However, as his fingers closed around the object, Elliot, in an annoyingly languid way, lifted his hand, and channelled windmotes into a powerful, tight tunnel of pressure, flinging them at a specific link in the chain.
Blasted apart, the chain and the padlock dropped to the ground.
Darcy tutted, but before she could complain, Elliot said, “What? I checked for CCTV. We’re clear.”
“Woah!” Cinn exclaimed, still staring at the broken chain, and Julien shook his head softly. Cinn had seen the Arcane Purifers blow a building to smithereens with motepower, but now Elliot’s simple pressure blast was impressing him?
Seemingly in tune with Julien, Elliot laughed. “My friend, that was nothing.”
“That wasnotnothing!”
“Please, Julien and I could do that trick by the time we were ten. Although he always had far more precision control than me. When we were kids, his greatest joy was thrashing me at our camp’s tournament every summer, then tormenting me about it for the rest of the year.”
Elliot jostled Julien with his shoulder, but Julien didn’t respond, only sighed in dismay at Cinn as he absorbed Elliot’s words, looking between him and Julien with pinched brows.Goddamn Elliot and his big mouth.
Cinn blinked at Julien. Tugged on his beanie. Then stared at him some more.
Julien braced himself for the inevitable question that poured from Cinn’s lips. “How come I’ve never seenyouchannel any motes?”
A gust of wind blew behind them, sending a tin can hurling noisily down the street. Elliot and Darcy waited for him to answer, likely wondering what script he’d give Cinn. He considered outright ignoring the question, but Cinn’s big golden eyes were so intent on him, he found himself unable to.
“I can’t channel anymore,” Julien said at last.
Elliot snorted, shaking his head. “He means hewon’t.”
Stop talking, Elliot,pleasestop talking.
Ignoring his silent plea, Elliot turned to Cinn. “He was, wellis, well, could be, the very best channeller our generation has seen. That’s what our coaches used to say.”
How did Elliot not understand that the warm pride Julien could hear in his voice made it five times worse?
Curiosity coloured Cinn’s face as his head snapped towards him. “So why don’t you?”
Julien’s stomach tumbled. He scrambled for a simple answer that would placate Cinn. A moment later, Darcy saved him—Darcy, who’d been scrutinising him carefully for the last minute.
“Can we just get on with this whole grave-digging thing before I change my mind about rummaging around in the dirt for our best friend’s bones, please?”
Darcy pressed on the wrought-iron gate, leaning all of her weight against it to push it ajar.
The sliver of moon offered little light to guide their journey as they weaved through rows of silent tombstones, a sepulchral maze. Rustling leaves and the occasional hoot of a nightbird were the only sounds as they passed weathered mausoleums and engraved benches.
Nearing the spot where Béatrice was buried alongside their mother’s own grave, a sudden realisation struck Julien. He hadn’t yet seen her headstone, recently installed. Before he had time to prepare, the thing filled his vision, a solemn sentinel standing tall and resolute above manyof the others. He paused in his steps, frozen by the name Béatrice Montaigne, inscribed in large, looping cursive, on a slab of gleaming white marble.
Flowers still remained from her funeral—next to his father’s white roses lay a bundle of black and purple lilies, still as fresh as the day Julien had placed them there months ago, shimmering with everglaze.
Her epitaph read:Our Brightest Treasure, Your Star will Forever Shine.
Imaginary Béatrice snorted and shook her head in amusement.
For weeks, Julien and his father had warred over burying her in the family plot, or cremating her and splitting the ashes between them. Julien wasn’t even sentimental, but the notion of his father controlling Béatrice’s death had tipped him over the edge. Well, he may never get her ashes, but he was about to be in possession of something even more macabre.
Père, this is one battle I’m now glad you won.
Darcy ran her fingers over the letters etched deep into the marble. For a while, nobody spoke, until Darcy tipped her head backwards at the starless, cloudy expanse of the sky. “Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light,” she said.
“I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night,” Julien finished, moving forward to squeeze Darcy’s arm.
“Shall we graffiti it on top of your father’s unsentimental crap?”
