Slate who’s taller and broader. Then again, thugs need to keep in shape to run from the law.
I’m not being fair. Maybe Slate had the brooch in his pocket because it’s some good-luck charm or something. But what about all the other glittery baubles that tumbled out? No, he’s most definitely a crook.
Slate watches Adrien wrench open the trapdoor before locking his gaze on the clock again, probably scheming how to steal it. Good thing it’s huge and embedded into the ground. Still, I wouldn’t put it past him to try and wrench one of the hands off or pry out a coin-sized topaz.
“Don’t even think about it,” I hiss.
His gaze settles unhurriedly back on mine. “For someone so lovely, your stare is fearsome. Ever thought of joining the police force?”
I roll my fearsome eyes. “What is it you want?”
Almost a full minute goes by before he says, “I’ve been seeing this four-leaf clover motif all over Brume, and I was wondering if a librarian could help me find some Brumian history books on the subject.”
I frown, not because I’m surprised—the Quatrefoil is a big tourist attraction—but because he didn’t strike me as someone who’d venture into a library to look up my town’s history.
His fingers curl at his sides. “Can you direct me toward a librarian?”
“You’re looking at an honorary one.”
“You?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.”
“What is huh supposed to mean?”
“You don’t strike me as a librarian.”
“You don’t strike me as a student.”
His lips quirk. “What do I strike you as?”
“A criminal.”
“And criminals aren’t allowed to be educated?”
Did he just admit to being a criminal? “You’re not contesting my assessment?”
He shrugs.
I take a small step back.
“Relax. It’s not like I’m an axe murderer. Criminals come in all forms.” He simpers at my expression. “So? The shamrock aisle?”
Once I get over the shock of his confession, I cross my arms. “This library is for students and faculty only. I’ll need proof that you’re attending the university before I can direct you toward any book.”
His knuckles tighten, his large ring or wart . . . or maybe it’s some sort of egg-shaped swelling from punching someone . . . straining the leather.
“Such a stickler for the rules, Cadence.” He sighs, then digs something out of the inside breast pocket of his tailored coat. “Will this do?” He unfolds a piece of paper and dangles it in front of me.
I make out the logo of the school—a gothic U speared through a B, then quickly scan the sheet. It’s a letter of acceptance signed by the dean, aka Papa. Sure enough, it’s addressed to Slate Ardoin.
He folds it back up and slides it into his pocket. “Is my proof satisfactory?”
I nod, making a mental note to ask Papa about this boy later, about why he arrived mid school year. “By shamrock, you mean the Quatrefoil?”
“Yeah. That.”
“We don’t have an aisle for it, but we do have some books. However, they’re kept in the archives, which is a cold room—”
“Good thing I’m wearing a coat and gloves.”
“—with extremely restricted access.”
“I’m imagining you have access to it.”
“I do.”
“I have a pair of sapphire earrings that would complement your eyes.”
“Are you trying to bribe me with stolen goods?”
“Who said anything about them being stolen?”
“Do you usually carry around women’s jewelry in your coat?”
He drags his hand through his tousled black curls. “What you saw last night . . . I was getting pieces repaired. That’s what I do. I’m a middleman. I pick up jewelry from customers, bring them to professionals, then drop the fixed pieces back with their rightful owners.”
I squeeze one of my eyes shut a little.
The nerve at his temple pulses. He’s definitely lying.
He clears his throat. “You really should be a cop. Not a librarian. Then again, if you were a cop, I suspect the crime rate would escalate in these parts.”
My arms loosen, and my hands land on my hipbones. “That’s not nice.”
“Not nice?”
I puff my chest a little. “I’d make a terrific cop.”
“I’m sure you would.” He smiles with his eyes and with his mouth. “I was implying crime would escalate, because men would be begging for you to cuff them.”
Oh. Heat fills my face so suddenly that I want to peel off my wool turtleneck. But then I remember that he’s slick, and so his compliment—if that’s what that was—is simply a veiled attempt at getting what he wants. Plus, I’m not wearing anything underneath the chunky knit.
I level a glacial stare. “Give me a real reason to let you look through the archives, and maybe I’ll consider your request.”
The charming mask slips off his face, and I see the hardened boy who told me to make my own luck.
“Fine.” He digs through his pocket again, pulls out another folded paper, then drops it in my hands.
It’s a birth certificate. Which is weird. Who the heck carries around their birth certificate?
He points to the line bearing the name. Rémy Roland.
I frown. “I thought your name was Slate?”
“It is. I only just found out about the unfortunate other one.”
I wrench my neck back. “But I thought . . . I thought the Roland bloodline died out.”
“Is everything okay?” Adrien’s making his way back toward us, his strides slow but long, as though he’s trying to reach me quickly but without spooking Slate.
“It lives on.” Slate’s harsh tone reveals a nest of anger.
“What lives on?” Adrien asks.
“Slate . . . he’s . . . Rémy.” I lower my gaze back to the birth certificate. I’m not sure whether I could tell a fake from a real, but for some reason, I don’t think Slate’s lying about his lineage or the fact that he’s just found out.
I hand the paper over to Adrien, whose forehead grooves, then smooths. “Rainier mentioned he’d found you.” Something flickers in his expression as he returns the paper to Slate, who slots it back into the breast pocket of his coat. “And so he has.”
Slate’s mouth moves and then Adrien’s, but I’ve checked out, hurt Papa confided in Adrien but not in me.
Adrien touches the back of my hand, jerking me out of my bubble. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Peachy.”
He frowns.
Before he can comment on my mood, I spin around and all but bark at Slate, “Follow me.”
The guy has the nerve to answer, “To the ends of the earth.”
As our footsteps echo on the tiles, I toss him a blistering look. “Quit the charm. It won’t work on me, Rémy.”
“Slate. And is that a challenge?”
“No.”
“I like challenges.”
“It’s not a challenge,” I mutter as I lead him toward the glass trapdoor and the subterranean floor beneath.