in the entire town who doesn’t seem affected by the frigid temperatures is Alma. I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten frostbite on her legs, considering her closet consists of miniskirts and doll-sized dresses.
Like tonight. “Nice skirt. Very Christmassy.”
She pats her scarlet mini, which she’s paired with sheer stockings a shade darker. “Right?”
As he wheels himself out of the house, Papa’s cricket ringtone chirps. He picks up, then proceeds to talk in muted, cryptic one-word answers. Sometimes, I think he may be having an affair, but is it an affair if there’s no wife to cheat on?
I’ve been motherless since I was a week shy of my first birthday, and although I regret Maman passed away, I don’t miss her. You can’t miss someone you don’t remember.
Alma hangs back with me as I lock up.
“Your ladybits are going to end up freezing and falling off one of these days,” I tell her.
She blinks her whiskey-colored eyes at me, and then she wrenches her neck back and releases a bark of laughter that echoes against every old stone in Brume.
“I can’t believe the word ladybits just came out of your mouth, Cadence de Morel.”
I smile as we walk away from the manor. In seconds, the thick fog, that’s densest at the bottom of the hilly town, curls off the lake and swallows my home.
When we reach the cobbled road that winds through Brume like swirled frosting, I grip the handles of Papa’s motorized chair. Even though he doesn’t really need my help maneuvering, I worry about him skidding on black ice or getting stuck in a patch of deep snow.
“You should ask the mayor to build you a ramp, Rainier. They could add one along the stairs.” Alma gestures to one of the staircases cut right into the flank of Brume, which facilitates access to the different kelc’hs, or circles.
Unoriginal people have streets, Brumians have circles.
“It’d be way too steep,” I say.
Besides, when Papa absolutely needs to be on campus, someone from the fire brigade drives him there with an electric utility vehicle—the only car allowed in our pedestrian town.
Alma’s eyes light up. “Ooh. Imagine how fun it’d be to slide down.”
“Imagine how dangerous.”
“Forever the party pooper.”
“You mean, forever the conscientious adult?” I volley back.
Papa shakes his head at us but lets out a brief chuckle.
“I’m still going to suggest adding a ramp to our dear old mayor over dinner tonight.”
I snort. “Can’t wait to hear you build your case.”
“It’ll be good for tourism.”
“How?” I challenge her.
She raises her hands and draws them apart, creating an imaginary sign. “Slide down Merlin’s Hat. What do you think, Rainier?”
“I think our town’s touristic enough as is, Alma chérie, but I admire your enthusiasm.”
“I see where Cadence gets her party-pooping from.” She pouts, but it’s brief and fleeting like all of Alma’s reactions.
Soon, she’s rambling on about something else, while I’m stuck glancing at the pale façade of Town Hall that stands out like a ghost amidst the soupy fog. Four years ago, we had Christmas dinner there, in the Merciers’ private apartment on the top floor. Crisped capon with chestnuts and glazed carrots. I can still recall the taste of that meal, the feel of Camille’s arms around my shoulders, the powdery floral scent at the base of her neck.
Perhaps that’s why I never missed Maman . . . because I had Camille Mercier.
Now, the town cemetery has both.
Two college kids run past us, laughing as one takes a spill on a patch of ice. He gets up and shakes the wet snow off the back of his coat.
“You okay, son?” Papa asks as he maneuvers his chair around the ice.
The boy—I think his name is Patrice—looks stunned by my father’s concern, but then he spots the wheelchair, and recognition makes his brows level out. “Oui, Monsieur de Morel. Merci.”
“Be careful. We wouldn’t want you starting the second semester in one of these.” Papa tips his head to the chair.
“I’ll be more careful.”
Alma wiggles her fingers. “Bye, Patrice.”
I can’t believe I was right about his name. Unlike Alma, my brain isn’t hotwired to remember the finer details about people. Quiz me on history, though, and I’ll knock your winter boots off.
“’Night, ladies, Monsieur de Morel.” Patrice pats his coat one last time before following his friend into one of Brume’s oldest establishments, La Taverne de Quartefeuille.
The old inn, turned restaurant centuries ago, slumps on the edge of the square housing the Puits Fleuri—a well built during the Middle Ages and rumored to grant