“Your coat, Papa.” I hold up the thick navy cashmere.
As he maneuvers his arms through the sleeves, he looks up at me, and his brow pleats. “You look different,maCadence. Beautiful as always but different.”
“It’s the hair.” Alma grins. “I have two words for you, Cadence. Gor. Geous.”
“That’s actually one word.”
“Not the way I say it.”
I roll my eyes. “Gloves are in the pockets, Papa.”
He digs them out while I slide mine on. Brume has two seasons: summer and winter. Sadly, they’re nowhere near equal. We get blue skies and piping hot air for two months—if we’re lucky, three. The rest of the year, we’re swallowed by a marrow-congealing fog that makes the air feel raw and icy.
The only person in the entire town who doesn’t seem affected by the frigid temperatures is Alma. I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten frostbite on her legs, considering her closet consists of miniskirts and doll-sized dresses.
Like tonight. “Nice skirt. Very Christmassy.”
She pats her scarlet mini, which she’s paired with sheer stockings a shade darker. “Right?”
As he wheels himself out of the house, Papa’s cricket ringtone chirps. He picks up, then proceeds to talk in muted, cryptic one-word answers. Sometimes, I think he may be having an affair, but is it an affair if there’s no wife to cheat on?
I’ve been motherless since I was a week shy of my first birthday, and although I regret Maman passed away, I don’t miss her. You can’t miss someone you don’t remember.
Alma hangs back with me as I lock up.
“Your ladybits are going to end up freezing and falling off one of these days,” I tell her.
She blinks her whiskey-colored eyes at me, and then she wrenches her neck back and releases a bark of laughter that echoes against every old stone in Brume.
“I can’t believe the word ladybits just came out of your mouth, Cadence de Morel.”
I smile as we walk away from the manor. In seconds, the thick fog, that’s densest at the bottom of the hilly town, curls off the lake and swallows my home.
When we reach the cobbled road that winds through Brume like swirled frosting, I grip the handles of Papa’s motorized chair. Even though he doesn’t really need my help maneuvering, I worry about him skidding on black ice or getting stuck in a patch of deep snow.
“You should ask the mayor to build you a ramp, Rainier. They could add one along the stairs.” Alma gestures to one of the staircases cut right into the flank of Brume, which facilitates access to the differentkelc’hs, or circles.
Unoriginal people have streets, Brumians have circles.
“It’d be way too steep,” I say.
Besides, when Papa absolutely needs to be on campus, someone from the fire brigade drives him there with an electric utility vehicle—the only car allowed in our pedestrian town.
Alma’s eyes light up. “Ooh. Imagine how fun it’d be to slide down.”
“Imagine how dangerous.”
“Forever the party pooper.”
“You mean, forever the conscientious adult?” I volley back.
Papa shakes his head at us but lets out a brief chuckle.
“I’m still going to suggest adding a ramp to our dear old mayor over dinner tonight.”
I snort. “Can’t wait to hear you build your case.”
“It’ll be good for tourism.”
