again—she turns on her heels and heads toward the trapdoor on the opposite side of the temple. As though the shelves of books release a collective exhale, I’m struck by wafts of dust, mildewed paper, and old incense that makes my nostrils twitch.
Bastian cinches my wrist as the others patter away, their footsteps resonating against the curved walls. “He knew. When he borrowed”—he air-quotes the word—“the money, he knew about you.”
“Were you really expecting he didn’t?”
“You should tell Cadence.”
It’s impossible that she’s heard her name considering she’s on the other side of the temple, yet she turns, one eyebrow peaked.
“Not yet. Not until I understand why he lied.”
Bastian’s fingers slide off my wrist as we go after the others. He walks with his head tipped so far back I expect to hear the cartilage of his trachea crack.
“Here I thought you’d be salivating over the books.”
“Trust me, I—” He comes to a violent halt by the recessed centerpiece: the clock. “Whoa. It’s massive. Way bigger than I thought it would be.” He doesn’t move for a long time, and then he’s lunging around the guardrail, eyes sparkling behind glasses that keep slipping down his nose.
Last time I came here, I didn’t pay close attention to it, too worried about my finger falling off. Now, I take the time to absorb each detail—the four elemental signs carved into the thick gold band, the golden quatrefoil outline that spans the entire enameled face, the larger of the two dials that runs from white to navy and the smaller one embedded with diamond-like constellations. Last but not least, the hands fastened to the smooth golden disk at the heart of the clock, one tipped with a star and the other with a crescent moon.
“The dihuner!” Bastian eyes the golden crescent tip on the longer hand. “I thought it was out of order.”
I knew there was something I forgot to tell him.
“All thanks to this baby.” I hold up my ringed finger.
He glances at it, then back at the crescent resting atop a sliver of blue veering toward navy. “That’s the moon phase dial, right?”
“Right,” Cadence says, chewing her lip.
“Five days until the new moon,” Adrien announces.
Five days . . .
Bastian shakes his head. “I was expecting religious symbolism, but there’s none.”
Adrien’s peering down at the clock as though it were a wish-granting well. My spine jams up. Yeah. I don’t want to be thinking about wells right now. Or ever, for that matter.
“Because it isn’t a religious temple. At least, not the sort of religion that’s popular in the world,” Adrien explains. “During the inquisition, the zealots labeled it the devil’s playground and forbade people from entering.”
“Brume holds the record for most witch trials and convictions in all of France. Some even called it the Salem of the East.” Cadence is studying one of the elements: a triangle with a bar running through it. Earth? Air?
Thanks to Bastian, I’m up to date on my elemental symbolism.
Alma whirls, looking around her at the temple of magic. “To think you told me it was all lore.” She shivers and rubs her arms. “Am I the only one getting chills?”
Bastian eyes the cupola. “Why didn’t they burn it in the era of witch hunts?”
“They tried, but apparently the fire wouldn’t take.” Adrien’s clutching the top of the glass guardrail. “They also tried to rip apart the clock, but they couldn’t even dent the enamel, so they boarded up the entire temple.”
Cadence tips her head toward the trapdoor. “Guys, the translation. We can admire the clock and discuss history later.”
As she heaves the basement door open, I tell Bastian, “You’re going to weep in awe when you see what’s below.”
That makes him move.
Sure enough, when I get down there, Bastian’s mouth is wide, wide open. Forget flies, he could trap bats. The ancient mechanical lacework of cogs is impressive. Its sheer size alone would make anyone gawp.
“Come on.” Alma holds open the door of the chilled tank that contains the precious documents of Brume.
Cadence is already pulling on her special gloves to take out the huge tome filled with the Quatrefoil history, which she sets on one of the tables. As the door suctions shut behind us, she removes the gloves, laying them on the leather cover, and heads toward another shelving unit.
When I see her push up on tiptoe, trying to inch a big white box her way, I stride over and pluck it off the shelf. “You know, asking for assistance isn’t a sign of