I shouldn’t be surprised she hasn’t arrived yet. She’salwayslate. I scan the crowd in the square, searching for her coppery mane. When I talked to her on the phone earlier, her voice was so squealy I told her I’d meet her in town instead of letting her make her own way down the treacherously steep stone stairs alone. I didn’t want her spraining an ankle, what with her penchant for sky-high heels—a penchant shaped by her acute dissatisfaction with her five-foot-three frame.
I look at my watch for the fourth time in the space of two minutes. The hands seem particularly sluggish. Maybe they, too, are partially frozen.
I puff warm air into my hands, wishing I’d worn real gloves instead of the lacy fingerless ones I found in the attic. At least I’d donned a long wool dress buttoned up to my neck. Alma tried to dissuade me from wearing it for the party when we uncovered it last week in the dusty trunks filled with Maman’s clothes, but the garment screamed witchy. Besides, even though it’s silly, knowing that Maman wore it makes it sort of special.
The pointy black hat trimmed in burgundy faux-mink is the only thing new about my outfit. I saw it inAu Bon Sort’s shop window the other day and couldn’t resist buying it for tonight. Gaëlle said she’d only gotten the one in, so I wouldn’t have a twin at the party.
Gaëlle’s family, like mine, is one of the founding families of Brume. She’s twice my age, but something like a sister. Ever since her husband ran out on her a month before she gave birth to twins, I’ve helped out by babysitting or manning the shop whenever her stepson can’t.
“Hey, sexy witch!” My friend’s high-pitched voice makes me jump a little.
Her natural curls bounce and glint copper underneath the fairy lights strung up around the chained street sign for Second Kelc’h. She’s wearing a shrunken version of my pointy hat, askew. It’s fastened to a clip and has a little veil with a rhinestone spider. Her dress is also a shrunken version of mine, hitting mid-thigh and mid-boob. And just as I predicted, her knee-high boots have platform heels that almost make her reach my five-nine stature. I’m very obviously not the sexy witch in Brume tonight.
I stick my hands back into my pockets. “How are you not freezing?”
“I have tights.”
“Fishnets don’t qualify as tights.”
As she walks toward me, her legs glimmer.
“Are there sparkles on them?” My words form a milky cloud.
“Yuh-huh. Hot-glued them myself.” She spins, and her dress flounces, flashing me—and a small group of college guys sucking on cigarettes in front of the tavern—the color of her underwear: hot pink. The girl hasnoshame. She hooks her arm through mine. “Thanks for coming to get me. You’re the bestest, Cadence.”
“You sounded a little tipsy.” She smellsa lottipsy, though, like she’s wearing equal parts Cabotine and Dom Pérignon.
She giggles. “It’s New Year’s Eve! Of course I’m tipsy. The question is, why aren’t you?”
“Because we’re going to a party at my house, and Papa would ground me until my fortieth birthday if I was drunk.”
“There’s a big difference between tipsy and drunk. Besides, you need to live a little. You know, I thought maybe you’d actually started partying because I felt the ground shake earlier. But then I checked for flying pigs. And zilch . . .”
I knock my shoulder into hers. “Haha.” I felt the ground shake earlier, too. The orchestra Papa hired for the party had been testing out the sound equipment, so I chalked it up to that.
Alma continues, “That should be your New Year’s resolution: to finally let loose and act seventeen instead of seventy!”
“I don’t act seventy.”
She makes a noise in the back of her throat.
“You know what? I feel this is the year you’re going to get together with that groomstick of yours.” She cinches her fingers around my puffer jacket sleeve, her heels clacking against the cobbles.
“Groomstick?”
Her eyes glitter as though she hot-glued some sparkles on her irises, too. “Broom-groom? You don’t like my witchy humor?”
I crack a smile. “How much champagnedidyou ingest?”
She just grins and then gossips about her housemates while we make our way through the twisty, glittery street, down the stairs, and toward the open gates of my house.
The old stones of the path leading to my front door vibrate with new-age classical music. Every year, we throw Brume’s New Year’s Eve party. It’s been a tradition for generations. The town visitors dress up like witches and wizards to celebrate Brume’s history, and we do the same. Only indoors withhors d’oeuvresand central heating.
A man stationed by the entrance pulls the heavy lacquered wooden door open, and we step into the foyer. Alma lets out a low whistle of appreciation. Papa hired a team of professionals from Paris to decorate this year. The house is festooned with garlands of lights hidden in silver tulle, and fancy clockfaces hang like snowflakes from the white-painted timbered ceilings. Tall arrangements of pine needles, white lilies, and red roses adorn every surface of the massive foyer and the rooms spilling beyond.
As Alma hands her short faux-fur jacket to the coat attendant, she grimaces and gestures with her chin to the reception room. “Don’t look now, but Charlotte’s dangling off your groomstick.”
I peer into the crowded room, my gaze zeroing in on Adrien’s dark-blond, gelled-up hair. He’s chatting with the Chair of the Science department and his husband, and sure enough, black-haired, green-eyed Charlotte is hooked to Adrien’s arm like a Christmas ornament.
