Page 45 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

When they reached the scholar, he was sitting on the kerb, hyperventilating into the sleeve of his robe.

Ransom stood over him. ‘Who are you?’

The man peered up at him with vast grey eyes. He was only a few years older than Ransom, with a sorry goatee and a crooked nose. ‘Jules,’ he said, glancing nervously at the birds. ‘You’re him. The Saint of Nightmares.’

‘You’ll find out why if you don’t state your business.’

‘I’m a messenger. I’ve come from the Appoline.’

Ransom looked him over, noting the scuffed hem of his robe and the mud stains on his boots. The spittle around his cracked lips spoke of dehydration.

‘Did you ride here?’

The scholar nodded. ‘All night.’

‘Why?’

‘To see the Saint-maker.’ He choked on a sob, the fear in his eyes so convincing that Ransom scattered his ravens, sending them soaring over the garden of House Armand. ‘The Appoline has fallen. Provost Ambrose is dead.’

Shoving in front of Ransom, Theo held out his hand to the scholar. ‘You’d better come inside.’

Chapter 10 Seraphine

Seraphine was sitting in Madame Mercure’s office, poring over a list of potential saints, when the door burst open. Ransom marched inside, like a soldier on a mission. Beneath a sweep of unkempt black hair, his eyes burned gold. A flock of menacing ravens circled their turret. His magic at work.

At the sudden intrusion, Madame Mercure shot up from her chair by the fireplace. ‘Were there no doors in the catacombs where you grew up?’ she fumed. ‘For hell’s sake, learn to knock.’

‘It’s urgent.’

When he spotted Sera in the chair opposite her, his gaze softened.

She turned the list on the coffee table face down. ‘What’s going on?’

It was only then that she noticed Theo three feet behind him. And beside him, a man Sera had never seen before. An Appoline scholar. His face was drawn.

Madame Mercure inhaled sharply. ‘So Provost Ambrose is dead.’

The scholar gave a grave nod. ‘They hanged him from the broken clock tower.’

‘And you’ve come to warn the Cloaks.’

The scholar jerked his head towards Sera, a spark of recognition in his eyes. He must have seen her when she visited the Appoline to look for Prince Andreas. ‘I’ve come to see the Saint-maker.’

Sera flicked her gaze to Ransom. He was staring at the piece of paper, like he could will himself to see through it: this secret list of names, makings that would take even more from her than before.

That seemed to be the way of things now – lingering headaches and gnawing anxiety, coughing fits she couldn’t seem to shake and, worst of all, the complete blackness of her slumber. Gone were the dreams of her past life with Mama, the ancient voice of Saint Oriel, even the nightmares that used to wake her in the night. Now, when she closed her eyes, there was nothing but an ever-reaching emptiness.

But she couldn’t stop at Val. A Saint of Truth was no small thing but it would not be enough to win the war.

Mercure screamed. ‘SERAPHINE!’

It all happened in a split second: the scholar stumbling, Theo lunging to steady him.

The scholar swinging a fist, knocking Theo to the ground. A flash of something sharp and shiny from inside his blue robe.

By the time Mercure screamed, the scholar was already leaping for Sera.