waiting for me to shake it.
I cross my arms and ignore the gesture. “Actually, it’s Slate Ardoin.”
“Ah. Slate.” His eyes spark in amusement. “Well, regardless of what you call yourself, you’re a Roland.”
“How the fuck,” I growl, “do you know who I am when I never knew?” My emphasis on the word fuck gets partygoers glancing our way in spite of my low tone.
One of his eyes twitches. “Let’s talk somewhere private, shall we?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, my voice mocking, “let’s.”
He spins his chair around and leads me through the monstrous living room—or maybe it’s an actual ballroom . . . wouldn’t put it past this man to have a ballroom in his house. With me hot on his wheels, he maneuvers his chair into the foyer, past the split staircase, past the coat-check ladies, and into a glass elevator adorned with the same intertwined M and small d as his wax seal. Inside, he reaches over to press 1, and then we’re gliding upward at the speed of a dozing slug.
Just like downstairs, the first floor looks like a florist shop puked up Christmas decorations. Bastian would love it. Although, dieu sait pourquoi, the kid actually has a preference for light-up plastic reindeer and waving Santas.
I follow Rainier into what must be his study. I can’t get over how incongruous this house is. From the outside, the manor resembles a medieval castle; from the inside, it looks like some modern catalogue spread. The brushed cement walls are lined with sleek wooden shelves holding up row upon row of books illuminated by recessed lighting. No rug covers the veined marble floor that’s polished to a reflective shine. Rainier’s desk is specially made to be at his height. It’s immaculate, the only items on the pristine kidney-shaped glass are a framed photo I can’t see the front of, a pricey Baccarat paperweight, and crystal ashtray in the shape of a four-leaf clover. What is it with this town and shamrocks?
Rainier parks behind the desk, then tents his fingers together. He’s got two distinguished streaks of gray at his temples that shine silver in the dimmed glow of the spotlights entrenched in the smooth, white ceiling. “I’m so pleased you’ve come to study with us.”
“Cut the bullshit, De Morel. How the hell do you know who I am, and how did you find me?”
He taps his index fingers to his lips. “I’m not sure how much research you’ve done on your family tree since my letter, but since you’re here, let me enlighten you. The Roland name goes all the way back to the early centuries when the wilds of Brume went by the name Brocéliande. You might have heard about the forest in Arthurian tales. Merlin and Viviene—”
“I don’t give two shits about Merlin.”
“Of course you don’t.” He says it like it’s a major disappointment and exhales before continuing. “Anyway, your parents were a part of the ancient Roland bloodline. They were respected in this town. I knew them well. But when they died, you . . . disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes. We couldn’t find you.”
“Toddlers are pocket-sized, but come on . . .” I wait half a beat for him to clarify. When he doesn’t, I glare harder. “Are you saying I wandered away and into the system? That I toddled my way to social services?”
“No, not at all.” He shakes his head. “Your parents lost their lives in a fire. You were there as well. To be completely honest, I thought you’d perished along with them.”
I rub the patch of puckered skin that resembles dripping wax along the inside of my left arm. I can’t remember ever not having it. Did I get it here? In Brume? My childhood was so violent that it never occurred to me that I got it by accident. I always thought it was one of my foster parents who’d tried to use me as kindling.
“Doesn’t Brume have this thing called forensics? Didn’t they look for my bones? Or teeth? Or whatever the hell it is those people look for . . .”
“I’ll admit, the fire and aftermath were quite a mess.” He looks to the side. A tell that he’s lying, but about what? The fire?
“Okay, then how did I get to Paris?” I spent my first ten years in the capital before being kicked farther south.
“This village has a long history, Monsieur Roland—”
“Ardoin.”
He lets out a long breath. “Monsieur Ardoin, this village has a troubled past. Feuds between families. Secrets of betrayal and death. Someone