“Sleep, little one, sleep,” the lullaby started as a whisper. “Count your bones from head to feet...” She choked on the last word.
Her voice sounded so feeble, on the verge of breaking, but the song soothed her. Her mother had sung it to her when she was little and afraid of the dark, and she’d shared it with Matteo. Then Matteo had played it for her on the piano during the many sleepless nights they spent obsessing over sketches and plans.
She started over from the top.
“Sleep, little one, sleep,
Count your bones from head to feet,
All arranged so small and neat,
Close your eyes, your rest be sweet.”
Her voice grew stronger, and silence fell down the corridor as the prisoners in the cells nearby listened. The second part poured out of her.
“Sleep, little one, sleep,
Sacred bones their promise keep,
Saints stand guard down in the deep,
Rest now, child, and do not weep.”
She heard a hum as she sang. It seemed to come from the cell next to hers. She sat up and pressed her ear to the wall.
“Sleep, little one, sleep.”
“Hmm... hmm... hmm,” the voice accompanied her.
A man’s voice. It vibrated low and grave, the deepest, smoothest baritone Seraphina had ever heard. She sang, and he hummed, and the sound sank into her body and unraveled all the tight knots in her muscles, smoothed all the ragged edges of her soul.
“Sacred bones their promise keep. Saints stand guard down in the deep.”
“Hmm… hmm… hmm…”
Except the war had started because of the bones. The sacred bones and their promises of riches, power, health, immortality. These sacred bones – these relics – had been around since the beginning of the world, and how naïve had they all been to think they wouldn’t be humanity’s undoing one day.
“Rest now, child, and do not weep.”
The relic war will make you bleed.
She didn’t sing the extra line out loud.
Chapter Two
His low, baritone voice seeped into her bones, reaching her marrow.
The sound of wood hitting metal woke Seraphina from a feverish dream. She’d been doing drills in her sleep, but no matter how fast she moved, how focused she was, her sparring partner always disarmed her in three moves and had her pinned, a dagger to her throat. It was more a memory than a dream.
At Saint Vivia’s Convent, Briar had been her friend and trainer. A girl her age, born in London as well, who’d moved to Bavaria with her mother when she was a child. Every time Seraphina had tried to pry into her and her mother’s circumstances, Briar had deflected and started droning about weapons and close combat strategies. Seraphina could be forged into a fighter; she was a fast and eager learner. But she couldn’t be persuaded to make a passion out of it when at her core, she was very much a woman interested in womanly pursuits.
The guard’s club hit metal again down the corridor, and Seraphina sat up on the hard cot, gathering the blanket tightly around her. She stuck her chin out and inclined her head, listening intently. There were two guards moving from one cell to another, and a third man handling objects that banged and clattered. When they reached her cell, she understood what was happening.
“Breakfast,” one of the guards shouted.
His voice wasn’t familiar. She didn’t know him.
Her cell was unlocked, and the one with the wooden club stepped forward, making her cower in the corner. She tried to become small. As small as a rodent. She certainly felt like one.
