I notice Adrien and Gaëlle exchanging quick words, and then she’s walking toward the snowmobile and climbing on.
“I’ll wait with them, Rainier,” Adrien says.
Papa is slow to accept Adrien’s offer. “You walk her to the front door, all right, son?”
Adrien nods. And then the snowmobile carves up the snow, creating a wake of flurries in its path. Hands stuffed in the pockets of my puffer jacket, I make my way toward Adrien and Slate. I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold. My teeth clatter and my muscles feel like bags of frozen peas.
“Take her home, Prof.”
“Hello, I’m right here. Besides, a few more minutes aren’t going to make me any colder.” I bring out my phone, pluck one shaking finger from my mitten and press on the flashlight app. As soon as it’s on, I stick my hand back into the damp wool and trudge over to the front of the house.
I stamp my feet as I wait for Adrien and Slate to catch up. They’re talking. About what, I have no clue. Their voices are too low and the wind too loud and my eardrums too anesthetized.
Slate’s already pulled out his keys. He chooses the correct key right away. Then again, the third key is his mailbox key, much too tiny for a house lock. The hinges groan as the front door swings inward, stretching a cobweb so thick and white it resembles one of the tavern’s lace curtains. I illuminate the foyer, shining my light on the flight of wooden steps that lead to the first floor.
I only came once before with Papa to help set up the board that allows him to wheel himself into places unsuited for wheelchair access. While he showed the house to a man in a dark suit, gold bifocals, and a briefcase, I went to explore.
“Over here is the living room and formal dining room.” I direct my phone toward the right. “Opposite that is the kitchen and breakfast room.”
“I didn’t know you’d already come here.” Adrien energetically rubs his hands together to drive heat into his fingers, which are surely as numb as mine.
“I came with Papa a few years ago. He was having the house reappraised.”
“Reappraised? If it’s fully paid, then there’s no reason to have it reappraised.” Of course, Slate jumps to a conclusion that doesn’t paint Papa in the best light. “Unless he was trying to take out a loan. Or sell it.”
“Maybe he was having it reinsured then. I don’t remember.”
Besides a thicker layer of dust and more cobwebs, everything is still exactly the same—the painted walls still sky blue, the wooden furniture still whitewashed, the floorboards pale oak. I walk ahead of him into the living room, toward the granite chimney on which sit several framed pictures. Most have been washed out by the sunlight, but the happy couple smiling at the camera are still distinguishable. Eugenia, like her son, had a wild mane of black corkscrews, but her eyes were green. Slate got his father’s eyes and most of the man’s features.
“Your mom used to make this apricot ice-cream from scratch in the summer,” Adrien says as Slate lifts one of the pictures from the mantel.
“I forget that everyone knew them around here.” A nerve jumps next to his eye. Jealousy? Sadness?
Adrien sighs. “Brume’s a small place, Slate. They were both well-loved professors.”
“Both?”
I raise a brow. “Hasn’t Papa told you anything about them?”
“He hasn’t been very forthcoming with information. Keeps promising me a tell-all after we’re done assembling the Quatrefoil.”
I nibble on my bottom lip, my gaze dipping to the ring tenting his glove.
“Your mother taught math and your father, astronomy,” Adrien says. “Maman grew up with your father. Your mother was from the south. Spain, or maybe Portugal? My father knew them well, in case you’d like to talk to him. I’m sure he could tell you some stories.”
I want to warn Slate to stay away from Geoffrey Keene but obviously can’t do that in front of his own son.
“Amandine de Morel and Eugenia Roland were the most reputed beauties in Brume. My mother was always jealous.” Adrien smiles. “But she loved them both too much to truly dislike them.”
“Your mother had nothing to envy ours, Adrien.” Yes, Eugenia was stunning, but Camille was distinguished and so very kind. “I wish they were all still here.”
“But they’re not.” Slate replaces the frame on the chimney mantel so abruptly I check the glass for spider-cracks.
He heads to the openwork bookcase that separates the living and dining rooms. It’s full of dusty tomes on galaxies and black holes. Even though the current astronomy professor is fascinating, I heard Oscar was quite the entertainer and teacher. His students called him bewitching. That was the term often associated with him. Then again, Brumians have such a fascination with magic they consider everything and everyone in this town magical. Little do they know they aren’t completely off the mark. Granted, no one is magical yet. But if we succeed . . .whenwe succeed . . .
Adrien’s phone chirps. I imagine it’s Papa. “Hey,bébé.”
Guess not.
