The boy I dreamed about is here.
The cocky thief who told me to make my own luck.
His eyes seem to grow round, which is a feat for eyes shaped like his. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your witch hat,” he says once he’s reached us. His tone is so falsely cheery my teeth grind a little harder. “Hi.” He holds out his gloved hand to Adrien. “Slate Ardoin. Brume’s newest student recruit.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Slate. I’m Adrien Mercier. I teach history.”
Slate’s bowed black eyes take in Adrien as though he were a dial lock on a safe. “I don’t hate history.”
“Then I hope you’ll join my class.”
Slate disengages his hand from Adrien’s. “Are you in Professor Mercier’s class, Bellatrix?”
Bellatrix?Does he think my name is Bellatrix?
“Her name is Cadence.” Adrien’s tone is sharp enough to crack ice. “And yes she’s in my class. Speaking of . . . I need to be in Cambridge tomorrow, so I was wondering if you could fill in for me.”
“Me?”
He nods. “You could teach a class about Brumian lore. After all, no one knows our town’s mystical history better than you.”
“I suppose I could do that.” His compliment makes my ego shine as brightly as the brooch that fell out of Slate’s pocket last night.
Slate’s eyebrows writhe minutely. “I didn’t know you were a history buff,Cadence.”
I cross my arms. “Why would you know anything about me,Slate?”
Adrien clears his throat. “I’m going to head downstairs to check on the clock’s gears, see if I can pinpoint what’s changed.” He smiles as he backs away, but it flickers like a faulty bulb as he takes in Slate again.
Slate who’s taller and broader. Then again, thugs need to keep in shape to run from the law.
I’m not being fair. Maybe Slate had the brooch in his pocket because it’s some good-luck charm or something. But what about all the other glittery baubles that tumbled out? No, he’s most definitely a crook.
Slate watches Adrien wrench open the trapdoor before locking his gaze on the clock again, probably scheming how to steal it. Good thing it’s huge and embedded into the ground. Still, I wouldn’t put it past him to try and wrench one of the hands off or pry out a coin-sized topaz.
“Don’t even think about it,” I hiss.
His gaze settles unhurriedly back on mine. “For someone so lovely, your stare is fearsome. Ever thought of joining the police force?”
I roll myfearsomeeyes. “What is it you want?”
Almost a full minute goes by before he says, “I’ve been seeing this four-leaf clover motif all over Brume, and I was wondering if a librarian could help me find some Brumian history books on the subject.”
I frown, not because I’m surprised—the Quatrefoil is a big tourist attraction—but because he didn’t strike me as someone who’d venture into a library to look up my town’s history.
His fingers curl at his sides. “Can you direct me toward a librarian?”
“You’re looking at an honorary one.”
“You?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.”
“What ishuhsupposed to mean?”
“You don’t strike me as a librarian.”
