Page 154 of The Dragon and the Dove

She could feel it in her bones.

The gathering of heat.

The pull of destiny.

Long past midnight, Sera lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Pip snoozed at her feet, twitching as he dreamed.

Ransom was on the roof again. Even from here, she could sense the dark cloud of his power billowing into the night.

Her own magic was a furnace. Her nightgown was drenched in sweat and her heart was pounding furiously. Desperately chasing sleep, she squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the plains in her mind. All those rolling fields of bees and butterflies. The ripples of Ploughman’s Lake in the late summer, the whisper of the wind in the long grass and the chirp of the crickets—

A sharp pain near her naval made her gasp. She rubbed the thorn there.

‘Please,’ she begged the empty room. ‘Let me rest.’

After, said the old voice.

The heat continued to climb. Sweat dripped into her hair as she glugged down the glass of water on her bedside, refilling it with the pitcher until that too was empty.

Still sweltering, she swung out of bed and tugged on her robe. Grabbing the empty pitcher, she crept downstairs to the kitchens, where a lone figure sat on the windowsill, staring vacantly into the night.

She thought at first it was Ransom, but then he jerked his head and a pair of icy-blue eyes found hers in the dark.

She frowned at Caruso. ‘I thought you’d be with Val.’

‘She sent me down here to pilfer Fontaine’s brandy. Said if I didn’t come back with a flagon and a cake, she’d throw a lamp at my head.’

‘So she’s recovered from her scrying session then.’

‘If anything, she’s brattier.’

‘So you’re avoiding her?’

He shook his head, tapping on the window. ‘Got distracted by Nadia’s handiwork. Hard to beat the complete uselessness of Tobias’s owls. And yet you managed it.’

‘Her time will come.’

‘Why are you up so late?’

She raised the empty pitcher. Only now, she didn’t feel thirsty any more. The heat in her remained, and she got the sense she was exactly where her magic wanted her to be.

Caruso spoke into the lingering silence. ‘I can’t seem to shake off Saints’ Day.’ He turned to the garden, but not before she caught the haunted look on his face. ‘When we got ambushed, I thought Val was going to die. There was so much blood…’ He rubbed his brow, like he was trying to erase the memory. ‘I know blood. I’ve washed my hands in it since I was a boy. It never bothered me before. But her blood…’ He skimmed a hand across his shorn hair, ghosting the patchwork of silver scars there. ‘I don’t fear death. I’ve walked beside it all my life. I don’t care about dying. But the thought of her dying…’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Caruso. Andreas bested us.’

His frown was sharp. ‘It feels like my fault.’

‘Hell’s teeth,’ she muttered. ‘You’re in love with her, aren’t you?’

He scoffed half-heartedly.

Sera watched him, waiting.

Her magic burned.

And burned.

And then he said it. ‘Make me a saint, Seraphine.’