the same, then I hope he hasn’t walked through the cemetery and spotted the inscription.
I push the macabre contemplation away and refocus on Camille. “I was reading Istor Breou again this morning, and it made me wish magic were real. Is it, Camille? Are there any truths in that book?”
Because if there is . . . oh, the spells I’d cast. I’d bring Adrien’s mother and mine back, give a pixie-haired girlfriend some warts, and make an infuriating thief vanish.
And this is why Humans were stripped of magic: we aren’t worthy.
“I miss you, Camille.” I run my fingertips over the quatrefoil and Loving Mother and Honorable Citizen of Brume engravings, tucking in the sugar crystals. “Why didn’t you tell us you were sad? Why did you resort to arsenic? Arsenic!”
Anger and grief cloud my vision. I scrape at my eyes and then, ruing the poison peddler, stalk back outside. A sprinkling of sun darts through the cloud cover and gilds the snow and old headstones, yet brings me no pleasure.
I pass by Viviene without so much as a glance in her direction, then round our mausoleum. The narrow door is agape. Is Papa here? Who else has the key to our crypt? The undertaker? Unlike the Merciers, ours is always kept locked. Papa says grief should be private.
“Hello?” I call out.
Except for the wind jostling the bare branches of the linden trees, there is no sound.
Could the earthquake have cracked the lock and blown open the door? I inch closer and squint into the darkness, then press my fingertips into the cold iron door. The hinges screech.
My heart freefalls into my boots, then vaults into my throat as the room comes into focus, and I see Maman . . . or what’s left of her. Stumbling backward, I fling my hand up to my mouth and bite down on my knuckles.
I try to rip the image of ochre silk and gray flesh from my eyes, but it’s seared into my retinas. Bile rises so fast that I just have time to clutch my shaky knees and lean over before vomit blazes up my throat.
Who’d do this? Who’d desecrate someone’s grave? And why?
A long while later, I pick up a handful of clean snow and scrub my mouth, then kick some over the mess I’ve made. And then I stare back toward the open doorway, wishing I were brave enough to tuck Maman back in her stone bed, but I’m not brave and probably not strong enough to lift the lid.
As I shut the door, my fingers shaking as hard as my heart, I catch a glint of something on the dusty floor. Is that—is that a bottle of wine? Did someone use our crypt to hang out and get drunk?
Anger blasts back inside of me, and I wheel around. And then I’m running home because I need to tell Papa.
He’ll fix this.
My father can fix anything.
9
Slate
Not even twenty-four hours have passed since I trampled the treads left behind by heeled boots and shiny loafers in the crusty snow, yet it feels like centuries. Like I’ve aged enough to have traveled through another ice-age and landed in the new dark ages.
Manoir de Morel looks just as dramatic and pretentious in daylight. Last night, thousands of sparkling holiday lights outlined the building. Today, filtered rays from the setting sun polish the old gray stones, making them glow a reddish-umber. The place looks like it’s lit by hellfire, and here I am, the asinine soul walking directly into it.
I reach the massive blue door adorned by a pattern of metal grommets forming a quatrefoil—that symbol is starting to feel as ominous as blood smeared on doors to prevent the wrath of God. Ever since I set foot in this damn town, nothing has gone according to plan. From my teeny room to my conversation with Rainier de Morel to the fucking ring. Hell, even my flirtation with Cadence hasn’t been ideal. If we were in Marseille, we’d already have shared a five-course dinner, a bottle of fancy champagne, and most probably, body fluids. Instead I got freakish stories of warlocks and honed death stares.
The bell dings, echoing inside the manor.
A heavy-set middle-aged woman in navy scrubs opens the door. Her lipstick is knock-out red, and her dark hair is cut into one of those severe bobs that only movie stars and dominatrix wear. I’m pretty sure she’s not a movie star.
“Can I help you?” The disdain in her voice is evident.
Sure, my hair’s