But the root of their hatred runs deeper than taunts about family names. My father’s loathed the Mayor of Brume since he tried to seduce Maman, despite both of them being married.
“Bonsoir, Cadence.” Geoffrey’s eyes, which are the same mosaic of brown and green as his son’s, stroke up my body, taking in the skinny black pants I’ve paired with a sleeveless, chunky turtleneck. I don’t think he’s looking at my outfit as much as the curves around my hips and chest.
“I made some vin chaud,” Adrien announces. “Can I get you all a glass?”
“Yum.” Alma settles on the leather couch. “Bring it on, Professor M.”
“Your parents couldn’t make it back for the holidays?” Geoffrey asks Alma.
“Oh, you know my parents, Monsieur Keene. They’re not big on holidays.” She scoops up a handful of cashews from the low table and chomps on them while I go help Adrien ladle the mulled wine into mugs.
Both Alma’s parents were professors here at the university. They had Alma late in life, and then, two years ago, they left her under the care of my father and moved to an island off India’s coast where they teach English to underprivileged children.
I lean my hip into Adrien’s kitchen counter. “Thanks for having us tonight.”
He looks away from his saucepan of wine and smiles, which makes his already square jaw look more chiseled. “You think that on my first Christmas back, I wouldn’t try to reinstate the tradition?”
My gaze strays to the oil portrait of the woman who’d made the holiday so special, who’d made every day special. How did no one spot her depression beneath her smiles? Sure, Adrien had been away at Cambridge, but Geoffrey was here. Papa was here. I was here. How did we all miss the signs? The memory of Papa explaining she wasn’t coming back still rattles me, even after four years.
“Thanks for letting me bring Alma,” I say, returning my attention to the boy Camille left behind.
The boy who’s like her in so many ways—wonderful, smart, kind.
He hands me a mug. “Alma’s welcome anytime.” He grabs two more and tips his head to the living room.
Unlike his father, his eyes don’t stray down my body. They stay perched on my face. I really wish he’d look lower, notice my new curves, notice I’m no longer the little pigtailed girl he considered like a sister.
He has a girlfriend, I remind myself as I walk ahead of him. And he’s six years older. Still, disappointment bloats inside me.
As I plop down next to Alma, I take a big, frustrated swill of the spicy wine. It’s delicious, so I take another, then lick my lips to catch any fugitive droplets. I’m about to compliment Adrien on having brewed the best beverage I’ve ever tasted when I catch him staring at my mouth.
His eyes flick up to mine, then away, and he leans back in the sofa, one hand smoothing his hair. He asks Papa something I don’t hear because I’m too busy wondering if I imagined him watching my mouth.
And did it mean anything?
3
Slate
To celebrate the last day of the year, I book myself a seat on the TGV, France’s bullet-train.
Direction: bumblefuck Brume.
As we roll past the lush French countryside, I thumb through webpages about the quaint old town, a tourist’s wet dream—a perfectly preserved medieval village built on a hill, around an ancient temple, now the college library, housing the oldest astronomical clock known to mankind. Cobbled streets lined with half-timbered houses and gray limestone ripple in concentric circles around the temple all the way down to the Lac de Nimueh on one side and the Forêt de Brocéliande on the other.
The cemetery at the bottom of the hill is famous. That fairy or witch or whatever from the Arthurian legends is said to be buried in De Morel’s family crypt. As for the sorcerer Merlin, he’s supposedly trapped for eternity in the forest, Viviene having tricked him into entering some cave which she then blocked with a heavy Carnac stone. Crafty woman.
I have to admit it’s smart to add fictional characters to your family tree. Maybe I’ll buy a patch of land, stick a few menhirs on it, and declare it the resting place of my long-lost great-great-great-great-great uncles, Obélix and Astérix. Bet I could make a pretty penny off unsuspecting tourists.
I tap my finger on my phone’s screen, setting this business venture aside to focus on my destination and the rare and valuable items I’m bound to find there. I mean, there’s the clock, but considering it’s the size of a spaceship, I can’t exactly stuff it inside my bespoke jacket pocket.
An alert for a new email from Bastian pops up. I click on it, then scan his in-depth research into local lore and odd tales. Some shit about Brume being the birthplace of magic. More shit about how they celebrate this magical history in costume throughout the year. And then . . . the blowfly on top of the pile of steaming manure . . . the stories of cursed artifacts. I find myself chuckling as I read. I mean, come on. How gullible are people?
My laughter attracts the eye of a woman seated across the aisle. She bites her bottom lip, denting the soft flesh. She’s got nice ice on her ears, each diamond larger than my pinky nails, but I’m not in the mood to relieve her of her itch or her earrings.
I turn toward the window for the remainder of the trip, concentrating on my festering hatred toward this Professor Rainier de Morel. How he ignored me until it suited his purpose. It’s not something I can easily forgive. It’s not something I want to forgive.
And again, how the fuck did he know where I lived? Possibly, that annoys me more than anything because it means he’s been tracking me, and I like to be tracked as much as I enjoy getting stabbed in the hand with a steak knife.
Distractedly, I finger the wound, a pale strip that resembles a zipper because of my less than adroit needlework. Not that my tools—gin, nylon fishing line, and a rusted needle—had been ideal for stitching skin. I roll my fingers, which pushes out the white scar. Bastian says I’m lucky my tendon wasn’t damaged, lucky I still have use of my thumb.
I don’t believe in luck.
I still have a tendon, because I fought to save it.
Fought to save myself from the shitty hand I was dealt.
The moment I arrive in Brume, there’s no doubt the place lives up to its name. A steely gray mist blankets the entire hill, and icy fingers of cold slip under the collar of my wool coat. As I walk from the train station to the fortified entrance of town, I can’t help but snort at its quaintness. Bastian’s research said this place was sometimes called Merlin’s Hat, but in my opinion, the streetlights winding upward look more like candles on a stacked birthday cake than stars on a wizard’s hat.
Noise leads me up a set of uneven stone stairs, to a road crawling with people dressed in witch hats and black sorcerer robes. Some tote stuffed black cats, others sport fake beards or press-on warts. Garlands of evergreen boughs and mistletoe adorn façades, and candles sit in frosty windows. A vendor ladles spiced wine from a large cauldron in the middle of what I assume is the town square considering it’s square and animated.
There’s laughter and dancing, but nothing like the debauchery I’m used to. Nothing like Marseille, with clubs pounding bass out into the street, restaurants heaving with happy drunks, motorbikes screeching down passageways. Here, there are no cars, no motorcycles, no fireworks. No neon lights or club music. Only geeks and old geezers waving around LED-activated wands.