She only has one hand resting over her heart. Her left arm is tucked underneath the rotting silk of her skirt. With one gloved finger, I push the material aside.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
Jackpot.
A gold ring with an enormous scarlet gem adorns the retracting flesh of her bony finger. The oval stone looks like something out of a museum. Something housed behind bulletproof glass and protected by a hi-tech security system.
I whoop in celebration, hiccupping from my wine-fest, then take my phone from where it’s propped on a ledge and beam the flashlight directly onto the ring. The red stone’s so translucent it seems to pulse and swirl. I like beautiful things. But this . . . this goes beyond beautiful. It’s exquisite.
I pick it up. It’s larger than expected, heavier. Amandine de Morel must’ve had some seriously big hands. There are words engraved inside the band, written in a language I’m unfamiliar with. Still, I sound them out for the fun of it: “Erenez e v’am.”
In my head, I’m already compiling a list of potential buyers for this beauty.
Tugging off my leather glove with my teeth, I slide the ring onto my middle finger. The gem, which covers my finger to the knuckle, is oddly warm. I raise my hand and flip off the entire crypt. But what I’m really doing is giving the finger to Rainier de Morel himself.
“Screw you, De Morel, you enfoiré!” My voice reverberates off the dank walls.
In my drunkenness, it feels like the whole damn crypt shakes and tilts. I grab on to the stone casing and wait for the tremors to pass.
I pull at the ring to stash it inside my pockets with the rest of my loot, but the damn thing won’t budge. Which is really messed up, because it was loose going on.
I yank at it. With each tug, the skin of my middle finger twists and stretches as if the band’s been superglued to my flesh.
“Bordel de merde!” I curse.
For the next fifteen minutes I try everything I can think of to remove the damn ring short of sawing off my finger. I try slathering it with the lip balm I keep in my coat pocket. I try wedging it against the inner corner of the sarcophagus and wrenching it off. I try to pry it off with my teeth. I poke it with my dorm key. Nothing. As a last attempt, the heretic that I am tries praying.
Suffice it to say, it doesn’t do shit.
Panic grips my lungs like iron fists as I stumble out of the crypt. The snow has stopped falling, but the temperature has dropped. It takes me a minute, but I’m finally able to stretch my leather glove over the ring. Just barely.
The lump makes me rage harder against that salaud Rainier de Morel. His name runs on a loop inside my head.
I keep my eyes down, putting one foot in front of the other, not paying attention to anything but my own drunken fury. That’s when I collide with something soft and skid on the freezing ground. I fall, and the momentum upends the contents of my pockets.
“Putain de merde! Watch where you’re going!” I spit out, grabbing at my fallen loot.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” demands a feminine voice. Deep but melodious enough not to be confused with a man’s.
Thin, pale fingers reach down and swipe the brooch. I snatch it back. I know I’m acting like an overgrown toddler, but I really don’t give a flying fuck. Not tonight.
“I wasn’t going to steal it; I was just trying to help.” She shuffles backward on black combat boots peeking out from underneath a long black skirt.
I lift my eyes and crane my neck to keep going. The scratchy black skirt hides her legs, and a puffy silver coat, although cinched at the waist, hides her chest. But I catch sight of her face—very straight nose, slightly pointy chin, full red lips, and eyes that seem translucent in spite of the shadows cast by the brim of a ridiculous witch’s hat.
The white puff of my breath blurs her face. I hold back my next exhale, long enough for her delicate features to sharpen.
Fuck, she’s . . . angelic.
Any other time, any other place, I’d turn on the charm, but tonight, I’m on a mission. And that mission is revenge. I need to focus.
“Help? Did I ask you for help? I don’t think so.” I gather all my baubles, shoot to my feet, then brush myself off and stalk away.
She calls after me, an insult, I think, but the wind snatches her words before they reach me.
Rainier de Morel, Rainier de Morel, Rainier de Morel.
I input the address from his letter into my phone and follow the glowing map to an adjacent colossal stone manor. And I don’t mean outsized compared to the dollhouses dotting the cobbled hill; I mean properly colossal with sprawling grounds and a tall wrought-iron gate.
A pretentious gold sign is nailed to the open gates: Manoir de Morel.
I pull my gloves tighter over my hands and start up the path that wends toward the sound of laughter and music.
4
Cadence
A thief.
That’s what the strange guy I just ran into must be. What man carries around a brooch? Who even wears brooches nowadays? Unless he bought it as a present for his grandmother, but shouldn’t it have been wrapped up if that were the case? Also, it wasn’t the only thing that spilled out from his pockets. Maybe I should report him. But it’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m feeling generous.
I’m also feeling really cold.
The dusting of snow has frozen over Brume. The slate roofs, bare oak branches, and holiday decorations look covered in vanilla icing and faceted crystals.
As I walk up the stairs toward Second Kelc’h, I clamp my tingling fingers into fists inside my puffer jacket’s pockets. Alma said she was having “just one drink” at the Tavern, but that must’ve turned into two because she isn’t at our meeting spot.
I shouldn’t be surprised she hasn’t arrived yet. She’s always late. I scan the crowd in the square, searching for her coppery mane. When I talked to her on the phone earlier, her voice was so squealy I told her I’d meet her in town instead of letting her make her own way down the treacherously steep stone stairs alone. I didn’t want her spraining an ankle, what with her penchant for sky-high heels—a penchant shaped by her acute dissatisfaction with her five-foot-three frame.
I look at my watch for the fourth time in the space of two minutes. The hands seem particularly sluggish. Maybe they, too, are partially frozen.
I puff warm air into my hands, wishing I’d worn real gloves instead of the lacy fingerless ones I found in the attic. At least I’d donned a long wool dress buttoned up to my neck. Alma tried to dissuade me from wearing it for the party when we uncovered it last week in the dusty trunks filled with Maman’s clothes, but the garment screamed witchy. Besides, even though it’s silly, knowing that Maman wore it makes it sort of special.
The pointy black hat trimmed in burgundy faux-mink is the only thing new about my outfit. I saw it in Au Bon Sort’s shop window the other day and couldn’t resist buying it for tonight. Gaëlle said she’d only gotten the one in, so I wouldn’t have a twin at the party.
Gaëlle’s family, like mine, is one of the founding families of Brume. She’s twice my age, but something like a sister. Ever since her husband ran out on her a month before she gave birth to twins, I’ve helped out by babysitting or manning the shop whenever her stepson can’t.