“Whether you believe in magic or not, Monsieur Ardoin, understand that there is a Council, a very ancient and very real one, anditbelieves magic exists. Now that you are over eighteen, it is your dutyandyour birthright to claim your seat at the table.”
And Bastian thinksI’mdrunk? What’s wrong with these people? But then I remember the ring that won’t come off.
I thumb it through the leather. “You can’t exclude me for twenty years and then suddenly expect me to contribute to your little Quattro-fucking Council.”
“Quatrefoil.”
“Whatever.”
“And you’re right. I can’t expect you to contribute or to stick around.” He looks at me like I’m a cockroach. “But perhaps I can appeal to one of your baser senses, like greed. How about I promise that if you stay, I’ll make it worth your while?”
That pisses me off to no end. I cross my arms over my chest so I don’t punch him right in the throat. “I don’t need yourmoney, since I have so much of my own.”
A conceited smile curves his lips. “Ah. Are you referring to that trust fund I mentioned in my letter?”
My biceps feel like stone.
Hetsks.“You see, not only am I the trustee, but also the account is in the university bank. In order to access it, you need my permission. In order to get my permission, you need to attend the Council meeting. Since I pride myself on upholding traditions, that’s my single condition. After the meeting, I’ll grant you full and sole custody of your inheritance. So, now let’s go over the subjects I enrolled you in.”
There’s a knock on the door, three short bursts followed by a nasal voice. “Monsieur de Morel? I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but some of your guests were worried. Is everything all right?”
“All’s well, Jaqueline. I’ll be down in a minute.” He turns back to me. “Seems we’re out of time. You can check your classes online. And we have a world-class library on campus. If you’re grappling with questions about the Council or your heritage, look through the archives. Do you have any more questions for me?” He cruises toward the door.
I’ve never been conned. But here I am getting conned. By a middle-aged paraplegic who believes in fucking magic no less. I feel like my brain’s about to explode. I run my hands down my face, my leather gloves catching on my skin, the band of the ring bumping against my cheekbone.
I’m tempted to remove the glove, shove the gem in De Morel’s face, and ask him why his family heirloom is stuck to my finger. Would he even know? He’s not a mortician. It’s probably some weird substance from the corpse that’s doing it. Some body fluid that turns gummy like glue after death.
Now I want to vomit.
After swallowing back the rising bile, I burrow my hand inside my pocket, my fingers bumping against the brooch. Nah, I can’t show De Morel the ring. Not even to gloat about looting his family’s mausoleum. No doubt he’d call the police. Bastian would be gutted if I went back to jail. Especially since this time, I wouldn’t go to juvie.
Besides, if the damn thing’s valuable, then I certainly don’t want to give it back.
No. I’ll return to that tiny cave of a dorm room and lube it up with soap. And if that fails, I’ll buy some damn bolt cutters. But I’m keeping the stone.
The Baccarat paperweight on Rainier’s desk glints hard, and I’m itching to swipe it, but my pockets are already bulging.
On the landing, I tell Rainier, “I’ll take the stairs.”
He nods, his keen eyes scraping over my face as though trying to spot a resemblance to my parents. I don’t like his stare. I don’t likehim. I jet down the grand staircase, ring-free hand on the wrought-iron railing wrapped in prickly silver garlands. In the ballroom, the party’s still in full swing, witches and warlocks and odd magical creatures swaying to the music, their chatter and laughter rising like helium.
I’ve officially lost my buzz, and with it, any will to be here.
Even though I now have to stay for two whole weeks.
Unless I can pawn the stone in Marseille.
Rainier didn’t say anything about sticking around. All he said was that I had to sit on the Council when the time comes.
Silver lining.
I’m out of here until then.
6
Cadence
Ididn’t drink last night, not much anyway, and yet I feel like crap this morning. Doesn’t help that the fog lifting off the lake is so thick it reaches Fifth Kelc’h and billows over the temple library’s stained-glass cupola. Why am I hanging out in the stacks, sorting through books on January first at eleven o’clock in the morning with folk rock music blasting from my AirPods? Because Alma was sleeping, and I was bored.
