with an invisible sword to bring the picture to life.
Bastian snorts. He’s taken over the bed, he, too, in U of B’s gray uniform of sweats and T-shirt. “I’ll have to take your word for it. All I saw was fire and smoke. And the roof caving in like it was made out of Legos.” He straightens his glasses and runs a hand over his hair. “I was kind of busy comforting Alma.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”
Color rises in his cheeks. “Don’t get any ideas. I just put my arm around her and discussed magic.” He adjusts his glasses again. “She’s . . . nice.”
Now it’s my turn to snort. “Alma? Nice? I would put her more in the naughty category . . . Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But you’re—” I shrug. I’m not sure how to say it without getting his hackles up. He’s a baby sparrow and she’s a hawk who could rip his head off with one snap of her beak. “You’re too nice.”
“There’s no such thing as too nice.” He fluffs a pillow. “Enough about me, though. I’d much rather discuss you and Cadence.”
My feet sink into the thick, ivory carpet. “Rainier told her I slept with women to steal their cash and jewels, so there really is no me and Cadence.”
He lifts his eyebrows.
“Yes, I’ve thieved, but I don’t screw the women I’ve screwed over.” I may be a conniving lowlife, but I’m not a complete jackass.
“Have you explained this distinction to Cadence?”
“I tried.” I swallow a rawness in my throat. “But she’s already made up her mind about me.”
“She doesn’t know you. Give her some time.”
I rub the towel over my hair. “I’m not sure I have time.”
Bastian shoots me a warning look, one that says: don’t think like that, but how can I not? The new moon is in less than a week.
“Brume’s changed you. You’ve never been the glass-half-empty sort, and you’ve never cared what people thought about you.”
He’s right. I normally don’t give a shit about anyone’s opinion of me.
“I mean, I knew you liked her, but you must really like her if you want to make such a great impression.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed, still rubbing my head with the towel.
Bastian’s gaze shifts toward the closed doors. “That Charlotte really reamed Adrien. Poor guy.”
“Poor guy? Whose side are you on?”
“Oh, there are sides now?” Bastian smirks.
“Cadence is like a sister to him. Who the hell calls out his sister’s name during sex?”
“Except she’s not his sister.”
“Except he’s a decade older.”
“Didn’t he just turn twenty-four?”
I scowl at Bastian, who studies me like I’m an amoeba under a microscope. “What?”
He tilts his head to the side. “You got it bad for her, huh?”
I lunge and grab a pillow, then toss it at him. Even though my downy missile meets its mark, it doesn’t wipe away the smile growing on Bastian’s face.
He makes kissy noises. “Slate’s in looooove.”
“How old are you? Five?” I glance at the door to the Jack and Jill bathroom. “And I’m not fucking in love. I don’t do love.”
He sits up, laughing. “Look at you. You’re all worked up. Over a girl.”
“You asked for it.” I spring to my feet and wrap an arm around his neck, grinding my knuckles against the top of his head.
Still laughing, he elbows me in the stomach, but I don’t let go. His glasses topple onto the bed as I turn his hair into a rodent nest.
“Truce!” he wheezes between two deep chuckles.
I release him. “Weakling.”
He plucks his glasses from the snow-white comforter. “I let you win.”
“Sure ya did.” Grinning, I retrieve my pillow, then yank the folded ivory and cream plaid blanket from the fat armchair in the corner. I toss both down on the carpet and lay back, eyes on the teardrop crystals of the chandelier. I’ve seen some fancy interiors, but a fucking crystal chandelier inside a bedroom . . .?
Ludicrous.
Once I get back to Marseille, I’m putting one of these up, but mine’ll be double the size.
Bastian switches off the lights. “You know, there’s room enough for two people in this king-size bed.”
“I’m good, little brother.” I shut my eyes and concentrate on the wind leaning against the windows. Sleeping on the floor grounds me; plus, you can’t fall off the floor. Besides, the carpet’s thicker than some of the pancake mattresses I’ve slept on over the years.
Dark little clouds smudge my thoughts at the memory of those homes. Horrible. All of