Page 167 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘And you did it with light. Not darkness. You did it with love.’

Silent tears striped his cheeks. He scrubbed them away, feeling unsteady as the last rays of sunset streamed over them. His shadows were gone. When did that happen?

She gripped him tighter, the sudden fierceness in her face making her seem older. ‘You might think the dark is all you’re good for. But I know there’s light in there too. No matter what happens next, don’t let your doubt devour what’s good in you.’

As her hand slipped from his, he was seized by a memory of Fontaine’s tarot card, of that little boy peering up at a skyful of stars. The Dreamer. Something flickered in his chest. A whisper of warmth, a candle flame burning in the hollow dark.

When he turned, Anouk was gone.

But her words lingered long after.

Chapter 49 Seraphine

Sera was dreaming again.

Or perhaps, seeing was a better word for it.

Saint Oriel stood before her, clad in a billowing white gown, her long black braids falling to her waist. She was beautiful, even with that worried crease between her brows.

There is a wrongness in the tapestry of fate, said the Saint of Destiny.

You must pull it out.

But Sera was so very tired, her slumber like deep and cloying quicksand.

The saint disappeared. In her place, a city sprawled. Sera found herself above it, coasting like a bird on the wind. Dawn whispered over her shoulder, the Verne growing restless beneath her. Gulls shrieked as they fled to the harbour, and, down below, bodies appeared in the grey water.

Farmers. Villagers. Townsfolk. Children.

They floated like petals on the Verne.

The river ran red.

The sky filled with Strix.

The city screamed.

The scene changed as quickly as it had arrived, Fantome tugged out from under her like a rug. There was a strange toppling sensation and then she was standing in the middle of a cornfield not yet kissed by dawn. Over weathered barns and thatched roofs, she glimpsed Rose-bearers marching from the Pinetops, their faces illuminated by the flare of their torches. At the front, Andreas’s golden tresses flickered like a flame. By his side, a tell-tale glint of silver hair made her heart constrict.

The world spun again, blurring into a canvas of grey clouds. In them she glimpsed Oriel’s dark eyes.

Some saints are for now.

Some saints are for after.

What am I for? Sera’s question echoed back at her.

You are the bridge between the two, Seraphine.

Other figures moved in the clouds. Faces Sera knew from the annals of history, from the paintings and tapestries that hung in the households of Valterre, from statues that stood proudly in museums and cathedrals, in fountains and graveyards, at parks and ports.

First, there was Maud, Saint of Lost Hope, with her weeping blue eyes. She whispered, ‘Take heart, Maker.’

Then Cadel, Saint of Warriors, tall and thunderous in his battle armour, his steel eyes like weapons. He boomed, ‘Have courage, Maker.’

Frederic, Saint of Farmers and Hunters, spoke next. Ruddy-faced and strong-jawed, his words fell as sharp as an axe. ‘Aim true, Maker.’

Then Serene, Saint of Animals, floated to the fore, sharp white teeth glinting as she cried, ‘Fight fiercely, Maker.’