looking up at me. “He doesn’t hate us. He just hates me.”
“Why?”
Darkness blunts the shimmer in his gaze. “He thinks I left him in foster care because I didn’t care.”
“Foster care?” I don’t know much about the system but imagine children don’t always end up in happy homes. “He didn’t grow up with any relatives?”
“He has none.”
Right. His bloodline ends with him. For some reason, the fact that Slate was an orphan hadn’t clicked when Papa mentioned it was game over if Slate perished.
“Why didn’t you take him in after his parents died?”
“I only found out he was alive a few years ago.”
“How come?”
“Someone smuggled him out of Brume. Most likely because they thought he’d be safer away from this place.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “Why does Slate blame you then?”
“Because when I found out where he ended up, I didn’t go get him. I left him in the system. I thought it better for him to grow up before he was brought back to Brume. I wanted you kids to be ready once we set the Quatrefoil gathering in motion.”
A web of fear spreads through me, sticky and cold. “And you told him all of this?”
“I did.”
I try to put myself in Slate’s shoes. Would I be bitter?
Papa sighs. “I probably should’ve done background checks on the families he lived with. Had him placed with better people.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Papa looks at the flames licking the blackened logs, filling the living room with the crackling scent of winter. “Because I’m not perfect.”
I think he must be seeing the fire that devoured Slate’s parents, because his expression is troubled.
He returns his gaze to me. “I might have failed him, but I won’t fail you, Cadence. I’ll be there every step of the way.”
I have no doubt he will. “I don’t want you to get hurt again though.”
He gives me a sad smile. “I’ll be careful.”
Could one be careful around magic? It seemed so unpredictable. A Bloodstone that poisons the wearer? Metal leaves that can hide themselves and curse people?
“You think magic could heal your legs?” I’m grasping to feel something other than dread.
“Yes.” Papa’s certainty shoos off my fear.
Fantasy and reality are about to collide, and however terrified, a part of me, the one that spent her childhood dreaming Brume’s books of lore held some truth, reels with excitement.
I wonder how the others are feeling. The others being Gaëlle and Adrien, because I can’t imagine Slate will feel anything other than anxiety until the ring comes off his finger.
13
Slate
If I didn’t know any better, I might say Brume was a charming place with its twinkling holiday decorations and cast-iron street lights.
A magical place.
Ha. That makes me chuckle.
“Happy Fucking New Year,” I shout to no one in particular as I reach Second Kelc’h.
One guy yells, “Ta gueule!” the charming French way of saying shut the hell up, but a couple others hoot and wish me a Happy Fucking New Year right back.
I hitch the plastic laundry basket up under my armpit and hang on with one hand while I scrabble in my coat pocket for my phone with the other. Pain lances from my middle finger all the way up to my elbow as I grip the basket.
When I finally have the phone in my palm, I tap Bastian’s contact info with my thumb and wait for him to answer.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Why the hell do you assume something’s wrong?”
“Because you’re calling me, and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since we talked.”
What the actual fuck? “You told me to call.”
“Yeah. And you’re doing what I asked. Hence, something’s wrong.”
Bastian knows me like no one else does. “Just wanted to check up on Spike.”
Unlike last night, the town square isn’t cluttered with witches and wizards. There are people, but the drunken crowds are gone. The villagers must be playing it safe since tomorrow’s a workday.
“Spike’s living it up. Yesterday, they had a sale on cute little succulents, so I got some. Should’ve seen him ring in the new year with all these juicy babes. I think he just might be falling for the Mexican Snowball. She’s got it going on, if you know what I mean.” Bastian can’t keep the grin out of his voice.
This is why I want him to have everything when I die. “You’re such a dweeb.”
As I enter the code to my new front door, glowering at the quatrefoil stamped above it, I let him know I probably won’t be back in Marseille before his classes start.
He