made a blade of her fury and drove it home. “You see, Ransom, you kill for coin. For praise from a rat like Gaspard Dufort. For a cold bed in a stone room far beneath the city. But me? My spirit—my fight—comes from my mother. And so does my magic.” A huff of breath at that word—magic. A dent in his composure. She went on, emboldened. “My strength is your weakness. My secret is your nightmare. And that makes me a lot more dangerous than you.”
