Chapter 1 Seraphine

Chapter 1 Seraphine

It was midnight in the city of Fantome, and Seraphine Marchant was running for her life. Pippin was doing his best to keep up. They were following the Verne, the pebble-grey river that wound through the heart of Fantome like an artery. From the arched stone entrance on the outskirts of the city, it led them through the north quarter and onto Merchant's Way, where the taverns were lit and bustling, echoing with the caterwauls of drunk sailors.

Seraphine barely noticed them. It was the beginning of autumn, and a light rain was falling. It kissed her cheeks, mingling with her tears. Her chest burned, as though a fist was closing around her heart, but she didn't dare slow down. She could still smell the smoke that had driven them from their farmhouse only hours ago. It coiled in her hair and sat heavy in her lungs.

Keep moving , she told herself. Don't look back.

Every time a memory of the fire reared up, Seraphine shook it off violently, but the flashbacks were becoming harder to ignore. The shock was fading. Beneath it waited a rising swell of grief and anger. Questions tumbled over one another, demanding to be answered.

Don't stop. Don't think.

Beside her on the street, Pippin was splashing in and out of puddles, trying to cool his singed tail. Soon, his shaggy grey face was sopping. Seraphine tried to pick him up, but he wriggled free.

‘Little gremlin.' She sniffed. ‘Have it your way.'

Saints , her legs ached, and her body was so tired all her bones felt like lead. She wished she was riding Scout, the dappled mare's strides sure and quick beneath her, but the fire had sent Seraphine's beloved horse fleeing through the fields and there hadn't been time to look for her. It was too late to turn back now. Seraphine herself should have been dead by now. But Saint Oriel of Destiny clearly had other plans for her.

Though Seraphine hadn't grown up in the bustle of Valterre's capital city, she had visited Fantome so many times that she knew the street layout like her favourite constellations, and knew how dangerous they became when the sun went down.

When she was a little girl, Mama used to bring her into the city every Sunday. They would set out from their farmhouse in the plains at first light, taking a wagon to arrive in the city by late morning. At the harbour market, Mama would buy a pocketful of jam-and-custard pastries and they would wander along the Verne, giggling as they licked the sugar from their fingers.

Afterwards, they would browse for hours at Babette's House of Books, Seraphine selecting a well-thumbed fairy tale, while Mama – always clever, and forever straining beyond the reaches of her imagination – pored over yellowed encyclopaedias about alchemy and invention, with text so small Seraphine had to squint to read it.

When the street lanterns flickered to life and the air chilled, they would head home, Mama's hand tight around Seraphine's as they left the darkening city behind them. For it was in the falling shadows of Fantome that the Cloaks and Daggers roamed. The rival guilds, one of thieves and the other of assassins, were both powered by Shade – the only magic the once-blessed Kingdom of Valterre had left at its fingertips. Shade was a substance, controlled by those brave enough to step, or foolish enough to fall, into the underworld. The fine black powder was a mundane substance, unworthy of the divine majesty of Valterre's long-dead saints, those twelve magic-borne figures who had founded the city over a thousand years ago, filled it with life and beauty, made it glitter like a sea of stars.

Shade was the dust that lost golden age had left behind. A volatile substance that bent shadows to the will of man. For those skilled in the art of dark magic and trained by the Orders, Shade could be used to steal. To spy. To kill. To avenge. To survive.

The Daggers consumed Shade in small doses, temporarily turning their bodies into deadly weapons where one touch alone could kill. The Cloaks never consumed Shade. Rather, they wore it, allowing them to blend in with the night and take from it whatever they wished. They might have considered themselves nobler than their rivals, but to dance with Shade at all was to tempt fate.

Mama's job as a smuggler meant that Seraphine had lived in close proximity to Shade her whole life. Both as the boneshade plant, raw and trailing roots when it arrived from the far hills of Valterre, and as the fine black powder it became once Mama had painstakingly baked and ground the plant into dust.

Seraphine had filled more vials with Shade than she could count, but she had never dared experiment with it herself. Even the touch of the glass felt like ice against her fingers. A cold breath of warning. Then there was Mama's guiding voice, always close to her ear as they worked side by side at their workbench, reminding Seraphine that while Shade was what they did, it was not who they were.

We are merely the go-betweens, little firefly. Nothing more, nothing less.

But that wasn't really true. There was no in between with Shade. Playing with magic was like playing with fire, and in the end someone always got burned.

The Age of Saints was long over.

At night, the Cloaks and Daggers owned the city. Mama always knew to keep well away from them and having grown up in her shadow, never far from the cold slick of Shade, Seraphine did too.

As she got older, their trips to the city became fewer and less frequent, as though Mama feared they might be snatched off the street, even in daylight. Better not to be there at all, if they could help it. Better to be nestled in a faraway farmhouse than darting through murky, shadow-swept streets, where anyone – even one of the king's nightguards – could find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Mama had spent most of her life looking over her shoulder, and yet, in spite of all her caution, she had run afoul of the guilds at last.

But why now? The question nipped at Seraphine's heels.

Stop, she hissed to herself. Don't look back.

The night had fallen silent, and her thoughts were too loud. Memories crowded in on her, catching her by the throat. She slowed down when she reached the Scholars' Quarter, fighting the rising urge to retch. Towering, opulent buildings peered down at her, their beautiful stained-glass windows like wide, prying eyes.

What are you running from, Seraphine Marchant? she imagined them whispering.

She hated hearing the thunder of her own heartbeat, the chatter of fear in her teeth. In the main square, she slumped onto a bench under a pear tree, clutching the armrest with whitened knuckles. The fire was still crackling in her head, and there, between the violent whips of red and gold… lay Mama.

The memory rose like a tidal wave, and in the sudden stillness, Seraphine could do nothing but yield to it.

The setting sun gilded the cornfields as Seraphine and Pippin trudged home without a single measly rabbit to show for their hunt. Not that they hadn't enjoyed themselves, racing each other through the hills. Seraphine had stopped to tumble down the highest of them just to see if she could roll faster than Pip, and find out how much grass she could collect in her teeth. A lot, as it turned out. In her fist now, she clutched a bouquet of bluebells, a gift for Mama, to thank her for giving her the afternoon off. A bribe, perhaps, for tomorrow's freedom.

They turned at a familiar bend in the road, and at the sight of smoke pluming in the distance, Pip set off into a run. Seraphine laughed at the mutt's sudden sprightliness, sure she had run him ragged in the fields. But the sound died in her throat as she ventured closer, into the thickening haze. The cloud was too dark for chimney smoke, too high and black and choking and—Seraphine dropped the flowers.

She bolted for home, lungs aching, heart pounding. As she cleared the last of the low hills, she saw the flames that brewed the smoke. They made a violent ring around her house, like a dragon come to devour it. There was such a roaring in Seraphine's head, she forgot to breathe.

The flames parted as though she had willed them with the strength of her horror. And there, beyond the open doorway of the farmhouse lay her mother. Already dead. Already burning.

It was no dragon that Seraphine saw standing over her, but the figure of a man. A shape she did not recognize. Tall and broad-shouldered with a sweep of wavy hair. His face was wreathed in smoke, except for a pair of violent, quicksilver eyes.

The roaring gathered in Seraphine's throat, choking her. Or perhaps that was the smoke. She didn't care as she stumbled towards the doorway, towards her mother's killer. He was already turning away from Mama's body, slipping his hands into his pockets as though he might take a stroll in the back garden. As though he did this kind of thing every day of his life.

And she knew, saints, she knew, exactly what he was.

An assassin, brewed in the dark heart of Fantome and sent here by Gaspard Dufort, the infamous leader of the Order of Daggers.

Mama had been marked.

If it wasn't for Pippin whining and tugging at the hem of her trousers, Seraphine would have flung herself into the fire just to claw the Dagger back. But the dog at her ankle was enough to stop her, to kindle in her some vital instinct to run.

To run and run and never stop.

Now, in the stark silence of the square, Seraphine let the memory wash over her, knowing it would return again to ravage the shores of her soul. That question, like a shark in its belly.

Oh, Mama. What did you do?

She dropped her head and tried to breathe, but she couldn't get enough air. Her head was too heavy, and her heart had been sliced right down the middle. If she stood up now, it would fall apart inside her chest.

Pippin yipped at her feet. She ignored him. He darted under the bench, and spun around so that she could see his tired little face peering up at her. She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘No, Pip. I'm too tired.'

Pippin nudged her ankle, then yipped again, as if to say, Get moving!

Relentless little gremlin. Seraphine groaned. If she gave up now, simply collapsed on the bench and waited for the same evil that had taken Mama to come for her too, then what would become of Pippin? She was all he had left. She raised her head and raked her hands through her hair. The city blurred into focus – the soft green of the pear tree, the cool touch of the wrought-iron bench.

She gripped the golden teardrop that hung from her neck, and reached for a different memory of her mother. Not as she had been that evening but on the morning of Saints' Day a month before. Mama had stayed up all night to craft the necklace, pressing it into Seraphine's hands like a talisman just after sunrise.

Happy Saintsmas, my little firefly. Mama's brown eyes were tired, but her smile was bright.

Seraphine had been half asleep, desperately foraging in the cupboards for something to stave off her hangover. The previous night had seen far too much celebrating – wine, and lots of it. The unexpectedness of Mama's gift had surprised her. They had agreed on no presents this year, and Mama was not a sentimental sort. She valued knowledge over trinkets, and over the years, had filled Seraphine's bedroom not with pretty clothes or fancy jewellery, but with books and maps – sketches of the world far beyond Fantome. But the necklace – this necklace – was different. That morning, Mama had been different. Wear this always and think of me , she'd said, almost pleadingly. May it protect you when I cannot, Sera.

That day had come far sooner than either of them had guessed. Save for the smoke in her hair and the dog at her feet, the tiny golden teardrop was all Sera had left of Mama and their little farmhouse. A paltry flame in a world of sudden darkness. The loss made her want to scream.

Suddenly, Pippin growled. Sera looked up, to the roof of the Marlowe, the oldest museum in Fantome, in all of Valterre. It seemed taller tonight, darker.

‘It's only a gargoyle, Pip,' she said, but the back of her neck was prickling. A shadow rippled near the clock tower and she swore she glimpsed a figure there, gilded in moonlight. It was gone as quickly as it came.

She had lingered too long. Tall buildings meant long shadows, and in Fantome, shadows were dangerous. Anything could be hiding inside them. Any one . Including the Dagger who had killed Mama.