Fuck, I sound desperate.
I am not a desperate person.
He shrugs. “It really wasn’t my place to get involved.”
The rage suddenly coursing through me is like liquid fire inside my veins. I ball my fists so my nails gouge my palms through the leather. “More like, it wasn’t convenient for you to get involved.”
“So young and yet already so jaded.”
I’m devoured by the savage urge to throw him out the floor-to-ceiling window, chair and all, but he’s the only one who can answer my questions. Questions that have been burning my gut long enough to give me an ulcer.
“So why did I grow up with the name Ardoin? Why did no one tell me about my parents? Why did social services act like I was a stray?”
“Because whoever hid you found it prudent to keep your existence a secret.” He runs a hand over the glass desk. “Your parents were very influential in Brume, and with great influence comes great enemies.”
I want to make a joke. Something about him copping lines from Spiderman, but a needle of ice pierces my chest. “Are you saying my parents were murdered?”
An emotion crosses Rainier’s face, making his jaw tick and his eyes darken. “Non. They perished in a fire.”
“But—”
“A fire. No foul play was involved. It’s as simple as that, Monsieur Ardoin.”
None of this is simple.
He moves toward the low row of metal filing cabinets that runs the length of the wall across from the bookshelves. Over it stretches a yellowed scroll of parchment encased in plexiglass. Drawings of triangles, black bugs, quartered human bodies, and strange plants are interspersed with cramped lines of script, burn marks, and ink smudges.
A drawer clanks shut, pulling me from my observation. And then Rainier is parking himself back behind his desk and slapping a file on it. My name—well, the name Roland, Rémy—graces a label glued on the tab.
“Enough of this. Let’s get down to the matter at hand—your studies. I’ve taken the liberty of enrolling you in a variety of classes to find out your strengths and shortcomings.”
“About your little university . . . j’en ai rien à branler, De Morel. I came here for answers. And if you won’t give them to me, I’m leaving Brume.”
His pupils seem to pulse with annoyance. “I summoned you for a reason.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You summoned me?”
“As one of the founding family members, you’re to be a part of the Quatrefoil Council meeting in two weeks.”
“Quatre-whatta Council?”
“Quatrefoil.” He gestures to the ashtray. “Surely you’ve noticed the shape is an integral part of Brumian history. It’s the symbol for the magic birthed here centuries ago.”
I snort.
“Whether you believe in magic or not, Monsieur Ardoin, understand that there is a Council, a very ancient and very real one, and it believes magic exists. Now that you are over eighteen, it is your duty and your birthright to claim your seat at the table.”
And Bastian thinks I’m drunk? What’s wrong with these people? But then I remember the ring that won’t come off.
I thumb it through the leather. “You can’t exclude me for twenty years and then suddenly expect me to contribute to your little Quattro-fucking Council.”
“Quatrefoil.”
“Whatever.”
“And you’re right. I can’t expect you to contribute or to stick around.” He looks at me like I’m a cockroach. “But perhaps I can appeal to one of your baser senses, like greed. How about I promise that if you stay, I’ll make it worth your while?”
That pisses me off to no end. I cross my arms over my chest so I don’t punch him right in the throat. “I don’t need your money, since I have so much of my own.”
A conceited smile curves his lips. “Ah. Are you referring to that trust fund I mentioned in my letter?”
My biceps feel like stone.
He tsks. “You see, not only am I the trustee, but also the account is in the university bank. In order to access it, you need my permission. In order to get my permission, you need to attend the Council meeting. Since I pride myself on upholding traditions, that’s my single condition. After the meeting, I’ll grant you full and sole custody of your inheritance. So, now let’s go over the subjects I enrolled you in.”
There’s a knock on the door, three short bursts followed by a nasal voice. “Monsieur de Morel? I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but some of your guests were worried. Is everything all right?”
“All’s well, Jaqueline. I’ll be down in a minute.” He turns back to me. “Seems we’re out of time. You can check your classes online. And we have a world-class library on campus. If you’re grappling with questions about the Council or your heritage, look through the archives. Do you have any more questions for me?” He cruises toward the door.
I’ve never been conned. But here I am getting conned. By a middle-aged paraplegic who believes in fucking magic no less. I feel like my brain’s about to explode. I run my hands down my face, my leather gloves catching on my skin, the band of the ring bumping against my cheekbone.
I’m tempted to remove the glove, shove the gem in De Morel’s face, and ask him why his family heirloom is stuck to my finger. Would he even know? He’s not a mortician. It’s probably some weird substance from the corpse that’s doing it. Some body fluid that turns gummy like glue after death.
Now I want to vomit.
After swallowing back the rising bile, I burrow my hand inside my pocket, my fingers bumping against the brooch. Nah, I can’t show De Morel the ring. Not even to gloat about looting his family’s mausoleum. No doubt he’d call the police. Bastian would be gutted if I went back to jail. Especially since this time, I wouldn’t go to juvie.
Besides, if the damn thing’s valuable, then I certainly don’t want to give it back.
No. I’ll return to that tiny cave of a dorm room and lube it up with soap. And if that fails, I’ll buy some damn bolt cutters. But I’m keeping the stone.
The Baccarat paperweight on Rainier’s desk glints hard, and I’m itching to swipe it, but my pockets are already bulging.
On the landing, I tell Rainier, “I’ll take the stairs.”
He nods, his keen eyes scraping over my face as though trying to spot a resemblance to my parents. I don’t like his stare. I don’t like him. I jet down the grand staircase, ring-free hand on the wrought-iron railing wrapped in prickly silver garlands. In the ballroom, the party’s still in full swing, witches and warlocks and odd magical creatures swaying to the music, their chatter and laughter rising like helium.
I’ve officially lost my buzz, and with it, any will to be here.
Even though I now have to stay for two whole weeks.
Unless I can pawn the stone in Marseille.
Rainier didn’t say anything about sticking around. All he said was that I had to sit on the Council when the time comes.
Silver lining.
I’m out of here until then.
6
Cadence
I didn’t drink last night, not much anyway, and yet I feel like crap this morning. Doesn’t help that the fog lifting off the lake is so thick it reaches Fifth Kelc’h and billows over the temple library’s stained-glass cupola. Why am I hanging out in the stacks, sorting through books on January first at eleven o’clock in the morning with folk rock music blasting from my AirPods? Because Alma was sleeping, and I was bored.