“Don’t be sorry. You wear it so well, ma chérie.”
I didn’t even consider what it would do to him to see me wearing it.
“Rainier, I need two minutes of your time.” Sylvie, Brume’s one and only physician, lays her silk-gloved hand on the back of Papa’s wheelchair. She’s dressed in a purple tutu with a matching satin bodice so unlike her usual garb of tweed that I might not have recognized her had it not been for her waist-long gray hair. “I’ll have him back to you in no time, Cadence.”
Alma traipses back toward me, brandishing a paper napkin with a couple of fried shrimp. “Grabbed some for you.”
I pop a shrimp into my mouth as we weave around the boisterous crowd. It seems like all of Brume has congregated inside my home. The crazy thing is that all of Brume could probably fit inside our giant manor.
“So, who’s your victim tonight, Alma?”
“Victim.” She snorts. “You mean, the lucky man upon whom I’ll bestow a kiss? Haven’t decided yet. What about you?”
It’s tradition in Brume to lock lips with someone for good luck at the stroke of midnight. That’s how I got my first kiss. I was fourteen, and Romain, Gaëlle’s then twelve-year-old stepson, rose onto his tiptoes to smack his mouth against mine.
Raucous laughter rises from one corner of the room. Speak of the devil . . . Romain, now fifteen, is chatting with some other kids his age, his wheat-blond hair shimmering as brightly as the crystallized clockface dangling over his head.
Alma must’ve followed my line of sight, because she says, “He’s sort of cute now that he’s nearly grown-up.”
“You are such a cougar.”
“Says the girl who uses his lips as a good luck charm every year.”
I redden. “Only because he always volunteers, and I don’t have the heart to turn him down.”
As though he hears us discussing him, Romain’s brown gaze surfs through the sea of pointy witch hats toward us. The second his eyes alight upon us, he flashes a dimply grin and saunters over. He’s so tall now that I’d need to get on my tiptoes to reach his mouth, but he’s still a kid with his rounded jaw and splash of acne. A good kid. Although I had bigger dreams for my first kiss, all in all, it wasn’t so bad.
Alma tracks her gaze up his lanky body. “Dude, did you grow another foot since Thanksgiving?”
His grin strengthens. “Nice mini-hat, Alma.”
“And this is why I like this guy.” She latches on to his arm. She’s touchy-feely and gets in people’s spaces. It used to drive me insane until I understood that her need to touch others is visceral. “Any other guy would’ve commented on my tits or ass, but nope. Not this one.”
Romain’s dimples deepen so fast I expect them to leave a permanent imprint.
Alma cranes her neck. “What are you doing at the stroke of midnight, Romain?”
He glances at me, fuzzy jaw pinkening against the lacy white collar of the chemise he’s paired with a black cape. He looks more vampire than warlock. Then again, warlocks don’t exist, and if they did, they might be into capes and froufrou shirts.
“Or rather, whom are you doing?” Alma adds seductively.
I shake my head and laugh. To think Papa worries for her safety. We should be worrying for the poor boys of Brume.
“I, uh . . .” He rubs the back of his presently brick-colored neck. “Cadence?”
Alma winks at me. “She has a groomstick all lined up.”
Romain raises a blond eyebrow. “Groomstick?”
“Don’t ask.” I shake my head some more. “Seriously, though, you don’t need to take pity on me every year.”
“It’s tradition, not pity.”
I sigh. He really is sweet. If only Adrien could be as sweet. Of its own accord, my gaze stretches back to him. He’s no longer chatting with the science professor; he’s now making the rounds, grin in place. Everyone loves the young, brilliant, handsome professor of history, especially since he’s lost his mother. Every girl and her mother want to coddle him.
He catches me staring and smiles. My heart catapults against my ribcage. Which is all kinds of silly since he smiles at me often. He smiles at everyone often. Affability is as much part of his nature as flirtatiousness is part of Alma’s.
“If it doesn’t work out, come find me, okay?” Romain says, and I blush when I realize he’s trailed my eyes’ trajectory.
I flash him a grateful look, but then my gratitude turns to astonishment when I spot a head full of wild black curls over Alma’s shoulder. The boy I bumped into near the cemetery is here, in my house, studying the oil painting of Viviene trapping Merlin in a cave.
When he strokes a gloved finger along the ornate, gilt frame, I stick my half-drunk glass of champagne in Alma’s hands, tell her and Romain I’ll be right back, then weave through the crowd.
“I don’t think your pockets are large enough.”
The boy pivots to face me, his brow going from furrowed to smooth. “Whatever are you insinuating, Bellatrix Lestrange?”
Bellatrix Lestrange? His Harry Potter allusion temporarily makes me forget what I rushed over to say. Right . . . the painting.
“I’m insinuating that you’re clearly not here for the party.” I nod toward his attire—slim gray jeans, black turtleneck, leather gloves.
“Why? Because I left my magic wand at home?”
At home, or at the bar? He smells like a distillery. “What’s with the gloves?”
He stares down at his hands as though he’s forgotten all about them. Something protrudes from his middle-finger, straining the leather. I’m suspecting it’s a big ring. Unless it’s a giant wart. Or boil. Or an identical twin he devoured in utero.
“My fingers are very sensitive to the cold.”
I cross my arms. “Uh-huh.”
“Besides, you’re also wearing gloves. So are half the people in this room.” He looks over my shoulder at the pointy assortment of hats, brooms, and wands. “What’s with the crazy-fest anyway?”
“It’s a Brumian tradition.”
“People take their lore very seriously around here.”
“Very.” I drag out the word menacingly. Or at least, I’m going for menacing. Maybe I just sound haughty. “So, what are you really doing here?”
He stares down at me, tipping his head a little to see under the brim of my hat. I hadn’t noticed how tall he was back in the cemetery. Then again, he was on his hands and knees for most of the two minutes we spent in each other’s company.
“I’m a new student.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” His breath flutters the hat’s burgundy fur and some of the loose brown tendrils of hair framing my face. “Not very trusting, huh?”
“Should I trust you?”
“Probably not. I’m a man of extremely loose morals.”
Even though I don’t mean to smile, a corner of my lip twitches. I iron out my expression immediately. “If anything disappears, I’ll know it’s you.”
He snorts, and his eyes squeeze and curve like tiny black arches. I’ve heard of people smiling with their eyes, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen it.