“Ah, but I do.” He clears his throat and looks directly at the back of his daughter’s head. “I know because it’s the Bloodstone that killed my wife, Amandine.”
10
Cadence
Magic robbed me of my mother?
“Why the fuck did you tell me to come to this fucking town!” Slate’s voice slaps the tension-filled air, bashing right through my thoughts.
I step to the side so I can keep an eye on both men. I don’t want to have my back turned to Slate. I don’t trust him.
Papa’s face turns the color of raw beets. “I didn’t tell you to pilfer my family’s crypt!”
Both men’s chests heave equally hard whereas mine is quiet. I’m still processing. That my mother died because of magic. That magic is real. That it’s stored inside four hidden leaves and a ring that’s presently choking the thief’s finger.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I whisper.
“What?” I don’t think Papa means to snap at me, but that’s how the word comes out.
“About magic? That it existed?” I stare at the bronze bonsai in the middle of our coffee table, at the grooved bark, delicate branches, and raindrop-sized leaves. “That it stole Maman from us?”
“Telling you was putting you at risk. Until Rémy came home—”
“My name’s Slate. Not Rémy. And this isn’t my home.”
“UntilSlatecame back to Brume, we had no way of bringing magic back, so I didn’t see the point in getting your hopes up for nothing.”
Slate backs up until his calves hit the couch and then sinks down but doesn’t lean back, his spine as rigid as a fire poker. “Until I came back?”
The large red stone catches the dying sunlight outside, beaming it onto Papa’s chest. The red dot looks like a bloody hole against the pale cashmere.
Papa sighs. “It’s complicated.” His navy eyes rove over Slate’s face, then off, settling on the long bay window and the lake beyond, which gleams gold and sapphire-gray under a thin layer of mist.
Slate thrusts a hand through his mussed black curls. “Try me. I’m good at complicated.”
“Let’s hope you are,” Papa says. “With Amandine and the others, we tried to assemble the Quatrefoil. And we failed.”
“The others?” I venture.
Papa’s gaze climbs up to me. “The other founding families. The other guardians.”
“We’re . . . we’rediwallers?” I don’t think I’ve ever experienced so many extreme and mixed emotions in the space of such a short while.
“I was hoping we’d have more time . . .” he adds quietly.
“More time?” Slate’s clutching his knees, the knuckles of both hands pale, the tendons so taut they look about to snap the ring off his purple middle finger.
My heart almost goes out to him, but he did this to himself. Actions have consequences. It’s about time he learns this.
“The moment the ring binds to a descendant, the pieces appear. If they’re not found and assembled before the new moon, they all vanish again.”
“Okay.” Slate’s still breathing laboriously. “So, that gives us how long?”
“Full moon’s tomorrow.” Which reminds me. As I shrug out of my puffer jacket and toss it on the back of the couch, I gush, “Papa, I tried calling you earlier, because the clock—”
“Started ticking.” He sighs.
“Did Adrien tell you?”
