick the seam of her own fear. It cut a line through her soul, tunnelling deeper with every making.

But wasn’t that to be expected? Making saints was no small task. It was a rethreading of the tapestry of fate. Of course it was going to exact a cost. And what did it matter, so long as she could bear it in her bones?

Her tired, aching bones.

She drew a bath and filled it with every elixir on the shelf. Steam wafted from the tub as she peeled off her ruined nightgown. She had one foot in the water when it started to sting, the shock of pain making her hop back out again.

It must be the heat touching the cuts on her feet. Only, hadn’t they healed by now? Maybe the water was too hot. She paced on the marble tiles, waiting for the bath to cool. When she returned, that pain came again. She scrubbed the caked dirt from her ankles, noticing a strange black mark. She traced it with her finger, following it around the curve of her calf. It was thin and jagged, like the thorns of a rose.

She froze.

She climbed onto the edge of the tub and looked over her shoulder to examine the mark in the mirror. Saints. They were thorns. Black and scoured deep, they crawled up to the back of her thigh like a vine. She traced each mark, wincing at the pain.

Five stings.

Five thorns embedded in her skin.

She counted them again, this time not with numbers but with names:

Lark.

Ransom.

Theo.

Val.

Paola.

That voice inside her sang:

Five saints, made and living,

Five thorns, sharp and stinging.

She climbed down, slipping under the bubbles until they crackled in her ears. Dread soured the heavenly scent of lavender as she stared, unseeing, at the ceiling.

As morning broke, and the sun rose above the Hollows, Sera feared for the power inside her, and what it was taking from her.

She feared for the cost she had yet to pay.

Chapter 27 Ransom