I cannot tell you how pleased I am to welcome you...
I wasn’t tossed out of the nest.
My nest was pulverized.
My parents are dead.
And this De Morel prick knew the entire time.
I stand and tear the letter.
“What the hell?” Bastian collects the pieces like they’re bits of a five hundred-euro bill.
Every inch of me boils with rage. “What do you mean, what the hell? This professor knew about me! He knew I had a history. Money. He knew my name. And he only contacted me now? Where was he and this money when I fought off pigeons to eat stale loaves out of the bakery’s dumpster? Where was he when I got my face smashed in and went two years without front teeth! Where was he when the two of us were sleeping in that abandoned factory with the damn rats just to have a roof over our heads?”
Bastian looks at the shreds of paper in his hands. “Yeah, money would’ve been nice.”
But it’s not even the money that’s making me see red. Not really. It’s this stupid feeling of relief unwinding the familiar knot in my gut. I’ve always believed no one wanted me. That maybe I can’t be loved. But my parents didn’t abandon me; they died.
My relief turns to bitterness, though. Finding out that this man knew this and never told anyone—not even social services—infuriates me even more than his keeping my money. “Where does this enfoiré get off thinking he can waltz into my life after all this time and expect me to be grateful? And how does he even know where I live?”
There’s no way I’m going to some snooty school in some cold, assbackwards town all the way up in Brittany. I’ve been part of the shameful dregs of society for far too long to sit in a classroom and listen to philosophical vomit.
Bastian gets up and strides to the kitchen counter. He lays the key on top and pulls open a drawer, rifling through it until he finds a roll of scotch tape. “I know you don’t think you’re worth a different kind of life—”
“I happen to love my life. Look at this place.” I gesture to the expansive loft and its unobstructed sea view. “Besides, I’m damn good at what I do.”
Bastian begins piecing the letter back together. “Yeah, you are good at it. And this place is amazing. But deep down, I don’t believe it’s what you really want. Also, you live day to day, never sure how much you have in your pockets. And do I have to mention that you’re in a dangerous business? One slip-up and you’re done.”
I blow air out one corner of my mouth.
“Here’s your chance to do something else. Something other than simply survive. Who knows, you might even be happy.”
“Happy?” I scoff. “I don’t do happy. Besides, I’m not into the college scene. It’s not me.”
“Except . . .”
I stare out the bay windows at the harbor. At night, the Mediterranean looks like a black tongue licking the beach. I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I turn. “Except what?”
“Except maybe it is you. You’ve never even had the slightest inkling of your origins. What if you descend from a long line of joyful brainiacs? I mean, your ancestors founded a college. You could be royalty in Brume. Who knows? Even if you don’t attend classes, go there to scratch that itch you’ve always had.”
He’s talking about the itch of being someone.
Bastian sighs and tips his head to the side, mocking me. “Or, you could go to get revenge. Con this guy out of his cash. Sleep with his wife. Seduce his youngest daughter. Loot his home. Would that make you happy?”
I ignore Bastian’s sarcastic tone and smile. “Happy is overstating it. But revenge would be . . . pleasing.”
He rolls his eyes and goes back to his papery puzzle.
I could make a short trip, learn about my family from this Rainier guy, empty my trust fund.
Bastian hands me the patched letter and the key. “I’ll go with you.”
“No way, little bro.” If he comes with me, he’ll nag me to sign up for classes. He’ll want to go sightseeing. Turn my quick in-and-out into a holiday.
“But—”
“Look, I’ll still be here for a week. Annoy me all you want until then. On the 31st, I’ll take off for Brittany—without you—because someone needs to stay behind to care for Spike.” Spike’s my cactus, a rare Eve’s Needle that’s over three feet tall and currently sitting in the middle of my cavernous living room.
“Fine. As long as you’re going. ’Cause this trip, Slate . . . I have a feeling it’ll change your entire life.”
A shiver slinks down my spine. “Let’s fucking hope not.”
2
Cadence
“Papa, we’re going to be late. Are you almost ready?” I skim the sleek curls I created using the flat iron Alma gifted me last Christmas and which I only just removed from the packaging.
To my best friend’s despair, I’m a big fan of minimal maintenance when it comes to my straightish brown hair. I have to admit, though, as I study my reflection in the glass protecting the Gauguin sketch, I like the effect.
“Sorry, I was finalizing some details for the New Year’s party.” The tires of Papa’s wheelchair squeak against the white marble floor just as Alma arrives.
“Hello, Rainier,” my best friend singsongs, leaning over to kiss my father’s cheeks, her tamed curls falling around her face like a sheet of copper.
“Your coat, Papa.” I hold up the thick navy cashmere.
As he maneuvers his arms through the sleeves, he looks up at me, and his brow pleats. “You look different, ma Cadence. Beautiful as always but different.”
“It’s the hair.” Alma grins. “I have two words for you, Cadence. Gor. Geous.”
“That’s actually one word.”
“Not the way I say it.”
I roll my eyes. “Gloves are in the pockets, Papa.”
He digs them out while I slide mine on. Brume has two seasons: summer and winter. Sadly, they’re nowhere near equal. We get blue skies and piping hot air for two months—if we’re lucky, three. The rest of the year, we’re swallowed by a marrow-congealing fog that makes the air feel raw and icy.
The only person in the entire town who doesn’t seem affected by the frigid temperatures is Alma. I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten frostbite on her legs, considering her closet consists of miniskirts and doll-sized dresses.
Like tonight. “Nice skirt. Very Christmassy.”
She pats her scarlet mini, which she’s paired with sheer stockings a shade darker. “Right?”
As he wheels himself out of the house, Papa’s cricket ringtone chirps. He picks up, then proceeds to talk in muted, cryptic one-word answers. Sometimes, I think he may be having an affair, but is it an affair if there’s no wife to cheat on?
I’ve been motherless since I was a week shy of my first birthday, and although I regret Maman passed away, I don’t miss her. You can’t miss someone you don’t remember.
Alma hangs back with me as I lock up.
“Your ladybits are going to end up freezing and falling off one of these days,” I tell her.