I hand Slate his phone back, and he slides it into his pocket. He wraps his fingers around mine, and we resume carving through the thick fog all the way up to Fifth Kelc’h.
Even though this Quatrefoil quest is terrifying and brutal, at least I’m not in it alone.
41
Slate
Cadence pulls a fancy bronze skeleton key from her bag, its bow in the shape of a quatrefoil.
I lift an eyebrow. “Doesn’t the university believe in modern security?”
“Not when the old ways work. Plus, it’s a piece of history.” She fits it into the embossed iron lock on the massive wooden doors. As she turns it, two filigreed latches pop up, allowing her to slide a long bolt to one side. “I think it’s kind of cool.”
I have to admit. It is. Feels like we’re entering a medieval castle, not a 21stcentury university building. Although, it isn’t really a 21stcentury building. It’s a converted temple—once a place to worship magic; now a place to worship knowledge.
The ticking of the clock greets us as Cadence pushes the door open and hits the lights. We cross the threshold into the vast space paved by ochre and white floor tiles. For some reason, I hadn’t noticed during my previous visits that many are festooned with inscriptions—names and dates. Some worn and near illegible, others newer and sharper. Like the one under my left boot: MARIANNE SHAFIR.
I stop and nudge Bastian. “Isn’t that the woman named in my financial documents?”
He nods.
“When did Rainier give her my money again?” I keep my voice low.
Bastian flicks through the folder, then peers back up at me. “Four years ago. Same year as on the tile.”
“Huh.” It didn’t hit me when we were in De Morel’s office, but it does now.
When I first met him, Rainier implied he’d saved me from my asshole foster father. Bastian and I were in Vincent’s “care” four years ago.
I look up and catch Cadence frowning at me. “What’s wrong, Slate?”
“Nothing.” I keep my mouth shut about Rainier. I’ve got the money now. Whether he accessed my bank account before he found out I was alive or after doesn’t matter.
Bastian crouches to examine Marianne’s tile. “What’s with the names and dates on these things?”
“They’re for dedicated university staff who passed away.” Cadence’s eyes track the name of the professor beneath her feet. “The dates mark the year they left us.”
“As in, retire?” Bastian asks.
“As in, die.”
His eyebrows rise so high they overtake the top of his black frames.
“What?” Alma asks.
“Nothing.” I step on the tile with Marianne’s name, my marrow ringing with alarm. An alarm I don’t want to sound, yet. Not until I’m sure of its reason for ringing.
Alma and Cadence exchange a look.
“Slate?” Cadence asks.
“It’s Marianne’s tile.” Adrien, whose brows would’ve been knitted together had he not endured a wyvern-wax, narrows his eyes on my boot.
Alma looks confused. “Marianne?”
“You know, the art professor?” Cadence supplies. “The one who painted the evolution of handwriting throughout the ages?”
“I love that painting! It’s one of my favorite art pieces. That and your mother’s statue. What did that old woman call herself again? The graphologist artist? Or was it, graphartist?”
