Of Wicked Blood (The Quatrefoil Chronicles #1) - Olivia Wildenstein Page 0,106

I can’t leave Brume, princess. And if I let her go, she’ll just keep flickering.”

A beat of silence settles over the room, punctuated by Cadence’s still too-brisk breathing and Emilie’s thin whimpers.

“Shouldn’t we call a doctor? Or the police?” Bastian’s taut lips barely shift as he speaks.

“A doctor won’t know how to cure her,” Cadence murmurs, “and we can’t involve the police.”

“Then who would know?” Bastian’s tone is as frantic as his gaze which ping-pongs over each of our faces.

“Papa,” Cadence says meekly.

Adrien takes his phone from the pocket of his overcoat and taps on the screen. “Merde.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Prof curse. “My phone’s out of battery. Cadence, do you have yours?”

She stuffs her hands inside her coat pocket, then pats her jeans. “Non. I must’ve left it at home.”

“Use mine.” I tip my head to the nightstand. “Bastian knows the code.”

Adrien’s eyes twitch toward Bastian as though wondering if he’s trustworthy. Hesitantly, he tenders the phone, which Bastian unlocks, giving Adrien and the lot of us the stink-eye. I guess we deserve it.

I sigh. I swore to always protect him, but because of me, because I didn’t have the heart to force him back onto a train last night, he’s at risk.

As Adrien dials De Morel, Bastian’s stare burns a hole in the side of my skull. “Magic is real.” It’s not a question. It’s just a flat, emotionless assessment. But I know my little brother. I know he’s feeling a whole bunch of emotions. I can see it in the sharp tick of his jaw that seems to have lost all of its boyish roundness overnight, or rather, over-Emilie.

“Which is why you need to get back on a train and—”

“Shut up, Slate. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you.”

I rub a hand over my face. “Bastian, we’re not dealing with fun potion-brewing. This is serious. And dangerous.” I nod down to Emilie shaking in my arms to drive my point home.

“Rainier, hold on a sec. Gaëlle’s calling on the other line . . . Okay. We’ll be over in ten minutes. Okay.” And then Adrien taps the phone, and says, “Gaëlle, we’re on our way to the manoir. Meet us there.”

Emilie’s brown eyes swim with tears. “I’m so scared.”

“I know,” I say. “And you have every right to be. But we’ll figure this thing out, okay? I’ll make sure of it.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes my waist like it’s a buoy, and she’s in the middle of the ocean.

“What did Papa say?” Cadence asks.

Adrien lowers my phone even though his fingers haven’t uncurled from around it.

“Well?” I could use an answer.

Emilie could use an answer.

We all could use a fucking answer.

“The leaf. Rainier thinks she may need to touch it. Again.”

32

Cadence

Slate hasn’t let go of the cursed child, and she of him.

He held her hand while he put on his coat and boots. And then he scooped her into his arms and carried her over to my house, hiding her inside his coat, so she wouldn’t catch cold and be spotted by the passersby.

Although, can ghosts catch a cold? Is she a ghost? My stomach dips, and all the wine I drank last night gathers at the back of my throat.

The little girl’s being brave, but she’s asked for her maman several times. It’s breaking my heart not to look her up and phone her—she must be worried sick—but the less people know about what’s brewing in our town, the safer they are. Or at least, the safer they should be . . .

I see the little girl step into Matthias all over again, and I shudder so hard my teeth knock together.

“You okay?” I hear Slate ask.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s addressing me. I nod to reassure him, but the truth is, I won’t be okay as long as this girl isn’t cured. I pray touching the leaf will help her body stop flickering, the same way it stopped Papa’s curse from spreading to the rest of his body.

I feel Slate’s eyes on my cheek but don’t look over, afraid he’ll spot how frightened I am. I’m trying to think best-case scenarios, not because I’m a particularly fervent optimist, but because it’s keeping my mind off worse-case scenarios.

When we reach my house, Gaëlle’s standing outside, dark circles rimming her eyes. I’m guessing she got as much sleep as I did. Probably not for the same reasons. While I spent way too many hours replaying the feel of Slate’s