made me think Papa was drowning, Nolwenn’s allusion to Pandora, Alma’s insinuation about an affair. Not having slept doesn’t help. Even though I’m dying for a thermos of scorching coffee, I don’t dare bring any liquids into the archival room for fear of spillage. Especially now. We can’t afford to ruin any documents.
I’m only on the tenth page of Istor Breou—I’m not as fluent in Breton as Adrien, plus I’m jotting down everything and anything that sounds remotely linked to dark magic—when the glass door beeps open. It’s Adrien, and he isn’t alone. He kept his promise, which shouldn’t surprise me. The man’s never broken one before.
They approach the laminated white table over which I’ve spread out my research—Istor Breou and other books I got from the library mentioning fantastical aquatic monsters. I’m hoping there could be some applicable truths inside works of fantasy fiction.
Adrien examines the mess of papers and open books. “Find anything interesting?”
“The giant Pacific octopus has three hearts, nine brains, and blue blood.”
Slate, who stands behind Adrien with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat, snorts.
Adrien blinks. “Why are you researching octopi?”
“I’m researching all aquatic monsters. Especially shapeshifting ones.” I look at Slate again, at his mussed black hair dusted with melting snowflakes, at his thick lashes that shield guarded eyes. “I saw Papa, but I know that was personal to me. Was it my father you saw in there, Slate?”
He stares at the cover of a Greek myth anthology. “No. But I also didn’t see a nine-brained octopus.”
My lips quirk, which is a feat considering how stressed I feel.
Adrien steps past me and lifts one of the books. “Good. You got Homer out.”
“I was looking for a siren’s weaknesses. I didn’t know if we could use methods written in works of fiction—”
“Maybe some of these aren’t fictional accounts,” Adrien says. “After all, the world did have magic.”
Adrien’s comment stuns me into silence. After a beat, I say, “I keep forgetting that part.”
“I don’t blame you.” He skims a page, then flips to the next one. “Magic was stripped from humans in 1350, so we should probably focus on works written before that time.”
That pretty much excludes everything but Istor Breou, The Odyssey, and a couple translations of Asian myths.
Adrien lifts my notepad. “Does Istor Breou mention a groac’h? Or something that lures men in by taking the shape of a person they love?”
“I think love is a strong word,” Slate interjects.
I wonder why he feels the need to make the distinction. “You seemed pretty desperate to fish out the person you saw.”
He rubs his jaw. “Why does my benevolence surprise you, Mademoiselle de Morel? I might not have three hearts like your giant squid, but I do have one.”
There he goes again, heaping derision over something that clearly scared him back in the town square. “Octopus, not squid.”
“Bickering’s not going to help us get the piece,” Adrien says.
“We’re not bickering,” I mutter, disliking how Adrien manages to make me feel like a rambunctious three-year-old.
“Gaëlle found out from Rainier that I have twenty-four hours”—Slate peers down at his bulky gold wristwatch—“more like twenty-three now, to recover the piece.”
Bile swishes in my stomach at the mention of Gaëlle and Papa in the same sentence. “What happens after that? Do you turn into a pumpkin?”
Slate’s lopsided grin makes an appearance. “If turning into a pumpkin is a euphemism for dying, then yes, I turn into a pumpkin.”
I suck in too much air and wheeze. “You’re kidding?”
“Last of my bloodline, remember.”
“Any more rules I should be aware of?”
“Why don’t you phone up your papa to find out?” There’s an edge of something in Slate’s tone—disgruntlement, hatred . . . a mix of both.
“Maybe if we blindfolded you,” Adrien muses.
“I’m not going in that well blind,” Slate says. “Did I mention I hate dark, tight spaces?”
“Maybe earphones will help.” Adrien suggests. “I have some that sync with my phone so you can listen to music while swimming.”
“I’ll take those.” Slate walks to the other side of the table and plucks a book up.
I’m not too worried about how forcibly he flips through its pages, because it’s a glossy travel guide mentioning famous landmarks in Brittany.
He stops thumbing through the pages and reads the section mentioning the Puits Fleuri. “It says there’s close to a meter deep of coins down there.”
“I really don’t think now’s the time to devise a scheme to steal money, Slate.”
He spears me with a look I wouldn’t even wish on Adrien’s girlfriend. “I was