Chapter 22 Ransom

Chapter 22 Ransom

In the back garden of Seraphine Marchant's burnt-out farmhouse, Ransom plucked a fig off a tree and ate it. Delicious. It was soft and sweet as honey, the syrupy liquid staining his lips. He licked them clean, then reached for another.

Seraphine was in the shed, with the boy whose head looked like a cabbage. Lorenzo. His shirt was too big and his trousers were too long. All wide eyes and bumbling apologies. He deserved that trowel to the face, though it had nearly revealed Ransom when he had to clap his hand over his mouth to trap his laughter.

After watching her cry for over an hour, kneeling on the burnt floor with her arms wrapped around herself, he almost cheered when that fire inside her sparked to life once more. When her grief hardened into anger and sent that trowel whistling through the air. Meant, of course, for him. He would have taken ten trowels to the face over another minute of those deep, gasping sobs.

Ransom had come all the way out here to confront Seraphine, but the sight of her bent double on the floor had done something unexpected to his chest. It had tightened it to the point of pain and he could not now bring himself to face her, to intrude on an aching loss that so closely mirrored his own.

So he resolved to stay and watch her instead. To see what clues she might dig up for him in the rubble of her old life.

Now she was arguing with cabbage-head. Good. It made a welcome shift of mood from the moment he had pushed her up against the shed and covered her body with his. If Ransom had taken Shade today, he would have leaped at golden Lorenzo like a panther and torn him off her.

Threatening Seraphine was his job. This hapless farmboy had wandered into his territory. But without Shade, Ransom was a reasonable man. He had resolved to let the situation play out, to see if he might glean something from it. The spitfire had come back here for a reason, after all. He intended to find out what that was.

Her mutt glowered at him from the flowerbed. Ransom bit into his fig and tossed him the other half. The dog sniffed at the fruit suspiciously, then barked at him.

Ransom clucked his tongue. ‘And after I went to all that trouble to save your life.'

The argument in the shed ended. Seraphine stomped out in a rage, while cabbage-head shambled after her, pathetic as a lost puppy. The mutt went after her too.

While they continued sniping at each other in the front garden, Ransom crept behind the lavender bushes and slipped into the shed. He kicked the rug aside and rifled through the crate. Nothing of note. He frowned, unsure of what he was expecting to find down here anyway. Seraphine had already been through it, filling her satchel with whatever secrets Dufort had missed the first time.

He stood up and kicked the rug back into place. There was a cracked jar of berries on a nearby shelf. His eyes narrowed at the dark red juice smeared along the glass. Heartsbane. Ransom stilled, a part of him hurtling back to twelve years ago, when he had found a cluster of the same berries wrapped in cloth under one of Mama's flowerpots. He thought they were jam currants left by a kind neighbour who had heard Mama screaming the night before. Only the juice was darker, the same red as the cut on her lip.

He could still remember how her hands trembled when he brought the berries to her, how her eyes had rounded with horror as she snatched them from him. Did you take any of these? Open your mouth, let me look inside. Later, he watched her bury them in the garden, her fingers scrabbling in the dirt as she kept one eye on the door, sure Papa would come swaggering home at any moment. We won't tell a soul about this, darling boy. Especially not Papa. It was an easy thing to promise. Anouk was too young to understand, and Ransom never told Papa anything.

He wished his mother had found the courage to go through with her plan. To use those berries instead of burying them. But fear was a noose around her neck even then, and the risk of failure was too great. If Papa had found out, he would have killed her for it. He would have killed them all.

Ransom set the jar down, blinking himself back to the present moment. What business did Sylvie Marchant, a Shade smuggler, have with a poison such as this? His gaze roamed, falling on the half-crumpled label beside it. He picked it up, recognizing the outline of a five-leafed clover. But – no. It was not a clover at all. It was boneshade, the golden bloom obvious to him now. Nectar of the Saints. The same wine they served at the Lucky Shell.

Ransom brushed his thumb over the emblem, thinking again of Kipp. The man, then the monster. He looked from the berries to the wine label, and back again.

‘Who the hell are you?'

He jerked his chin up.

Cabbage-head was standing in the shed doorway, a hand braced on either side to block him in. Ransom remained wholly unthreatened. Even without Shade, he could knock this farmboy out in seconds.

He decided to greet him. ‘I'm Ransom,' he said, flashing his teeth.

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?'

Ransom shrugged. ‘I don't really care what it means to you.'

‘What are you doing in Seraphine's shed?'

‘I was just about to ask you the same thing.' Ransom held up the jar of heartsbane. ‘Does this belong to you?'

‘Who's asking?'

‘I am,' said Ransom, waiting a beat. ‘Or Gaspard Dufort, if you like.'

Lorenzo's throat bobbed.

Ransom offered him a bland smile. ‘Shall I ask again?'

‘The berries belonged to Sylvie.' He stepped back from the door, as though the sunlight might save him. Ransom remained where he was, allowing him the illusion of safety. ‘The Shade, the poison. She sourced it all. The wine was the last ingredient, but the plan was Sylvie's. All of it was her idea…'

Ransom let the silence linger.

Lorenzo filled it with his own panic. ‘She mixed the poison with the Shade to see what it could do.' It occurred to Ransom that this dithering farmboy thought he was here to kill him, and that talking might save his life. They always thought that. It had only ever worked for Seraphine. ‘She had her sights on Dufort. Always did, as long as I knew her. She was obsessed with him, obsessed with making those monsters. She finally pulled it off.' His gaze flicked from the shed to the shell of the house, as if he was afraid Dufort would come stomping through it. ‘She picked a fight with a dragon. I guess the dragon was smarter than she thought.'

Ransom raised his eyebrows. Was this why Dufort had killed Sylvie? Because in a fit of boredom out here in the plains, she had decided to fuck with the world order and make monsters more vicious than the Daggers of Fantome?

But— No. Dufort had been just as surprised by the monsters as anyone else. He was the last one to believe they even existed. Whatever she had died for, it was not this. And yet, there was no denying that Lorenzo had handed over a huge piece of this strange puzzle. ‘What about the girl?'

Lorenzo stiffened, finally showing a hint of courage. ‘Seraphine had no idea about any of it. Not until today.'

‘Nice of you to trample her mother's memory.'

‘She deserves to hear the truth.'

‘Well, that explains the lovers' quarrel.'

Lorenzo frowned. ‘She's innocent. Leave her alone.'

‘An admirable suggestion,' said Ransom drolly. ‘I'll take it under advisement.'

Lorenzo was starting to sweat. He shifted from one leg to another, as if he was trying not to piss himself. Lately, Ransom had received so much smart-mouthed insolence from Seraphine Marchant, he had almost forgotten the effect he had on common folk. How terrifying he truly was.

‘Are you going to kill me now?' said Lorenzo meekly.

‘I'm thinking about it,' lied Ransom.

‘Please. I have a life here. A family. A farm. A—' He stopped short.

‘Vineyard?' prompted Ransom.

Lorenzo quailed. ‘The b-b-batch is g-g-gone.'

Ransom almost laughed, but he didn't want to ruin the suspense. He was quite enjoying this feeling of being feared. Respected. It had been a while since he had experienced it. ‘Why don't I count to ten, Lorenzo?' he said, indulgently. ‘And if you've made it past that fig tree by the time I turn around, I'll let you live.'

Lorenzo was already running. He bolted across the garden, making it to the fig tree in seven seconds. Ransom leaned against the doorframe, chuckling as he watched him flee, his plaid shirt billowing and long arms flailing, like a scarecrow cursed to life.