Page 111 of The Dragon and the Dove

She ruminated on her words, unsure of what to say next. If she should say anything at all. The vine on her leg prickled and she shifted on her stool. Every time she thought of the thorns embedded in her skin, they stung, like they were thinking of her too.

He drew back from her. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

He busied himself at the workbench and when the tea was ready, he cupped his mug and watched her drink. ‘When you made me back in the catacombs, Ransom said it took something from you. That it hurt you.’ Guilt deepened the lines around his mouth. ‘Is it always like that?’

‘At first I didn’t notice,’ she conceded. ‘With Lark, it happened right before the Aurore fell. I fell with it. Blacked out. And with Ransom –’ she shivered at the memory of him dying in her arms – ‘I was so strung out after I pulled him from the river that the dizziness didn’t bother me. I hardly noticed the hacking cough that came after or the weight of my own footsteps that night; I was just so relieved to have him back.’

He nodded slowly. ‘And with me?’

‘There were no distractions, then. I meant to do it, so I was aware of it. Every breath. Every ache. When I woke up, I felt … hollow. It’s been like that ever since.’

She hadn’t come down here to talk about herself, but in hearing Theo confess his fear, she couldn’t stop her own from spilling out. Words that had once stuck like a fishbone in her throat flowed easily now, the secrets of her magic revealing themselves with ease.

She told him everything. About the headaches and the dizziness and the violent coughing fits. The yawning hollowness, as if the soft marrow of her soul had been scooped out with a spoon. The blood that came after and the sinking pull of oblivion.

He listened to every word, not moving, save for the muscle ticking in his jaw. And when she was done, and she felt like a deflated balloon, he said, ‘I think you should stop.’

Her magic revolted at his words.

There is more to do, Maker!

Time is wearing thin.

He pitched closer, like he was afraid she might float away from him. ‘Stop now, while you still can.’

She rubbed her chest, willing her heart to return to its rhythm. ‘I can’t stop, Theo. Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because fate’s will is stronger than my own.’

It was a grim truth. And the stark look on his face meant he understood only too well. There was a powerlessness to this kind of power. He reached under his workbench and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. ‘I think we need something stronger.’

She held her cup out and he filled it generously. They drank deeply, the whiskey burning all the way down.

‘Have you thought about afterwards?’ he asked her. ‘When the war is done?’

The question surprised her. Of course she had fantasized about a quiet, softer existence with Ransom. Somewhere out in the Plains, in a cottage with white shutters and windowsills teeming with flowers. A ring of trees to guard them and a lake to swim in when it got warm, ducks for Pip to chase, and a bowl of stars to gaze up at on summer nights. That was the picture she’d been dreaming of, but lately it had begun to feel like a different life entirely, not one that waited for them on the other side of war.

She didn’t know how to give voice to that particular fear, and she was afraid if she did, she might carve it into fate. Instead, she admitted: ‘It scares me, to hope for something more than this.’

‘I worry for the kingdom,’ he confessed. ‘Once Andreas is dead, there’ll be no royals left. The entire Rayere dynasty will be extinguished.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’

‘Not in and of itself. But Valterre will need someone to lead them.’

Her brows knitted. ‘I suppose I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’

‘It should be someone worthy. Someone chosen by the land.’ He paused. ‘Or by the saints.’

Her eyes narrowed over the rim of her mug. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

‘I mean you, Sera.’

She nearly spat out her drink.

His face was like stone.