“Thedihuner!” Bastian eyes the golden crescent tip on the longer hand. “I thought it was out of order.”
I knew there was something I forgot to tell him.
“All thanks to this baby.” I hold up my ringed finger.
He glances at it, then back at the crescent resting atop a sliver of blue veering toward navy. “That’s the moon phase dial, right?”
“Right,” Cadence says, chewing her lip.
“Five days until the new moon,” Adrien announces.
Five days . . .
Bastian shakes his head. “I was expecting religious symbolism, but there’s none.”
Adrien’s peering down at the clock as though it were a wish-granting well. My spine jams up.Yeah.I don’t want to be thinking about wells right now. Or ever, for that matter.
“Because it isn’t a religious temple. At least, not the sort of religion that’s popular in the world,” Adrien explains. “During the inquisition, the zealots labeled it the devil’s playground and forbade people from entering.”
“Brume holds the record for most witch trials and convictions in all of France. Some even called it the Salem of the East.” Cadence is studying one of the elements: a triangle with a bar running through it. Earth? Air?
Thanks to Bastian, I’m up to date on my elemental symbolism.
Alma whirls, looking around her at the temple of magic. “To think you told me it was all lore.” She shivers and rubs her arms. “Am I the only one getting chills?”
Bastian eyes the cupola. “Why didn’t they burn it in the era of witch hunts?”
“They tried, but apparently the fire wouldn’t take.” Adrien’s clutching the top of the glass guardrail. “They also tried to rip apart the clock, but they couldn’t even dent the enamel, so they boarded up the entire temple.”
Cadence tips her head toward the trapdoor. “Guys, the translation. We can admire the clock and discuss history later.”
As she heaves the basement door open, I tell Bastian, “You’re going to weep in awe when you see what’s below.”
That makes him move.
Sure enough, when I get down there, Bastian’s mouth is wide,wideopen. Forget flies, he could trap bats. The ancient mechanical lacework of cogs is impressive. Its sheer size alone would make anyone gawp.
“Come on.” Alma holds open the door of the chilled tank that contains the precious documents of Brume.
Cadence is already pulling on her special gloves to take out the huge tome filled with the Quatrefoil history, which she sets on one of the tables. As the door suctions shut behind us, she removes the gloves, laying them on the leather cover, and heads toward another shelving unit.
When I see her push up on tiptoe, trying to inch a big white box her way, I stride over and pluck it off the shelf. “You know, asking for assistance isn’t a sign of weakness.”
“I would’ve gotten it. Eventually.”
“I have no doubt about that. Just reminding you that I’m here. For an indeterminate amount of time,” I add quietly, handing over the archival box.
Without looking away from my eyes, she takes it from me, her fingers brushing over mine, feather-soft. She lets them linger, the coolness of her skin seeping into the warmness of mine. My entire body goes still, still and hard. Very hard. I angle myself toward the shelving unit, because I’m tenting my sweatpants, and although I don’t mind if Cadence sees what her touch does to me, I’d rather not scar the others.
I concentrate on a moldy book spine.
I think moldy thoughts.
I must look like I’m in pain, because she gasps, “Is it the ring? Is my piece—”
“It’s not the ring,” I reassure her, then repeat it louder, because the others have stopped talking, so I imagine they’re staring.
“Then what is it?” Her voice is full of concern.
