“Charlotte couldn’t make it I see,” she tells Adrien, waggling her brows at me. “What a shame.”
“If you weren’t my best, and only, friend,” I hiss, “I’d toss you into my family’s crypt.”
“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “I’d love it. I’d get to hang out with Viviene.”
“Who’s dead.”
“Not according to the rumor mill. Her ghost’s been spotted all over Brume.”
“By drunks and tour guides.”
Supposedly, I descend from the legendary enchantress who trapped Merlin in a cave under a rock in the neighboring forest of Broceliande. Alma’s convinced I also descend from Merlin, but Viviene was reputed to have had many lovers, so who really knows?
“Here.” Adrien reaches for my silver puffer jacket, and his fingers graze mine. “Let me get that.”
Cheeks blazing, I murmur a rapid-firemerciand streak into the living room where Papa and Adrien’s father, Geoffrey Keene, are exchanging niceties even though they never have anything nice to say about one another.
Both Geoffrey and Papa married into Brume’s founding families. Where Geoffrey kept his own last name, my father took my mother’s, something which Geoffrey rails him about at least once a year. In my opinion, I find Papa’s gesture generous. Maman wanted me to carry her maiden name, and Papa wanted to make sure no one ever forgot I was his baby girl.
But the root of their hatred runs deeper than taunts about family names. My father’s loathed the Mayor of Brume since he tried to seduce Maman, despite both of them being married.
“Bonsoir, Cadence.” Geoffrey’s eyes, which are the same mosaic of brown and green as his son’s, stroke up my body, taking in the skinny black pants I’ve paired with a sleeveless, chunky turtleneck. I don’t think he’s looking at my outfit as much as the curves around my hips and chest.
“I made somevin chaud,” Adrien announces. “Can I get you all a glass?”
“Yum.” Alma settles on the leather couch. “Bring it on, Professor M.”
“Your parents couldn’t make it back for the holidays?” Geoffrey asks Alma.
“Oh, you know my parents, Monsieur Keene. They’re not big on holidays.” She scoops up a handful of cashews from the low table and chomps on them while I go help Adrien ladle the mulled wine into mugs.
Both Alma’s parents were professors here at the university. They had Alma late in life, and then, two years ago, they left her under the care of my father and moved to an island off India’s coast where they teach English to underprivileged children.
I lean my hip into Adrien’s kitchen counter. “Thanks for having us tonight.”
He looks away from his saucepan of wine and smiles, which makes his already square jaw look more chiseled. “You think that on my first Christmas back, I wouldn’t try to reinstate the tradition?”
My gaze strays to the oil portrait of the woman who’d made the holiday so special, who’d made every day special. How did no one spot her depression beneath her smiles? Sure, Adrien had been away at Cambridge, but Geoffrey was here. Papa was here.Iwas here. How did we all miss the signs? The memory of Papa explaining she wasn’t coming back still rattles me, even after four years.
“Thanks for letting me bring Alma,” I say, returning my attention to the boy Camille left behind.
The boy who’s like her in so many ways—wonderful, smart, kind.
He hands me a mug. “Alma’s welcome anytime.” He grabs two more and tips his head to the living room.
Unlike his father, his eyes don’t stray down my body. They stay perched on my face. I really wish he’d look lower, notice my new curves, notice I’m no longer the little pigtailed girl he considered like a sister.
He has a girlfriend, I remind myself as I walk ahead of him. And he’s six years older. Still, disappointment bloats inside me.
As I plop down next to Alma, I take a big, frustrated swill of the spicy wine. It’s delicious, so I take another, then lick my lips to catch any fugitive droplets. I’m about to compliment Adrien on having brewed the best beverage I’ve ever tasted when I catch him staring at my mouth.
His eyes flick up to mine, then away, and he leans back in the sofa, one hand smoothing his hair. He asks Papa something I don’t hear because I’m too busy wondering if I imagined him watching my mouth.
And did it mean anything?
3
Slate
