Page 47 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘Steady,’ said Theo. ‘That’ll get your mind right.’

‘I failed my task.’ He looked to Sera, an apology pooling in his eyes. ‘You are our last hope, Saint-maker.’

He let the vial drop and plunged the fountain pen into his neck.

Blood erupted, Sera’s screams drowning out the horrible gurgling as he fell to his knees. And then onto his chest, impaling himself.

He twitched, once, twice, then went utterly still.

As the pool of his blood lapped the toes of Cordelia Mercure’s fine leather boots, she wrinkled her nose and said to no one in particular, ‘What a sorry mess.’

A couple of hours later, once the scholar’s body had been removed from Mercure’s office, and the housekeepers were scrubbing his blood off her floor, the heads of the Orders convened in the vault.

It was teatime at House Armand, and although the table had been set with platters of sandwiches and bowls of fresh fruit, no one reached for a thing.

Even Anouk, so ordinarily unshakable, had lost her appetite.

Val, their newly minted Saint of Truth, hadn’t said a word since she’d sat down. She looked like she’d rather be a hundred miles from here.

Paola had come and was nursing a large glass of water. Caught between the horror of that afternoon and the lingering effects of a gruesome hangover, she looked like a ghost of herself. Tobias accompanied her, the younger Versini scooting his chair right up to the table before anyone had the good sense to kick him out. Theo was late.

While Sera was shaken by the attempt on her life, Ransom was thoroughly rattled. He sat next to her, a hand on her leg, as though he was afraid she might float away.

Madame Mercure swept inside at three minutes past the hour, wearing the strain of the day on her face. The kohl under her eyes was smudged and without their usual slick of colour her lips were unusually pale.

‘I’ve just received word from a scribe at the Appoline.’ she began without preamble. ‘The scholar spoke true. The university has fallen. Provost Ambrose is dead. It seems Prince Andreas intends to throw a victory ball there in three nights’ time. To mark his official claiming of the west, and to confirm his alliance with Urnica. He will host a delegation from his cousin’s kingdom at the event in advance of his final march on Fantome.’

‘A ball?’ Sera was overcome by a fresh wave of revulsion.

‘Surely he wouldn’t,’ said Anouk in shock.

‘Of course he would,’ said Val, sourly. ‘Remember Marvale?’

A sobering reminder. The prince had turned the famous red mills of the north into his own personal dance hall, where every trussed-up reveller was compelled by his magic to dance until their feet bled or they collapsed from sheer exhaustion.

Mercure was not yet done. ‘It appears it will be a masquerade ball.’

Albert bit off a curse. ‘Another charade.’

‘What predictable gall,’ muttered Fontaine.

‘Good,’ said Ransom.

They all turned to look at him.

‘How is any of this good?’ Tobias despaired. ‘Andreas is coming to Fantome and we don’t have anywhere near enough Lightfire to protect everyone.’

‘We’re not going to wait for him to come to us,’ said Sera, her eyes on Ransom.

With a cold, cold smile, Ransom said, ‘We’re going to kill him at the ball.’

This was their chance. They had a time. A place. The right diversion.

The silence was contemplative.

It was broken by the arrival of Theo who burst inside the vault carrying a parcel.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, unwrapping it. ‘I was putting the finishing touches to this.’