Ludicrous.
Once I get back to Marseille, I’m putting one of these up, but mine’ll be double the size.
Bastian switches off the lights. “You know, there’s room enough for two people in this king-size bed.”
“I’m good, little brother.” I shut my eyes and concentrate on the wind leaning against the windows. Sleeping on the floor grounds me; plus, you can’t fall off the floor. Besides, the carpet’s thicker than some of the pancake mattresses I’ve slept on over the years.
Dark little clouds smudge my thoughts at the memory of those homes. Horrible. All of them. No luck of the draw, there. Once I come into enough money that Bastian’s grandkids never want for anything, I’ll start a program to help orphaned youth. Maybe buy a castle . . . So many of those are dying in the French countryside because upkeep’s too steep. I’ll refurbish it and fill it with everything a kid could ever desire or need.
Yeah . . . that’s what I’ll do . . . once the ring comes off . . . and I have the money.
As sleep begins to haze my thoughts, Bastian murmurs, “I like who you are when you’re with Cadence. You’re the Slate I’ve always known, not the one you pretend to be.” He pauses. “You’re the good guy.”
“Fuck you talking about. I’ve never been good.” Just because I want todogood doesn’t make me good. There’s too much rot inside me. But his words nonetheless make my chest swell with warmth.
“Rémy Roland,” he sounds my birth name quietly. “Maybe that’s who youreallyare.”
I think about that for way too long, wonder who I would’ve been if my parents were still alive, and I’d been raised in Brume. Would Cadence and I have been friends? More than friends?
I flip onto my side, punching my pillow to plump it up, then shut these thoughts down, because that kid died right along with his parents, and I’m the phoenix who rose from his ashes.
Besides with a name like Rémy I would’ve for sure been a wuss.
Not a go-getter.
Not a survivor.
* * *
A loud knockon the bedroom door makes my lids snap up. Sunlight streams through the chink between the drapes. The sound of the shower running and Alma’s stellar singing voice come from the bathroom, “Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive . . . ah . . . ah . . . ah . . .”
Bastian sits up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, while I stumble over my blanket to open the door. Cadence is on the other side, dressed in a blue sweater and fluffy bunny slippers. Despite the circles purpling the delicate skin beneath her eyes, her expression is fierce.
I spear my hand through my hair, trying to put a little order in the chaos. “Hey.”
“Papa wants to see you in his study.”
Ah. Papa. . . Would it have been so much to ask that she’d sought me out becauseshewanted to see me?
“And what Papa wants, Papa gets.”
She sighs. “Slate . . .”
I hold up my hands. “Sorry. Just give me a few minutes. I want to brush my teeth. Once Alma’s done with her performance . . .”
A smile edges her lips. “She does like to sing.”
“She does.” I want to ask if she sings, too. I bet she has a beautiful singing voice considering how husky her speaking voice is.
She points down the hall. “There’s a powder room down there. With new toothbrushes and disposable shaving kits. In case you wanted to shave.”
I rub my day-old stubble, which makes a scratchy sound, like ripping Velcro.
Cadence trails my fingers’ movement, black pupils beating against the clear blue.
“What do you think? Should I get rid of it?”
“I, uh . . . I think . . . unless it bothers you.” Her cheeks pinken.
