Page 196 of The Dragon and the Dove

The new bridge was a marvel.

They called it the Bridge of Peace.

Afterwards, Anouk slept for a week straight. On the eighth day, she rose with a spring in her step, and the saints went together to Primrose Square.

As the heat of summer surrendered to the oncoming winds of autumn, an ancient tower was rebuilt. Anouk placed the top stone on the morning of the newly decreed Day of Deliverance, when Primrose Square was filled with revellers and banners rippled from every lamp post in the city. They watched as Caruso climbed to the highest tier of the tower and planted the new flag of Valterre: a dove soaring across a sun-bright sky.

Ransom conjured his own dove to match it. As gold as the dawn, it scattered Lightfire across the city in glittering raindrops before coming to rest on the tower. There it burst into flames, igniting all three tiers in a glorious flush of magic.

Nadia wove roses across every trough and hung the stonework with ivy until it looked like the entire structure had burst into bloom.

They called it the Versini Tower.

Chapter 63 Seraphine

The sky blushed as the late-spring sun began to set. A chill settled over Primrose Square, raising the hairs along Sera’s arms. She clicked her teeth, calling Pip back to where she sat on a blanket under the Versini Tower. She patted her knee and he hopped into her lap, nuzzling into the folds of her cardigan.

Perfect little gremlin.

Warm again, she returned to her book. It was an old favourite of hers, about a knight and a prince who fall in love. She’d picked it up in Babette’s House of Books just that morning, pretending not to notice as the shopkeepers gawked at her moving between the stacks, or how the children loitering outside giggled as she passed.

Even after all these months, they still whispered about her in the streets. The Saint-maker of Fantome. She, who had been blessed by Oriel, Saint of Destiny. She, who had made an army to defeat the Silver-tongue. She, who had heralded a new era of peace. The locals sometimes asked to hold her hand, to whisper to her their names and their thanks, or, on occasion, to beg her for a blessing.

Sera accepted their attentions with good grace, though she did not miss her magic. Not that prodding voice inside her, nor the constant weight of power sitting heavy on her heart. The truth was, she hungered for something much simpler now: a good dog and a good book. A good man to love and to be loved by.

She sensed him before she saw him, slipping into Primrose Square like a shadow. Her magic might have long deserted her but that unknowable thread inside her went taut.

Closing her book, she looked up and smiled at the saint sauntering towards her.

Bastian.

‘You’re late,’ she called out.

He held up a brown-paper bag. ‘Blame Ondine’s. There was a queue around the corner.’

She grinned, recognizing the swirling calligraphy on the front of the bag. ‘Please tell me there are cream buns in there.’

‘With extra strawberry jam.’

Her favourite. Gently resettling Pip, she rose to meet Ransom, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him until her cheeks turned red and she lost her breath. Swallowing a groan, he walked her back against a stone pillar and trailed his lips down her neck.

Brushing his nose against her ear, he murmured, ‘I’m five seconds from carrying you home, spitfire.’

It was an effort to wrench herself away from him. Taking his sleeve, she tugged him down to the grass, where they sat and talked and devoured their buns, kissing the cream from each other’s lips. When the sun sank behind the horizon and dusk lapped at the edges of the square, Sera reclined in the warmth of his arms.

Tomorrow was the first Sunday of the new month, which meant it was time for another meeting of the Order of Seven. She would leave House Armand at sunrise and go west to the Summer Palace. Without its royal occupants, the beautiful white building at the mouth of the Verne had become the Parliament of Valterre.

But this evening, like most, was theirs to spend as they liked. Not as saints or makers, but as lovers.

‘Speaking of home,’ said Ransom. ‘We can’t live at House Armand for ever.’

Sera’s single bed was starting to feel small. Not that she minded the close quarters, but it would be nice to have a place all to themselves. Preferably one where they didn’t have to hear Caruso and Val consummate their relationship through the ceiling all night, every night, and where Madame Fontaine didn’t lurk like a ghost in every damn corner.

Ransom slipped a key from his pocket and dropped it into her palm. It was large and brass, and heavy with possibility.

‘When I was a Dagger, I used to walk the streets of Lazenne every night.’ He gestured to the east, where a leafy suburb of mansions could be found tucked away just beyond the Saints’ Quarter. ‘There was a house there I used to dream about. Right at the end of the row. There’s an apple tree in the garden and two deckchairs there that creak in the wind. Its windows turn gold in the setting sun, and at the back there’s a garden big enough for Pip…’

Sera looked at the key in her hand.