“How?” I challenge her.
She raises her hands and draws them apart, creating an imaginary sign. “Slide down Merlin’s Hat. What do you think, Rainier?”
“I think our town’s touristic enough as is, Almachérie, but I admire your enthusiasm.”
“I see where Cadence gets her party-pooping from.” She pouts, but it’s brief and fleeting like all of Alma’s reactions.
Soon, she’s rambling on about something else, while I’m stuck glancing at the pale façade of Town Hall that stands out like a ghost amidst the soupy fog. Four years ago, we had Christmas dinner there, in the Merciers’ private apartment on the top floor. Crisped capon with chestnuts and glazed carrots. I can still recall the taste of that meal, the feel of Camille’s arms around my shoulders, the powdery floral scent at the base of her neck.
Perhaps that’s why I never missed Maman . . . because I had Camille Mercier.
Now, the town cemetery has both.
Two college kids run past us, laughing as one takes a spill on a patch of ice. He gets up and shakes the wet snow off the back of his coat.
“You okay, son?” Papa asks as he maneuvers his chair around the ice.
The boy—I think his name is Patrice—looks stunned by my father’s concern, but then he spots the wheelchair, and recognition makes his brows level out. “Oui,Monsieur de Morel.Merci.”
“Be careful. We wouldn’t want you starting the second semester in one of these.” Papa tips his head to the chair.
“I’ll be more careful.”
Alma wiggles her fingers. “Bye, Patrice.”
I can’t believe I was right about his name. Unlike Alma, my brain isn’t hotwired to remember the finer details about people. Quiz me on history, though, and I’ll knock your winter boots off.
“’Night, ladies, Monsieur de Morel.” Patrice pats his coat one last time before following his friend into one of Brume’s oldest establishments,La Taverne de Quartefeuille.
The old inn, turned restaurant centuries ago, slumps on the edge of the square housing thePuits Fleuri—a well built during the Middle Ages and rumored to grant wishes to coin throwers. Do I believe this? No. But I like legends and have readIstor Breou, an old tome on the history of Brumian magic, from crumbly cover to crumbly cover more times than I care to admit.
My boot catches on a slick cobble, and I grip the wheelchair tighter to avoid faceplanting. Alma elbows me after I’ve regained my balance. I think she’s about to offer to replace me at the helm but nope. She nods to two guys leaning against the well, sipping from hammered copper mugs. It takes me a minute to make out who they are—Paul and Liron.
Liron is Alma’s ex. They met over the summer when they both worked as counselors for the university’s summer camps, then dated until October, after which they amicably parted ways. They still hook up from time to time, but that has more to do with pickings being slim around these parts than ardent attraction.
“Liron was telling me that Paul wants to ask you out.” She says this in a stage-whisper which I pray doesn’t carry to the boys.
“Who wants to ask Cadence out?” Papa’s legs might not work, but his ears work way too well.
“No one, Papa.”
“Paul Martinol.”
I shoot Alma a pointed glare, which just makes her smile brighten. I swear, she lives for embarrassing me.
Papa stares poor Paul down, making red blotches appear on his skin. Like me, he’s a blusher. He might be worse than I am, actually. Or maybe it just looks more acute, because his hair is red and his skin’s bathed in freckles.
“Not interested,” I say to both Alma and Papa.
My heart’s set on someone else.
Someone completely unattainable and completely uninterested.
Someone whose house we reach a couple minutes later up on Third Kelc’h.
Adrien Mercier.
Camille’s son swings open his front door, golden hair slicked back, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. After flashing us a wide smile and chantingJoyeux Noël, he seizes Papa’s chair and hoists it up the two front steps, muscles bunching inside his long forearms.
