And annoyed.
Did I really think Charlotte’s nonattendance at Christmas dinner meant she and Adrien had broken up? Well, they didn’t. They even left together last night. I shove the image away in time with the book I’m shelving—Anna Karenina. I probably damage the cover, but it’s not a first edition. Just another depressing Tolstoy love story.
I hate love stories, because they make me think there’s someone out there for me, someone I’m destined to meet and live with happily-ever-after. I mean, I share a house with a living, breathing example of someone who was robbed of his happily-ever-after.
Thinking about my father’s loss replaces my sullenness with gloom. I grapple to feel crabby again, because I don’t want the sorrow. Not on top of feeling tired.
Why did Alma have to snore so loudly? And why did she have to sit up in bed at four o’clock in the morning, swipe the tissue box from the nightstand, and toss Kleenexes around, chanting Happy New Year? She freaked me out so much that it took me a solid hour to fall back asleep while she just dropped against the mattress and rolled over like she hadn’t just sleep-shrieked. Not that my slumber was relaxing after that. I dreamed of that boy with the smiley eyes and unkempt black hair. I dreamed he was trying to steal my witch hat, and I was really not okay with it.
So. Weird.
I shiver as a gust of cold air permeates the thick fibers of the cream wool turtleneck I’ve paired with skinny jeans. Maybe my sweater screams librarian, but my stonewashed jeans don’t. Take that, Alma. When you finally pry your lazy ass out of bed, read my text, and climb up to Fifth to meet me so we can go to lunch, you’ll see I put some effort into my outfit.
Another burst of air snakes toward me. Central heating is spotty in the temple, but that has more to do with the space being so high-ceilinged and the Brumian temperatures being so frigid, than with the belt of heaters running along the circular walls.
As I slot a book in a curved shelving unit, a pat on the shoulder makes my heart spin in time with my body. Adrien’s mouth moves, but my music is so loud I don’t hear a thing.
I pop out my earbuds, then stash them inside my back pocket. “Hey. Sorry. What were you saying?” My mind, which has felt sluggish since my lids cracked open at seven-thirty, is whirring now.
“Do you hear that?” His hazel eyes are luminous in the pale light trickling from the multi-colored cupola.
If by that, he means my hammering heart, then yes, I hear it. It’s the only sound presently registering against my eardrums, but suddenly I hear a second one, a slow, rhythmic ticking, and the blood, which had risen to my cheeks at the sight of my unrequited crush, drains right out.
“Is that the—the . . .?” I sidestep him and rush toward the curved plexiglass guardrail that keeps students from stepping on the astronomical clock.
The giant, golden quatrefoil, which spans the entire clockface, shimmers as brightly as the hands adorning the two dials. Neither move, but then the dihuner doesn’t tell time; it tells astronomical information. Until now, though, it told nothing. It just sat there, looking pretty with its blue ombré lunar dial and clear-topaz encrusted celestial one. Now, it emits a steady tick . . . tick . . . tick.
“Mon dieu, it works,” I whisper in awe. “Adrien, it works!”
He’s already standing beside me, gaze on the recessed enameled face, fingers loosely gripping the thick edge of the guardrail.
The hand tipped with a crescent moon has gone from its regular place on the darkest part of the lunar dial to the whitest one.
“It’s reading the phases of the moon!” I laugh, but then I sober up, because, “How?”
There’s a strain around his mouth. Around his eyes, too. “Maybe the earthquake last night jumpstarted it.”
“Earthquake?”
“You didn’t feel the ground shake?”
“I thought it was the orchestra.” I breathe. Just breathe. “After all these years . . . I need to call Papa. He’ll want to see it.” I pat my pockets, but my phone’s on the book trolley. Never mind, I’ll call him later. Especially since he might still be sleeping. As my eyes wander over the shorter, star-tipped hand, I ask, “You had a good time last night?”
Adrien angles his body toward mine. “I did. You and your father really outdid yourselves.”
“I take zero credit. It was all Papa.”
He smiles, and the intensity of it melts my organs. And I mean, all of them. I turn into a gooey mess held together by cream wool and tight denim.
I nervously twirl the end of my ponytail around one finger. “So. What brings you to my hood on January 1st?”
More perfectly aligned white teeth appear between his curved lips. “Believe it or not, I came to take pictures of the clock. My alma matter wants me to give a speech to the freshmen about my thesis on Brumian history, and I thought illustrating it with some pictures would liven it up. Little do they know they’re about to get never-before-seen audio footage.” His hazel eyes are still on me, but they seem glazed over somehow. “I should contact Thierry. Let him know. Although I think he might still be visiting family in Dijon.”
Thierry’s the Master Horloger whose specialty is medieval, mechanical objects. He’s the only one the university trusts to put a finger on the gears of this relic.
As Adrien taps out a message on his phone, hinges groan and then the massive wooden door bangs shut, injecting icy wind into the library.
I swivel my neck, certain it must be Alma this time, but the person coming down the aisle is tall and wears black leather gloves currently cupped around his mouth.
The boy I dreamed about is here.
The cocky thief who told me to make my own luck.
His eyes seem to grow round, which is a feat for eyes shaped like his. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your witch hat,” he says once he’s reached us. His tone is so falsely cheery my teeth grind a little harder. “Hi.” He holds out his gloved hand to Adrien. “Slate Ardoin. Brume’s newest student recruit.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Slate. I’m Adrien Mercier. I teach history.”
Slate’s bowed black eyes take in Adrien as though he were a dial lock on a safe. “I don’t hate history.”
“Then I hope you’ll join my class.”
Slate disengages his hand from Adrien’s. “Are you in Professor Mercier’s class, Bellatrix?”
Bellatrix? Does he think my name is Bellatrix?
“Her name is Cadence.” Adrien’s tone is sharp enough to crack ice. “And yes she’s in my class. Speaking of . . . I need to be in Cambridge tomorrow, so I was wondering if you could fill in for me.”
“Me?”
He nods. “You could teach a class about Brumian lore. After all, no one knows our town’s mystical history better than you.”
“I suppose I could do that.” His compliment makes my ego shine as brightly as the brooch that fell out of Slate’s pocket last night.
Slate’s eyebrows writhe minutely. “I didn’t know you were a history buff, Cadence.”
I cross my arms. “Why would you know anything about me, Slate?”
Adrien clears his throat. “I’m going to head downstairs to check on the clock’s gears, see if I can pinpoint what’s changed.” He smiles as he backs away, but it flickers like a faulty bulb as he takes in Slate again.