“Why didn’t you take him in after his parents died?”
“I only found out he was alive a few years ago.”
“How come?”
“Someone smuggled him out of Brume. Most likely because they thought he’d be safer away from this place.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “Why does Slate blameyouthen?”
“Because when I found out where he ended up, I didn’t go get him. I left him in the system. I thought it better for him to grow up before he was brought back to Brume. I wanted you kids to be ready once we set the Quatrefoil gathering in motion.”
A web of fear spreads through me, sticky and cold. “And you told him all of this?”
“I did.”
I try to put myself in Slate’s shoes. Would I be bitter?
Papa sighs. “I probably should’ve done background checks on the families he lived with. Had him placed with better people.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Papa looks at the flames licking the blackened logs, filling the living room with the crackling scent of winter. “Because I’m not perfect.”
I think he must be seeing the fire that devoured Slate’s parents, because his expression is troubled.
He returns his gaze to me. “I might have failed him, but I won’t fail you, Cadence. I’ll be there every step of the way.”
I have no doubt he will. “I don’t want you to get hurt again though.”
He gives me a sad smile. “I’ll be careful.”
Could one be careful around magic? It seemed so unpredictable. A Bloodstone that poisons the wearer? Metal leaves that can hide themselves and curse people?
“You think magic could heal your legs?” I’m grasping to feel something other than dread.
“Yes.” Papa’s certainty shoos off my fear.
Fantasy and reality are about to collide, and however terrified, a part of me, the one that spent her childhood dreaming Brume’s books of lore held some truth, reels with excitement.
I wonder how the others are feeling. The others being Gaëlle and Adrien, because I can’t imagine Slate will feel anything other than anxiety until the ring comes off his finger.
13
Slate
If I didn’t know any better, I might say Brume was a charming place with its twinkling holiday decorations and cast-iron street lights.
A magical place.
Ha. That makes me chuckle.
“Happy Fucking New Year,” I shout to no one in particular as I reach Second Kelc’h.
One guy yells, “Ta gueule!” the charming French way of sayingshut the hell up, but a couple others hoot and wish me a Happy Fucking New Year right back.
I hitch the plastic laundry basket up under my armpit and hang on with one hand while I scrabble in my coat pocket for my phone with the other. Pain lances from my middle finger all the way up to my elbow as I grip the basket.
When I finally have the phone in my palm, I tap Bastian’s contact info with my thumb and wait for him to answer.
