At home, or at the bar? He smells like a distillery. “What’s with the gloves?”
He stares down at his hands as though he’s forgotten all about them. Something protrudes from his middle-finger, straining the leather. I’m suspecting it’s a big ring. Unless it’s a giant wart. Or boil. Or an identical twin he devoured in utero.
“My fingers are very sensitive to the cold.”
I cross my arms. “Uh-huh.”
“Besides, you’re also wearing gloves. So are half the people in this room.” He looks over my shoulder at the pointy assortment of hats, brooms, and wands. “What’s with the crazy-fest anyway?”
“It’s a Brumian tradition.”
“People take their lore very seriously around here.”
“Very.” I drag out the word menacingly. Or at least, I’m going for menacing. Maybe I just sound haughty. “So, what are you really doing here?”
He stares down at me, tipping his head a little to see under the brim of my hat. I hadn’t noticed how tall he was back in the cemetery. Then again, he was on his hands and knees for most of the two minutes we spent in each other’s company.
“I’m a new student.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” His breath flutters the hat’s burgundy fur and some of the loose brown tendrils of hair framing my face. “Not very trusting, huh?”
“ShouldI trust you?”
“Probably not. I’m a man ofextremelyloose morals.”
Even though I don’t mean to smile, a corner of my lip twitches. I iron out my expression immediately. “If anything disappears, I’ll know it’s you.”
He snorts, and his eyes squeeze and curve like tiny black arches. I’ve heard of people smiling with their eyes, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen it.
“Except, you don’t know who I am.”
“But I know what you look like,” I answer back sweetly.
The camber of the boy’s eyes increases.
“Cadence! There you are.” Alma’s voice bounces against my eardrums, and then her hands wrap around my arm. “Who’s your new friend?”
“He’s not . . .my friend,” I grind out the last part. “He’s a new student.Apparently.”
She hums, or maybe she purrs. “And what’s your name, new student?”
“Slate.” He daintily picks up her hand and brings it to his mouth. “Slate Ardoin.” He doesn’t touch his lips to her knuckles, but his mouth comes close.
Slick. This guy issoslick.
For a second, I feel a little miffed that he didn’t greet me this way until I notice Alma’s bare pinky. “Give her back her ring.”
Alma’s gaze widens when she realizes Slate’s filched the pearl jewel, a homeschool graduation gift from her parents.
“How did you do that?” Instead of sounding peeved, she sounds amazed.
“Sleight of hand.” He opens his fingers with a flourish. Atop the black leather rests Alma’s white pearl.
She plucks it from his palm and slides it back onto her pinky. “Is that how you got your name?”
His good humor collapses. “No.” He closes his fingers slowly, the smooth leather whisper-hissing. “But it would make a hell of a better story.” Whatever annoyance gusted over him is gone, and although he isn’t back to being Mister Smiley-Eyes, he’s also no longer Mister Moody.
