Esplanade, center of physics and biology.” A square, limestone chateau is next. “The Mercier Humanities Center, the seat of history and social sciences.” Then a circular stone and glass edifice. “The Roland Amphitheater”—her eyes flick my way, then back to the building—“for business and engineering.”
I swallow but say nothing.
“And this,” she says proudly, “is the De Morel Beaux-Arts Edifice.” She leads me past an arch carved with the words ARZOÙ-KAER, which I imagine mean art.
“Snazzy,” I mutter, taking in the royal spread.
“What’s your class schedule, by the way? I could show you where you need to go.”
“I didn’t come to attend school, princess.”
She frowns. “Then why did you come?”
“For my inheritance. ’Parently, my biological parents left me a trust, and put your daddy in charge of it.”
Her eyebrows pinch together.
“Rainier’s taking his sweet time signing it over. I think he’s using it as a motivator.” I rub my hands together, feeling the Bloodstone under my glove. “He forgets I literally can’t leave this place before the Quatrefoil is united.”
Cadence blinks up at me. “So you won’t stay and study after?”
“Not planning on it.”
“Oh.” Her mouth puckers as though she’s truly disappointed.
Probably no one’s ever turned down studying in her family’s grand old school. “But who knows. If I survive, I might reconsider.”
Her disappointment veers to another emotion, one that makes me want to kick myself for reminding her of our perilous hunt. “Can you tell me more about this building?”
In increments, her fear subsides, and the light in her eyes returns. And then her mouth moves a mile a minute as she leads me through the palatial art department, telling me about the symbolism for the tiny human faces, flower stalks, and mythological creatures etched into the pillars that hold up the impossibly high domed ceiling adorned with plump cherubs surfing on clouds. We walk past corridors dotted with wooden doors running off in two directions, and a double, wide stone staircase twisting upward to the heavens . . . or more likely, to the next level.
The main hall’s lined with centuries’ worth of art: massive paintings in gilt frames, a strip of vellum with characters that range from hieroglyphs to biblical font to typewriter letters, glossy marble busts of men with curled hair, polished statues of everything from the human form to the abstract, suits of armors complete with massive broadswords and shields. There are cases full of masquerade masks, six-faced clocks, gaudy costume jewelry, old playbills and posters, and even . . .
I raise an eyebrow. “Magic wands?”
She smiles at the mess of sticks in the glass case. “No. According to lore, magic of the elements—the magic of Brume—doesn’t require a wand. These are said to be pieces of kindling that never lit when ten Brumian women were supposed to be burned at the stake for witchcraft.”
I take a closer look and, sure enough, the sticks look charred at the ends. “So these sticks are hundreds of years old?”
She nods, face aglow. “And the craziest part about this witch hunt is that it took place four centuries after the diwallers supposedly destroyed magic. Yet the fire wouldn’t burn.”
I smile. That’s right. It’s history that gets her hot and bothered, not the sight of my bare chest. “I take it the women survived?”
She shakes her head, smile dimming. “No. They ended up being hanged.”
The fact that I even slightly believe the tale shows how much this town has derailed my life. “Bastard witch hunters.”
Her cell dings, and she checks it. “I need to get to the Bisset building.” Then she looks up at me, pulling her bottom lip back into her mouth as though debating something. “But I want to show you something before I leave.”
She leads me farther down the hall, to a glassed-in gazebo-like alcove, where, on a pedestal, stands a terracotta statue of a scowling giant wearing nothing but a one-shouldered toga and an ancient-looking helmet, the kind with a crest of plumes. He’s holding a round shield and a sword as long as my body. Despite being made of clay, he looks about to leap out and smash skulls.
It’s fucking creepy. And pretty damn cool.
Cadence gestures to it with pride. “Maman made this. Her war god.”
“Ares,” I murmur. I wasn’t a good student, but some things did stick, like mythology. We had to memorize gods along with their symbols, lineage, the whole shebang. Ares was one of the unpopular ones, because he represented brutality and ruin. Which is probably why I remember him best.
Cadence lifts