Chapter 7 Seraphine

Chapter 7 Seraphine

It was mid-morning at House Armand and Sera was half-asleep, reliving a time when Lorenzo had chased her through the vineyard behind their tutor's house. She had purposefully tripped over her basket to let him catch her. When he did, she pulled him down to the warm earth, pressing her mouth against his, raking her fingers through his perfect golden curls while his hands slid up her shirt.

How can a person taste like sunshine and feel like the finest silk? he murmured against her lips.

Sera snorted into his collar, always embarrassed and delighted by his dramatics. For her, a kiss was just a kiss – a delicious escape after a day full of lessons. She welcomed Lorenzo's needy hands on her skin but she never sought a deeper meaning in the shiver of his touch or the caress of his tongue against hers. These moments were enough as they were.

Lorenzo! Seraphine! These grapes won't pick themselves!

Somewhere at the other end of the field, Lorenzo's mother was calling them. Maria was Mama's best friend and together they ran a small vineyard. At the end of every summer, all four of them harvested the grapes, although nowadays Lorenzo and Sera always found time to distract each other from work.

Seraphine! Mama called out. Come out before winter or our precious grapes will rot! Sera!

‘Sera?' Bibi knocked, then after a moment, tiptoed into her bedroom, rousing Sera from the dregs of her slumber. ‘Are you awake?'

‘Just waiting for my brain to kick in.' Sera sat up in bed, wondering about the Vergas. She had fled in such a hurry, she never thought to go to Mama's oldest friend, to tell Maria and Lorenzo what had happened. But the flames were so high and the sky so black, they must have known. Did they believe both she and Mama were dead?

A slant of sunlight slipped through the window, bathing the room in a soft honey glow. Bibi was holding a bunch of flowers wrapped in crepe paper: lilacs and irises and forget-me-nots. ‘I picked these up at the market. I thought they might brighten up your… um…'

‘Grief?'

Bibi flushed. ‘I was going to say room.'

Sera smiled, her heart swelling. She might not have Lorenzo, but she had Bibi. And Val, who had come to check in on her last night with a pocket full of ginger biscuits. ‘Thanks, Bibi. I love flowers.'

‘I'll get a vase for them. You should get dressed. You have your first lesson with Albert this morning, remember? He'll be waiting for you down in the gymnasium.'

Sera startled at the clock on the wall, then flung herself out of bed. ‘I overslept.' She rummaged in her dresser for one of the outfits she had spent her stipend on at Marveline's Boutique. She settled on a pair of loose cotton trousers and a matching short-sleeved shirt. ‘Do you mind taking Pip out?' she asked, as she hastily braided her hair.

‘Of course not,' said Bibi, happily scooping him up. ‘I'm sure he's been dying to spend more time with me. After breakfast, we might even visit Theo to see if he will sew him a tiny cloak.'

Sera chuckled at the image. ‘He'd certainly make a better thief than me.'

‘You don't know that,' said Bibi, with an encouraging smile. ‘Good luck with Albert.'

Sera steeled herself as she made her way down to the gymnasium, eager to throw herself into self-defence practice. It wouldn't do much for her pressing Dagger problem but it was sure as hell better than nothing. She hated feeling so nervous and uncertain, but that day at the Rascalle had spooked her.

Why did the swan dance?

She had played those innocent words over and over in her head, torturing herself with the memory of that unguarded softness in the Dagger's eyes. Was he toying with her, like a cat tossing about a mouse just to see what it might do?

Have a nice day, Seraphine.

How the hell did he know her name?

She couldn't forget those fateful words, even as she tried to convince herself he wasn't a Dagger. Not with those warm eyes and tentative smile. That low, sonorous voice. No. He was too young to be evil. Too handsome. And yet… her name in his mouth had sounded like a threat.

She should have struck the arrogant bastard right then and there, left the imprint of her hand on his cheek as a promise of more violence to come.

Sera had spent the days since then hiding away in the library at House Armand, nose-deep in stories that cast her mind as far from Fantome as possible. At night, she sat up staring at the moon, like she was afraid if she looked away, the light would go out and the darkness would find her and finish her. Grief was a cinder block chained to her ankle, fear sitting heavy on the other. She needed to make a weapon of both if she was to survive here. She needed to stop thinking like a wayward farmgirl and start acting like a Cloak. Or better still, a Dagger.

So today, she would train.

Her first session in the second-floor gymnasium with Albert, the resident self-defence tutor at House Armand, was as gruelling as a hike in the Saravi Desert. By noon, she was bent double, desperately trying to catch her breath. Sunlight poured in from the vaulted windows, gilding the sweat on her face.

She grabbed a towel to wipe her brow, then poured herself a glass of water before downing it in one go. ‘Not to be dramatic but I think I might be melting,' she gasped. ‘My legs feel like candle wax.'

‘Good.' Leaning against the nearby mantel of a disused fireplace, Albert grinned as he watched her, his brown eyes crinkling at the sides. He was a Cloak with such skill and leonine grace that he could ballroom-dance her across the room with six twirls and take her knees out from under her on the seventh. ‘That means you're working hard.'

Despite the hours they had already spent training together, there wasn't a bead of sweat on the older Cloak's golden-brown skin.

‘ Or maybe I'm just slowly dissolving into a puddle of sweat,' muttered Sera, raking her slick hair away from her face. Daily horseback riding had made her fit, and a childhood of climbing up barns with Lorenzo just to swing from their rafters had made her agile, but self-defence was a different beast entirely. It was a kind of dance: a series of precise strikes and careful manoeuvres that worked muscles she didn't even know she had. Still, she was grateful for Albert's expert tutelage, and glad she had taken Val and Bibi's advice to schedule a session with him before her first official job. It would be a damn shame if she unwittingly stumbled into the clutches of a nightguard on her first Break simply because she didn't know how to get out of a rudimentary arm hold.

The second Sera set her empty glass down, Albert pushed off the mantel, sinking into a crouch. ‘Let's move on to chokeholds.'

Sera pulled a face, glancing fleetingly at the nearest window, trying to gauge the distance to the nearest oak tree.

‘Not worth the drop,' said Albert, following her gaze. ‘Though you're not the first to consider it.'

She groaned in defeat. ‘Fine,' she said, rolling her aching shoulders back. ‘Chokeholds.'

When Val arrived a short while later, sweeping into the gymnasium in a pair of low-slung trousers and a sleeveless vest, she laughed at the sight of Sera's red face stuck in the cradle of Albert's muscular arms. ‘How's training?'

‘Sobering,' said Sera, still trying to scrabble free of the hold.

‘Well, as much as I hate to interrupt this delightful little moment, Mercure wants to see you in her office,' said Val. ‘I suggest you take a shower first.'

Sera's stomach flipped as Albert released her, and she rose on trembling legs that had nothing to do with exertion.

Madame Mercure was angry. Sera could sense it as soon as she reached her quarters in the high tower of House Armand. Val had told her this was where the ravens came to whisper to Cordelia Mercure of the nightly stirrings in Fantome, but standing here now, in a shaft of morning sunlight, the room simply looked like an office, albeit one sumptuously decorated in shades of burgundy and gold.

There was a large walnut desk littered with maps and ledgers. An ornate globe in the corner. A box of herbs sprouting along the windowsill. A row of bookshelves wrapped around the inner wall, climbing all the way to the ceiling, and on the other side of the room, two saffron wingback chairs and a small coffee table beside a crackling fireplace.

Mercure was standing at her desk, with the penny papers in her hand, glaring at Sera with such heat that she hesitated and hovered in the doorway, unsure whether or not to enter.

‘Come in,' she said impatiently. ‘I don't bite.'

Gingerly, Sera stepped into the room.

‘Sit.' Mercure was wearing a long pewter dress that swished around her as she crossed the room. She seemed taller than Sera remembered, but perhaps that was simply because she was angrier. She settled herself in an armchair, gesturing at the one opposite her.

Sera sat. ‘Have I done something wrong?'

Mercure crossed her legs. ‘Why don't you tell me?'

‘Is this about the Rascalle? Was it a test after all?'

‘No.' Madame Mercure's voice was clipped.

‘Is it Pip?' said Sera, anxiously. ‘I know he relieves himself in the garden but I always make sure to—'

‘It's not the mutt.' Madame Mercure sighed, bored of her own game. ‘Tell me, Sera Toussaint , when were you planning on telling me that you are, in fact, the daughter of Sylvie Marchant, one of the most prolific Shade smugglers in Fantome?'

Sera froze. She could feel the colour draining from her cheeks. ‘What—'

‘Careful,' said Madame Mercure, pitching forward in her seat. ‘It would not be wise to lie to my face a second time.'

Sera scrunched her eyes shut, desperately trying to think of something to say, but she had no lie big enough to cover the truth, and no excuse clever enough to banish the suspicion from Madame Mercure's face. She had been caught out. ‘My name is Seraphine Marchant,' she said, in a whisper. ‘I'm sorry I lied.'

‘Or are you sorry you got caught?' Madame Mercure pursed her lips. ‘That's not even the part I'm angry about. You told me your mother died of the plague.'

Sera flinched. She had forgotten about that.

Mercure tossed the paper at her. It slid across the table and landed at her feet. Sera didn't have to pick it up to know what it said. It was dated last Sunday. She could see the headline from here.

FANTOME SMUGGLER MURDERED BY DUFORT'S DAGGERS.

‘You neglected to tell me that your mother was murdered,' said Madame Mercure. ‘The night you came to House Armand begging for sanctuary, you were running from the Daggers, weren't you?'

Sera nodded, slowly. There was no sense in denying it now. ‘I didn't know where else to go.'

Madame Mercure's lips twisted. ‘I read they burned your mother's farmhouse.'

Again, Sera nodded. For as long as she lived, she would never forget the sight of the smoke rising over the hills.

‘Why did they burn it?' said Madame Mercure.

‘I don't know.' Sera was still wrestling with the same question. ‘Pippin and I were out hunting for rabbits.'

Madame Mercure's frown deepened the lines around her mouth. ‘Between them, the Cloaks and Daggers trade with seventeen other smugglers outside Fantome. None of those smugglers have been murdered. Why would Gaspard Dufort choke his own supply chain?'

Sera bristled at that name. ‘We— Mama refused to sell to Dufort. She only dealt with the Cloaks.'

All these years, Sera had never been able to tell who Mama hated more – the Daggers or Dufort himself. But one thing she knew, deep in her blood and her bones, was that no matter how many times she declared herself a simple go-between , Sylvie Marchant had been no innocent bystander. She hated Dufort with the kind of rage that made her eyes blaze like two bronze coins. By the end, Sylvie had been unable to stomach sight or sound of him, or tolerate anything he stood for.

Sometimes Sera had watched the way her mother looked at those vials of Shade as she bottled them and wondered just how close she had come to tasting that power, and what she would have done with it if curiosity had got the better of her. And in the endless hollow hours since Mama's death, Sera had often found herself wishing Mama had got to Dufort before he got to her.

‘Why?' pressed Mercure. ‘Why did your mother choose to only sell to the Cloaks?'

‘Because Gaspard Dufort is a depraved monster,' said Sera. ‘Mama wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.'

A cold, yawning silence filled the room. Sera swallowed her next words: Dufort knew that and killed her for it.

Madame Mercure did not argue the point. There was no one who despised the Daggers more than the Cloaks, their age-old rivalry stretching all the way back to the warring Versini brothers, and Armand's gruesome death at Hugo's hands. And then there was the matter of their little sister, Lucille, the poor girl who got caught in the middle of their bloody feud simply by trying to help them. ‘But Gaspard is also a clever man, Seraphine. And a clever man has a reason for everything he does.'

‘Maybe he's started to lose it.'

Madame Mercure went on, as if she hadn't heard her, ‘So, the question remains: what threat did Sylvie Marchant pose to the most powerful man in Fantome?'

‘Mama lived in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. She never went anywhere or did anything of note. Unless you count making wine and tinkering with jewellery in her spare time.' Sera clasped the teardrop at her throat, wanting to defend her mother from the implication that she had somehow deserved her own gruesome murder. Banishing the fear that it might be true. ‘She was hardly a threat.'

Madame Mercure pressed her lips together, levelling a hard look at Sera. ‘I think you know more than you're letting on.'

Sera folded her arms, but said nothing. Of course there were other sides to Mama. She was clever, cunning, curious – not just about the beauty of nature, but about its secrets, too. She read widely and often, and sometimes, after a glass or two of wine, she experimented – with metals, plants, even rocks dug up from her own garden. And once – only once – with something darker, something secret and strange and deadly that Seraphine had never quite made sense of.

She still thought of Fig sometimes, the yowling tabby that had fallen victim to Mama's midnight experiment and become something… other . But over time, the memory of that strange night had turned hazy, and the more she thought about it, the less sense it made. Sera didn't like to dwell on it, to consider that her mother might have lied to her, or that there were things about Sylvie that she simply didn't know.

‘Your mother was part of the underworld of Fantome.' Mercure laboured her point. ‘She was part of the trade. And by the sounds of it, so were you.'

Sera glared at her. ‘Mama only fell into the trade to keep us afloat. The least I could do was help her out when I was old enough.' She recalled those early years with a pang of guilt, Mama labouring at her workbench by the light of the moon, her shoulders so hunched that some nights she could barely tuck Seraphine in. Back then, they were so poor they had to share a cup of milk for breakfast, Mama pretending to take sips she never swallowed so Sera wouldn't go hungry. They often had to rely on the kindness of Farmer Perrin or Maria Verga just to survive. ‘Mama did the real work. The hard work. I just helped her bottle it.'

‘Tell me the rest,' Mercure pressed. ‘What else was your mother up to in that little farmhouse of hers?'

‘I've already told you everything.' Sera was seized by an image of her mother sitting at her workbench on a warm sunny day, her dark hair falling across her face as she tinkered with a strand of wire. She was surrounded by vials, as she always was, and on her left, the discarded nub of a boneshade root, its head of golden leaves still attached. There were others scattered across the table, and in the air, beneath the smell of lemon blossom, was the barest hint of gunpowder.

What's that strange smell, Mama?

Mama had set the wire down to smile at her. That, my little firefly, is the smell of creativity.

Sera frowned at the memory now.

‘What is that thought?' said Mercure, reaching forward as if to catch it. ‘The one flitting behind your eyes.'

‘Mama was a good person,' said Sera quietly. ‘That's all I know. That's all that matters to me.' Silence fell. She wrung her hands in her lap, waiting for Madame Mercure to decide her fate. ‘She always said if anything ever happened to her, I should come to House Armand. She thought I'd be safe here.'

‘That's because it was an offer I extended to her many years ago.' Madame Mercure stood up and plucked the paper from the floor. ‘Back when you were small enough not to chance your tongue at lying.'

Sera jerked her chin up. ‘You knew my mother?'

‘I know everyone who sells to me,' said Mercure, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. And suddenly it was. Just because Mama didn't run her own deliveries didn't mean she had never met her best customer. Her only customer. ‘I liked Sylvie. She was clever, steely-eyed. She loved you very much.'

Sera swallowed thickly. She reached for those warm, gentle words, desperate to fill the yawning hollow inside her chest.

‘I knew there was something familiar about you when you showed up on my doorstep. That riddle, at least, has been answered.' Mercure cast the paper in the fire. The flames hissed, devouring it. ‘I must caution you, Seraphine. This is a dangerous time to be a Cloak,' she said, unease creeping into her voice. ‘There are strange stirrings across the underworld of Fantome. The Daggers are getting sloppy. Reckless. First, a smuggler. And now one of their own. Pascal Loren has been found dead. And then there's the abandoned ship in the harbour. Thirty marks in one night. And many others in the south quarter unaccounted for.'

‘Even so,' said Sera, rising to her feet, ‘I'm a lot safer at House Armand than I am alone in the Hollows.'

Madame Mercure looked her over. ‘Albert says you're a quick learner. Blanche likes you, which is no mean feat. You seem to have made friends with some of my Cloaks. But you have yet to prove yourself.'

‘Then assign me a job,' said Sera, before she could second-guess herself. It was time to set aside her aversion to thievery, bury her cowardice and choose survival. Only then could she have her revenge. And after, freedom.

‘Very well, Seraphine Marchant,' said Madame Mercure. ‘I will send word to Theo. We will fit you for a cloak first.'

Sera smiled gratefully. ‘I promise you won't regret it.'

Mercure went to the window, the frown returning to her face. ‘That remains to be seen.'