Page 119 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘Well, I suggest speaking plainly for once,’ Sera groused.

‘I speak the words Saint Oriel tells me to.’ Fontaine’s gaze was withering. ‘And it seems it’s true what my ancestor says: beware, indeed, the thorns of Valterre’s rose.’

The blood drained from Sera’s face. The vine on her leg stung with new vengeance, making her squirm in her seat. Fontaine watched her closely.

Did she know about the thorns?

No. It wasn’t possible.

Was it…?

‘For every petal, there is a thorn,’ said the soothsayer like she could hear the rattle of Sera’s thoughts. ‘For every boon, a cost.’

Sera’s throat dried out.

‘And when the last petal falls, there will bloom no more. Only thorns.’ She cocked her head, the crevices in her face deepening. ‘Do you understand, Seraphine?’

A hard swallow. ‘Not really.’

Yes, you do.

‘No power is infinite. Be careful how you spend yours.’

‘I didn’t ask for this.’ The words flew from her before she could stop them. ‘I don’t want to be a Maker.’

Fontaine considered her. ‘What do you want?’

‘To rest,’ Sera admitted, feeling pathetic. ‘Just… to rest.’

‘So rest,’ said Fontaine, blowing another ring of smoke. ‘Rest and see what happens to the kingdom while you do.’

Her gaze shifted away, the prick of light in those large dark pupils hinting at a tunnel that stretched far beyond this day. This life.

‘What have you seen?’ asked Sera. ‘What do you know?’

‘Only that blood is too often the cost of peace,’ she said, distantly. ‘And not all shares are equal. We each have our own destiny, Seraphine, but some weigh heavier than others. Such is the pendulum of fate.’

Sera stewed on her words.

‘I hear music,’ said Fontaine in that same faraway voice.

‘What?’

‘I dream of music. Pipes and fiddles.’

‘Right…’ Feeling even further from the clarity she had been seeking, Sera sank deep into her armchair, watching the smoke rise above Fontaine’s head. It smelled unusually sweet today.

She closed her eyes and sleep came. In the quiet of the library she dreamed of music, of pipes keening through the mists of her mind and Oriel’s shadow moving just out of reach. Sera danced and danced, and when she woke, her feet ached.

She raked her hair back, glancing at the clock on the wall. She’d been out for over an hour. The smoke was gone and so was Fontaine.

There was a tarot card in her lap. A parting gift from the old crone.

Sera flipped it over.

The Dove.

A bird soared under a new sun. An arrow pierced its breast, staining its feathers red.