Page 3 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘Oriel will not let me rest,’ Josephine admitted.

For a moment, they were silent.

‘How will it end?’ asked Cordelia quietly.

The soothsayer frowned. ‘In blood, I expect.’

The truth was, it had barely begun – this grand changing of fate.

‘Urnica will send out the Strix.’

Cordelia stifled a curse.

Josephine went on. ‘King Rafael Mondragon will aid his cousin’s bid for the kingdom. His brother, Prince Darius, rides at the helm of the Stargrazers.’

Darius, Terror of the Skies.

A breath of silence. ‘He will meet resistance.’

‘I’m counting on it.’

Cordelia wrung her hands. ‘There’s still no sign of the girl.’

‘The Saint-maker will come.’ Of that, Josephine was certain. After all, House Armand had once been Seraphine Marchant’s refuge. And it was a damn sight warmer – not to mention prettier – than the catacombs of Fantome. ‘Oriel will make sure of it.’

Cordelia returned to silence.

Josephine scowled. It wouldn’t do, this stewing. Not this early in the day, and not in her bedchamber.

‘For now, there is a far more pressing concern,’ said the old woman as she rose from her chair. ‘I need some pancakes to soak up last night’s brandy.’ And that cursed vision. She gave her friend an expectant look. ‘Rouse the chef. And tell her if she skimps on the syrup, she’ll meet the blunt end of my cane.’

Cordelia responded with her usual graceful restraint. ‘I’ll relay the message.’

Alone again, Josephine bent to retrieve the Hourglass. In her haste, she snagged her fingernail on an uneven floorboard. A smear of blood now marred the sands of time.

‘A little on the nose,’ she muttered as she folded the card back into the deck. But for once, the voice inside her head was quiet.

The silence was most unnerving of all.

Chapter 1 Seraphine

Seraphine Marchant was in way over her head. She had been ever since she’d fled her burning farmhouse in an attempt to evade the Dagger who’d killed her mother. Not that that had particularly gone to plan.

At least back then, the only life – and death – Sera had to worry about was her own.

When Oriel Beauregard had decided to mess with Fantome on the night of the fated storm, things had escalated… dramatically. Sera wasn’t a saint but a maker of them. Imbued with a power that, if used in precisely the right way and on the right kind of people, could usher her ailing kingdom into a new era of peace and prosperity.

Or… cause it to fall into ruin.

‘You’re stalling.’ Val’s voice cut through her inner spiral.

Sera glared at her best friend. In the cavern of Hugo’s Passage, Val was reclining in an armchair by the fireplace, her legs kicked up on the coffee table. Firelight gilded her violet curls and danced along her dainty nose ring. She rolled her hand. ‘With respect, please hurry the fuck up.’

Behind Val, Ransom was pacing. Though he’d promised to bite his tongue tonight, the heavy thrum of his bootsteps betrayed his disapproval.

Once a Versini, always a Versini, he’d cautioned Sera. Who knows what kind of saint Theo will turn out to be?

The kind, she hoped, that might help them win the coming war.