“But—”
“Take it from someone who treasure-hunts for a living—”
“Treasure-hunts?” I cock up an eyebrow. “Really?”
A smile leaps into his dark eyes. “A job well done is eighty percent preparation, twenty percent execution. Without careful planning, you set yourself up for failure.”
I lean my forearms on the table. “Never thought I’d be taking advice from a crook.”
His shoulder muscles bunch as he matches my posture, his forearms flopping heavily on the table. “Never thought I’d be sitting in a tavern in the middle of bumblefuck-nowhere across from a fifteen year-old librarian.”
I jerk back. “Fifteen? I’m not fifteen!”
“Sorry. Sixteen.”
“I’mseventeen.” But he knows that. He heard Papa mention I was almost eighteen earlier.
Both corners of Slate’s mouth curve up.
“You’re such an ass,” I mutter.
He chuckles.
Nolwenn arrives with my plate of cheese, a basket of sliced baguette, and a thick ceramic mug of tea. Both Slate and I lean back to make room on the table.
Slate’s pushed the sleeves of his sweater up, and I see Nolwenn’s eyes snag on a scar there. It’s puckered and shiny, like a burn.
“Glad to see you’re making friends, Marseille.” Nolwenn’s voice is softer than usual.
His eyes meet mine. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“Cadence is like a granddaughter to me, so you be good to her.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pinches a piece of goat cheese from my plate and sticks the white glob inside his mouth as Nolwenn leaves to tend to her other customers.
When he filches a second piece, I drag the plate closer to me. “Hey . . .”
“I might die in a few days.”
“That’s low.”
“But true.”
“Fine. Eat my dinner.”
He smiles, and I think he says something, but I’m too distracted by the person who just walked into the tavern. Adrien unfastens his coat and looks around, his attention snagging on Charlotte, who’s waving him over like one of those lucky Japanese cat figurines.
“What do you see in that guy?” Slate asks.
Cheeks flaming, I shush him. He’s worse than Alma, and Alma isnotsubtle.
Adrien glances our way.Dear God, please let him not have heard Slate.
“He’s just a close family friend,” I mumble.
Slate splits a piece of baguette, squashes some goat cheese inside, adds a dried fig, then tosses his makeshift sandwich into his mouth. “Uh-huh,” he says around a mouthful, before upending his goblet ofchouchenand wiping his lips on the back of his hand.
As I mix some honey into my tea, I wrinkle my nose. “Where did you grow up? A pigsty?”
