Page 118 of The Dragon and the Dove

Chapter 30 Seraphine

After the uproar in the cloakroom, Sera went alone to the library. Her mind was galloping like a racehorse. She couldn’t shake the image of Theo’s face when she’d touched him, how his magic had tried to take a bite out of hers. It was like the roar of Ransom’s fury when he’d pulled that blade of steelfire, intent on ending Theo’s life. Every day, the beast in him prowled closer to the surface, devouring the tender parts that made him Bastian.

It was her fault. Her makings. She had changed them both, stamped them with a darkness they couldn’t escape. Now she would have to bear her fear and love them despite it, praying to all hell they didn’t kill each other.

Fontaine was sitting by the window in her usual armchair, smoking her pipe. ‘I assume the cloakroom is still standing,’ she remarked, her gaze remaining on the sky over the forest.

‘Just about.’

‘I expect Paola to replace those windows.’

‘I’ll let her know.’

‘I suppose you’ve come up here to brood.’

‘I thought the library would be deserted.’

A wry glance. ‘No you didn’t.’

Sera swallowed her protest. Part of her had been hoping to run into the soothsayer.

Taking a long drag of her pipe, Fontaine peered at her through a ring of smoke. ‘You’re wondering if it’s all going the way it’s supposed to.’

Damn, she was good. ‘Ransom and Theo almost killed each other just now. Their magic… it’s so dark.’

Fontaine snorted. ‘We’re not making rainbows here, Seraphine. The kingdom is at war. What did you expect?’

‘I don’t know.’ She raked her hands through her hair, feeling deflated. ‘Aren’t saints supposed to be good?’

‘What does that have to do with anything? Is the night evil, just because it lacks the light?’

She frowned. ‘I’m talking about death magic. Soul-eating.’

‘If you ask me, some souls deserve to be devoured.’

Not helpful. ‘How can we fight for peace if we don’t even have it under our own roof?’

Fontaine flicked her gaze back to the window, where a shadow moved over the distant trees. ‘To fight for the same thing, you must all want the same thing.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It is intent that decides the flow of one’s magic. And the worth of their soul.’

Sera slumped into the armchair opposite her. ‘My head is in such a fog.’

Fontaine plucked her tarot from the windowsill. ‘Care for some clarity?’

‘Last time I drew a card from your deck, I ended up in the king’s prison.’

‘I remember,’ said Fontaine, fondly. ‘You drew the Rose. Which, by the way, you never returned to me.’

‘I suppose I was too busy trying not to die. You might have saved me a lot of time if you told me what the card actually meant.’

‘And deny you the opportunity of blowing the dust off your brain?’

‘Was I supposed to guess that I had the innate ability to make saints from my own blood?’

Fontaine shrugged. ‘I suggest starting with a single thought. Then see where it takes you.’