Page 158 of The Dragon and the Dove

Val smirked. ‘It’s Fatebringer. Looks like Sera made another Cadel last night.’

‘No way,’ said Anouk, pushing her way through. ‘Caruso Dantes, the maddest egg in Fantome, is Saint of Warriors?’

Sera nearly choked on her own shock. She had hoped his gift would be useful, or at least something not flagrantly unhinged… but this…

This was a boon.

A gift from Saint Oriel on the eve of war.

As though he could sense her reeling, Caruso turned to wink at her. ‘Told you it’d be worth your while, Maker.’

The thorn on her chest prickled in agreement.

Nadia shoved Caruso aside and stomped towards Sera. ‘You said the saints aren’t made for war!’ she hissed, raising her finger.

‘Well, not all of them.’

‘Then why the hell does he get to be the second reincarnation of Saint Cadel, while I grow daisies all day long?’

‘Maybe Oriel decided you needed a little break from all the senseless killing,’ said Anouk, brightly. ‘I think it’s quite lovely, in fact.’

Nadia turned on her. ‘Easy for you to say, Stone Maiden. You’ve got the best gift of all.’

‘And Fantome hates me for it.’

‘Who cares?’

‘I care,’ said Anouk.

At a sudden tug in her chest Sera became aware of Ransom’s presence. Her attention drifted skywards. A shadow marked his outline on the edge of the roof. Despite the scene Caruso was causing, she could tell Ransom’s eyes were on her, watching how she moved, and whether she bore the pain of last night’s making as plainly as the thorns on her body. What did it matter anyway? The deed was done, and she had a warrior to show for it. Another strike against Andreas.

Val hooked her pinkie around Sera’s. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘For trusting him.’

‘I did it for you, Val.’

‘I know.’

‘He did it for you.’

Her lips flickered. ‘I know.’

‘You love him, don’t you?’

‘Pfft. I tolerate him.’

She was saved from a bout of merciless teasing by Madame Mercure, who appeared in a bluster, throwing open the back door of House Armand and sticking her head out. ‘Come, Seraphine. There’s trouble out front.’

Sera went at once, expecting to find another crowd of protestors – more angry chants and rotten fruit, torches and pitchforks and flying eggs – but the street outside House Armand was deserted. Except for a lone figure waiting by the gate. His head was bowed, as though in prayer, but she knew him by the narrow slope of his shoulders and that unruly mop of black hair.

Venturing out onto the doorstep, Sera called to him. ‘Fabian?’

Without raising his head, the boy pushed the gate open and shuffled into the garden.

A terrible coldness stole through Sera.

A hand closed around her wrist. ‘Stay where you are,’ hissed Val. ‘Let him come to us.’

Others crowded the door frame, Cloaks and Flames peering curiously into the garden.