Chapter 4 Seraphine

Chapter 4 Seraphine

‘Ugh. What is that rancid smell?'

‘Stale smoke. She smells just like Madame Fontaine.'

‘Looks like she's got a mutt, too.'

‘ Aw! Look at his cute little face, Val! Do you think he's friendly?'

‘I don't know, but he reeks worse than she does.'

‘You can't be rude to the new girl.'

‘Hey, sometimes the truth hurts. And it's not like she can hear me.'

Sera stirred at the sound of voices in her bedroom.

‘Shush, Val, she's waking up!'

‘That's because you're right in her face, Bibi!'

Sera cracked an eye open to see another pair barely a foot from her face. They were dark blue and rimmed with long lashes the colour of tangerines. They blinked, and the voice they belonged to hitched. ‘Hi! Good morning! I'm Sabine! But everyone calls me Bibi.' She smiled, stretching the scattering of freckles along her pale cheeks. ‘This is Valerie. But she prefers Val. Don't mind her scowl. She's not a morning person.'

‘ Saints , Bibi, let her breathe.' Bibi was shoved aside and before Seraphine could sit up, a different girl appeared before her. She had warm brown skin and brown eyes, flecked with gold. They matched her delicate nose-ring, and the three studs in her left ear. She was indeed scowling, under a generous crop of violet-tinted dark hair. ‘Come on, rookie. The suspense is eating us alive,' she said, blowing a stray curl from her eye. ‘Who are you, and why do you smell like a bonfire?'

‘Let her sit up first, Val!' Val was tugged backwards, both girls tumbling off the bed in a scuffle. Pippin, now roused from his slumber, wriggled out from under the covers to bark at them.

Sera groaned as she sat up, her body adjusting to every new ache. For a heartbeat, she forgot where she was. Then the horrors of yesterday came flooding back. The burning farmhouse. Mama's body on the kitchen floor, her ash-grey hand flung out towards the front garden, as though to warn Sera to flee. To run and hide in the only place that could protect her now.

On Madame Mercure's orders, the manservant Vincent had shown her to a room on the fifth floor. It was just big enough for a single bed and a narrow dresser, with a woven rug on the bare boards and a mirror hanging on the wall. She had been so exhausted, she collapsed straight into bed, tucking Pippin close as they both drifted off.

She realized now she was still wearing her boots.

She kicked them off. They landed with a clatter, shaking ash and dirt across the rug. Bibi and Val were back on their feet. The red-haired girl – Bibi – was a few inches shorter than Val, her freckled face round and friendly. They glanced at the discarded boots, then back at Sera, still waiting for her to explain herself.

She cleared her throat. ‘Uh, hi. I'm Sera. I came last night.'

‘Boring,' said Val, rolling her hand. ‘We've already figured that part out.'

‘Madame Mercure stuck you up here and really thought we wouldn't notice you. But Vincent's far too much of a gossip to keep you a secret.' Bibi chuckled, smoothing her pristine floral dress as she perched on the end of the bed. She beamed at Pippin. ‘He forgot to mention this little treasure, though.'

‘Mutts aren't welcome in House Armand,' muttered Val, her eyes softening as she begrudgingly scratched Pippin under the chin.

‘Val's just cranky because she's been trying to get a dog for ages,' said Bibi. ‘I keep telling her to steal one from the shelter.'

‘I'd just end up stealing all of them,' sighed Val.

‘Go on, Sera,' prompted Bibi. ‘We're on tenterhooks. We don't usually receive initiates so late at night. And they're rarely as…' Her gaze lingered on the burnt ends of Sera's hair. ‘Uh, crisp?'

Sera smiled a little. Bibi's kindness was like a salve. Despite her guardedness, it made Sera want to confide in her. The trouble was, she didn't know where to begin. Not with the truth of what had happened to her mother. Or that she had been marked by Gaspard Dufort.

She ignored the chill that skittered down her spine, and said simply, ‘I lost my mother yesterday. We only ever had each other. I had nowhere else to go.'

Bibi's face fell. ‘So, you're an orphan, too?'

Sera flinched, the word pricking her like a pin.

‘Sorry. I just meant…' Bibi blushed violently. ‘Well, I'm an orphan. I joined House Armand six years ago, on my eleventh birthday. Madame Mercure caught me trying to pickpocket her outside the Marlowe and said I had real promise. It was the most perfect twist of fate. As if Saint Oriel herself had planned it.'

Sera raised her eyebrows. After the summer spent breaking in her horse Scout and nearly breaking all her limbs in the process as well, she'd always considered herself to be brave – daring even. But she'd sooner gnaw her hand off than try to pickpocket the most famous Cloak in Fantome.

‘I've been here since I was a baby,' said Val. ‘House Armand is all I've ever known.'

Bibi dropped her voice. ‘Some say Val was born wearing a tiny cloak.'

Val rolled her eyes. ‘You know I hate that joke.'

‘Who says it's a joke?'

‘Madame Mercure says I have to pass a test before I can stay,' said Sera, sweeping the hair from her face, and seeing ash come away on her fingers. She hastily wiped it on her trousers, hoping the girls hadn't noticed. ‘I don't know how good a thief I'll be. I've never stolen anything before.'

‘So, you'll learn,' said Val, with a shrug. ‘Just like the rest of us did.'

Bibi was nodding. ‘Mercure wouldn't have let you through the door if she didn't see potential in you.'

‘That was all Pippin,' said Sera, sure Madame Mercure knew a tracker when she saw one. ‘If he hadn't found this place, we would have been sleeping on the street.'

Or dead , she thought grimly, picturing those menacing quicksilver eyes. Her jaw tightened. Mama hadn't just died yesterday. She had been murdered. And for some sick reason, the Daggers had decided to make a spectacle of it. Beneath the fresh horror of her grief, rage was prickling. Burning. She counted her breaths, trying to quell the sudden, rabid urge to ransack the little room, to rip the mirror from the wall and pull every singed hair from her head, screaming until her voice went raw. Until Gaspard Dufort heard her all the way across the Verne.

Evil, hateful bastard.

You will pay for what you did.

‘Huh,' said Val, who had been silently observing her. ‘You suddenly look… ravenous.'

‘ Saints , you must be starving!' said Bibi, hopping to her feet. ‘When was the last time you ate?'

Sera frowned. She didn't feel hungry, but now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember her last meal. Poor Pippin must be starving.

‘I could eat,' she admitted.

‘But first, you should bathe,' said Val, a little awkwardly. ‘You don't want to put the other Cloaks off their food.'

‘Val's right,' said Bibi, snooping in Sera's dresser only to find that there wasn't a stitch of clothing in there. ‘You only get one chance to make a good impression. Take it from someone who tried to rob Madame Mercure.'

‘That's true,' said Sera, still unsure as to whether, at House Armand, an attempted robbery created a good impression or a poor one. She rolled out of bed.

Val took one look at her filthy outfit and grimaced. ‘I'll get you something to wear before your stipend comes through. Lucky for you, I have impeccable taste.'

‘Thanks, Val.' Sera was glad when they both swept out of her room, so they couldn't see her eyes water at their kindness. She was a mess, filthy and bedraggled. Her heart was shredded to ruins, but it was still beating. She was still standing. Somehow.

She reached for her anger, anchoring herself to her fury, rather than her pain. She went to the window to peer out at the wakening Hollows. The dreary taverns were slowly yawning to life, the brothels going to sleep, the cracked streets thrumming with the forgotten folk of Fantome rising to sell their wares in the grey morning haze.

There was no sign of the Dagger. Morning had blanched the shadows from the Hollows and sent him scuttling back to Hugo's Passage, no doubt to lick Gaspard Dufort's boots and claim his reward. The man who had ordered Mama's death, and the burning of her house for good measure. It wasn't enough to turn on Sylvie – no. Dufort wanted to destroy her too.

Gutless wretch.

Sera would get back on her feet here. She would play Madame Mercure's game, gather some savings and her wits, and before she turned her back on Shade and the underworld and all the strife it had brought into her life for good, she would find a way to make Dufort pay for what he had done to Mama.

A fatal parting shot from Sylvie Marchant. It was exactly what he deserved.

Pippin whined, startling Sera from her spiralling thoughts of revenge, and reminding her that they were both in need of a good scrub and a hot meal.

‘Priorities, priorities,' she muttered, scooping him up.

The bathroom on the fifth storey of House Armand was almost as grand as its kitchen. The floors were white marble, the clawfoot tub so big that Sera could lie down inside it without touching the rim. The shelves were lined with expensive soaps and heady perfumes, the shampoo so fragrant she left the lather on for ten minutes. She scrubbed her face three times to get rid of every last particle of soot and smoke. She found a small pair of scissors in a cupboard under the mirror and used them to cut off the burnt ends of her hair, until it was only long enough to reach her chest.

She braided the pale strands away from her face as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her tanned cheeks were wan, darkening the scatter of freckles along the bridge of her nose. Her blue eyes were wide and intense. The fleck of bronze in her left iris was the only feature she had inherited from her mother. That, and her temper.

After she had scrubbed herself clean, Sera washed Pippin. He wriggled and squalled the entire time, so loudly that every Cloak within earshot would probably think he was being murdered. ‘Such a drama king,' Sera chided, as she trimmed his tail and the scruff around his face, until she could see his beady eyes again.

Back in her room, she rifled through the clothes Val had left on her bed. She had multiple options, each outfit as beautiful as the next. It sure as hell paid to be a thief. And probably twice as much to be a Dagger. Sera tried not to wonder about the price on Mama's head. Was she worth more than Val's gold-trimmed leather boots? Less than her fox-fur stole?

Sera chose a pair of fitted black trousers that tapered at her ankles, flat black boots and a high-necked knitted cream sweater that made her feel like the wife of a rich merchant sailor. It was a far cry from the practical clothes she wore out in the plains: pale, loose-fitting shirts to keep off the heat of the sun in the cornfields, leathers to ride Scout bareback, her boots always laced high enough to protect her trousers from the mulch in the vineyards. But her rough look never bothered Sera. Lorenzo – her childhood best friend who had recently become something more – always told her she looked beautiful, no matter what she wore – or didn't wear – and judging by the way he pressed his body against hers out behind the barn, his gaze molten with desire, Sera thought it must be true.

Steeling herself, she followed the sound of morning chatter down to the dining hall, which was located on the second floor of House Armand. It had all the grandeur of a ballroom, with dark herringbone floors and corniced ceilings. The walls were adorned with gold-leaf wallpaper and hung with some of the most exquisite landscapes Sera had ever seen. The dining chairs were cushioned with velvet, while every table bore a large silver tray of fresh pastries, pitchers of orange and grape juice, heaped plates of bacon, sausages and fried eggs, as well as a steaming pot of coffee.

Yes, yes, yes.

The Cloaks knew how to eat. And steal. Every inch of House Armand dripped with opulence. At one end of the huge dining room, a row of bay windows looked over the back garden. In the morning light, Sera could see that the lawn was beautifully manicured, and bordered by magnificent oak trees. An old woman was sitting alone by the window. Sera recognized her scowling, wrinkled face from the previous night and with fresh ire, recalled the croak of her ‘ No! ' as she slammed the door in her face.

She glared at Sera now, through the cloud of smoke that billowed from the pipe in her hand.

Sera fought the urge to offer her a choice finger. Mama had always warned her to respect her elders. Even the tyrants. Sera turned away from the old woman, scanning the other faces in the room. There were forty or so Cloaks down here. Most of them looked around her age, but a handful were older, closer to Mama's age, and there were a pair of twin boys who looked around twelve or so. Most sat in pairs or small groups, chatting among themselves. Some flicked their gazes towards Sera when she entered but if they were surprised by her presence, they didn't show it.

Evidently, new recruits were not uncommon at House Armand. And yet, judging by the row of unoccupied bedrooms on the fifth floor, turnover must be high. Sera supposed that not everyone was cut out to be a Cloak, to live a life of subterfuge and suspicion, but as she inhaled the smell of warm bacon and freshly ground coffee, she figured there were worse things to sell your soul for.

‘Sera! Over here!' Bibi waved a half-eaten sausage from her table across the room, where she and Val were in the middle of breakfast. ‘Sit with us!'

Sera hurried over, tucking Pippin under the table. She slipped him a strip of bacon while the old woman continued giving her a menacing glare.

‘Who is that?' Sera asked, in a low voice.

‘Don't mind Madame Fontaine,' said Val, with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘The old fossil hardly ever gets out any more.'

‘She slammed the door in my face last night,' said Sera.

Val snorted. ‘Sounds about right. When I was nine, I nicked a peppermint from her pocket and she pushed me down the stairs with her walking stick.'

‘That's… unhinged,' said Sera.

‘Yeah,' said Val, admiringly.

‘One time, when I was practising piano in the music room, Madame Fontaine came in and cut six inches off the end of my hair because I was playing an arrogant sonata ,' said Bibi, mimicking the croak of her voice. ‘She said it had too much staccato.'

Sera's eyes widened. ‘Did you tell Madame Mercure?'

‘No point,' said Val. ‘Fontaine is part of the furniture here.'

‘She used to run House Armand until she got too old and started losing her sight,' said Bibi. ‘She was some Cloak, though. Rumour says the last King of Valterre once hired her to rob the Queen of Urnica.'

‘What did she steal?' said Sera.

Val dropped her voice. ‘The queen's first-born son.'

Sera choked on her bacon.

The other two burst into laughter.

‘Val's just teasing,' said Bibi. Then she mimed sewing her mouth shut. ‘Patron confidentiality. No one knows for sure what she stole. Only that the king paid so handsomely for it, House Armand was able to build a new wing. She was damn good in her day. Probably because she's favoured by Saint Oriel.'

Sera's brows rose. ‘What do you mean?'

‘They say Fontaine is a distant descendant of Oriel Beauregard. That sometimes she whispers to Fontaine in her dreams and speaks to her through her tarot cards. That's how she always knows so much.'

Val snorted into her coffee. ‘If you ask me, Fontaine's just a nosy old bat with too much time on her hands.'

‘Maybe she's both,' said Bibi.

Sera sneaked another glance at the old woman, who was now glaring at a crow in the garden. ‘This place is different than I imagined.'

‘Did you think we'd all be wearing our cloaks to breakfast?' said Val. ‘And pickpocketing each other in the halls?'

‘Well… yeah.'

They laughed again.

‘We don't wear Shade when we're not working,' Bibi explained. ‘After a while, it gives you a headache. We always make sure to remove our cloaks, gloves, boots and scarves, and leave them in the cloakroom when we come back from a job. It's the only room in House Armand that's locked.'

‘How come?' said Sera.

‘Because that's where the Shade is kept. And Shade leads to temptation,' said Val. ‘All it takes is one taste for a Cloak to go rogue. And who knows what they might do, then?'

‘Or who they might kill,' said Bibi, in a low voice. ‘Not long after I first came to House Armand, there was an… incident. A couple of Cloaks stole a vial of Shade from the cloakroom and swallowed it, just to try it. It was too much, too soon. One of them – Phillipe – lost his senses. He tried to murder Madame Mercure.'

‘ Saints, ' muttered Sera. ‘What happened?'

‘It took nine Cloaks to stop him,' said Val. ‘But in the scuffle, Phillipe managed to grab one by the neck, killing him almost instantly. Once the Shade wore off, Madame Mercure revoked his Cloak and called the dayguards. He's been rotting in the king's prison ever since.'

Sera wrinkled her nose. ‘But the Daggers can kill as often as they like.'

‘The Daggers have their own agreement with the King of Valterre,' said Bibi. ‘They have his coin and his ear. And besides, in Fantome, murder is only murder if you get caught.'

‘Lucky for some.' Val's voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Dufort's been on a damn spree lately.' She jerked her chin towards a nearby table, where a slender bald man with thick spectacles was cutting up his fried egg. ‘Griffin says the Daggers cleared out a whole sailing ship that docked in the harbour the other night. Took the bodies, left the boat. The traders are calling it a ghost ship.'

Sera had to work to keep her voice even. ‘Why would Dufort do that?'

A shrug. ‘Maybe he's finally lost his senses. All that Shade has eaten through his brain.'

‘He probably chucked them overboard,' said Bibi, pushing her food away. ‘Nothing worse than a watery grave.'

Sera could think of something worse. A burning house. A burning life. What the hell was Dufort up to? And had Mama had something to do with it?

Her thoughts twisted back to Shade. She imagined all those vials of black powder in the cloakroom, just waiting to be used. Sera had been around Shade all her life but she had never longed for the taste of it. She had never wanted anyone dead, never wanted to let Mama down. But now…

Now…

Sitting here, in the grey morning mist, with Dufort on a rampage and without Mama at her side, Sera wondered what she could do if she got her hands on a vial. Took just enough Shade to drown out her pain, to feel strength instead of fear. For the first time in her life, she understood the lure of that black powder.

After all, to swallow Shade was to become a reaper. And everyone feared the Reaper. If she was clever, careful, she could find the Dagger who had killed Mama and give him a taste of his own medicine. Or maybe she would follow him back to the catacombs, to face the snake that was devouring Fantome: Gaspard Dufort himself.

‘Where did you say you came from?' Val's question jolted Sera from her thoughts.

‘I didn't,' she replied, reaching for her cup of coffee and weaving a quick half-truth. ‘I lived out in the plains. My mother had a vineyard there. Small and seasonal, but it paid the rent.'

‘A farm girl. Hmm. We've had a few of those pass through here. Weak nerves. Soft hearts.'

Not mine. Not any more. Sera slipped another piece of bacon under the table, avoiding Val's probing glare.

‘That's a pretty necklace.' Bibi traced the golden tear at her throat. ‘What kind of gemstone is that?'

‘I don't know.' Sera closed her fingers around it on instinct. ‘It was a gift.'

Val laughed, brashly. ‘She's not going to steal it.'

Sera loosened her grip. ‘Sorry, Bibi… It's just… I don't know what you look like when you steal.'

‘Well, here's a hint,' drawled Val. ‘You wouldn't see us do it. I could nick your dog right now if I felt like it.'

Sera looked her over. ‘Where would you even put him?'

A flash of pearly teeth. ‘Trade secret.'

Bibi shot her a warning look. ‘Val's just joking. And anyway, Cloaks never steal from each other. It's part of our code. We don't even lock our bedroom doors.'

‘Right,' muttered Sera. ‘Just the cloakroom.'

Bibi reached for the coffee pot, before refilling their cups. ‘Val and I are doing Sleights this Sunday if you want to come along. We'd be happy to show you the ropes, help you prepare for Mercure's first assignment.'

‘What's a Sleight?' said Sera, looking between them.

‘A small theft. Pockets, mostly. A jam jar, here and there. Chocolates. Perfume. Whatever we fancy,' said Bibi. ‘They keep our fingers nimble in between Breaks and Heists. The jobs we undertake for our patrons.'

‘Breaks typically involve houses, shops, taverns,' Val went on, and Sera got the sense she should be taking notes. ‘Heists are the big ones. We're talking museums and manors, the palatial homes of some of the richest families in Valterre. They usually require a team of three or more, depending on what's at stake. Precious artwork, antique furniture. And don't get me started on sculptures.'

Sera was reminded of the giant marble statue of a naked man on the fifth-floor landing.

‘It's coin, mostly. Sometimes jewellery.' Bibi grinned. ‘Once, Val nearly broke her leg stealing a pouch of pebbles she swore were diamonds.'

‘I was thirteen. And clearly an idiot.' Val turned to Sera. ‘Last year, Bibi stole a dead ferret for a patron because she thought it was a mink stole. When she presented it to Madame Mercure, she nearly got her cloak revoked.'

Bibi scowled at her. ‘You have to stop bringing that up.'

‘What about the king?' said Sera, thinking of the palace that sat at the mouth of the Verne, where King Bertrand and Queen Odette often summered with their children. There must be enough riches in that place to launch a fleet of ships to Urnica, and it wasn't like the royal family, who had a hundred homes across Valterre, would even miss half of them. ‘Do you ever take from—'

‘ Never .' Val regarded Sera as though she had suddenly sprouted horns. ‘The Cloaks can steal on his behalf, but never from him. It's an accord that goes right back to the time of Armand Versini himself. To dare steal from the King of Valterre would attract an entirely different kind of trouble.'

‘What about the city guards? Don't you ever worry about getting caught?'

‘They can't arrest what they can't see,' said Bibi, smugly.

‘And any nightguard foolish enough to try and catch a Dagger in the throes of Shade might as well fling themselves in the Verne and be done with it,' said Val.

Sera took another generous sip of coffee, if only to hide the revulsion on her face.

Val watched her drink. ‘So, your mother died. What about your father?'

‘I don't know him,' said Sera, her chest tight. It was easier than saying his infrequent visits over the years were like thunderstorms, that he often arrived in a fury that sent her hiding under her bed. She hadn't spoken to him since her thirteenth birthday, when he had stomped in through the back door and caught Mama by the throat. She had clawed his face bloody to get free before Sera chased him from the house with a rake, swinging with such wild abandon that she decapitated three shrubs.

They should have run that day. They should have run and never looked back.

Val let the matter rest, returning to her breakfast, while Bibi bent down to feed Pippin under the table. Sera let her gaze wander, taking in the rest of the dining hall. At the other end of the room, an oil painting of Armand Versini, the founder of the Order of Cloaks, hung above a stately fireplace. He was wearing a leather eye mask, the same style and shape as the symbol Madame Mercure kept on her key chain. A constant reminder of the importance of her role.

The menacing mask had marked the first in Armand's experiments with disguise, but the painting suggested it had done little to hide his good looks. He had suntanned skin, thick black hair and a finely trimmed moustache. His brown eyes were strangely soft, and his lips were quirked, betraying the barest hint of mischief.

Underneath, engraved into a gold plaque, was the motto upon which the Order of Cloaks was founded:

Take only what your cloak can carry, and your conscience can bear .

Sera wondered whether a portrait of Armand's brother, Hugo, hung somewhere in the catacombs, and if the air down there smelled like the rotting skulls he had buried in the walls.

‘Please don't tell me you're drooling over Armand Versini,' scolded Val, waggling her butter knife in remonstration. ‘Don't they have handsome men out in the plains?'

As though she had conjured one up with her question, the door to the dining hall swung open and a man stalked in, walking with the kind of lazy confidence Sera had only ever read about in books. He was tall and lithe, dressed in dark trousers and a loose blue shirt. His skin was golden tan, and his silver hair was slicked back, revealing a straight nose and strong cheekbones. His lips twitched, as though he was on the verge of smiling and his eyes were a perfect turquoise, like the south sea of Valterre.

When they met Sera's, her breath hitched.

Bibi and Val groaned in unison.

‘Why do they always swoon?' said Bibi.

‘I knew he'd come,' said Val. ‘It's like he could smell her.'

‘Who is that?' said Sera, tearing her gaze away.

‘That's Theo,' said Val, rolling her eyes. ‘And if you're wondering whether he's a good kisser, the answer is obviously yes.'

‘I wasn't,' said Sera hotly.

Val smirked. ‘Whatever you say, farmgirl.'

‘Theo's the Shadowsmith at House Armand,' said Bibi. ‘He might be a bit of a flirt, but he's a skilled artificer. He's the one who turns Shade into things we can use. Clothing. Footwear. Weapons.'

Sera stole another glance over her shoulder. Theo was now sitting with Griffin two tables over, but he was facing her. His smile was dazzlingly bright, but it wasn't directed at Sera. He was grinning at Pippin, who had peeked out from under the table to see what all the fuss was about.

‘So, he's the one in charge of the Shade?' said Sera.

‘Yeah,' they chorused.

She thought again of those glimmering black vials. Of what she might do with one after all this time. When Theo met her gaze again, she smiled, just a little.