Gaëlle scoots out her chair as though the table were digging into her abdomen. “I’m no witch, Alma, but I believe in the power of the mind over our circumstances. Have you ever heard ofla poudre de Perlimpinpin?”
Alma pops an eyebrow up. “The miraculous cure for all ailments that was nothing more than dirt or oil or something?”
Gaëlle nods slowly. “That’s right.”
Nolwenn waves a hand. “I contest. What you sell isnotsnake oil. You use real ingredients in your potions and poultices. Sure, they don’t miraculously melt pounds or give eternal youth, but I’ve used your butterbur migraine aid, and it works. I no longer have to spend an entire day in a dark room with a belt tied around my skull.”
Gaëlle’s complexion brightens from the compliment.
“So, maybe you are a bit of a witch”—Nolwenn pours some milk into her coffee and stirs—“just like your ancestors.”
For a moment, the only sound in the tavern is her spoon clinking against porcelain.
She blows on the top, sending the sweet, charred steam into her daughter-in-law’s face. “Just like Cadence’s maternal ancestors. And Adrien’s.” She sets her brown gaze on mine. “And Marseille’s.”
The knot in my stomach, which had begun to loosen, tightens anew.
Alma frowns. “Marseille?”
“The handsome boy with the black hair.”
“You mean, Slate?” Alma asks.
“Is that his name?” Nolwenn asks, sipping her coffee. “I couldn’t remember.”
But I think that’s a lie. Nolwenn seems to know an awful lot. Does her knowledge of Brume bloodlines stem from serving alcohol that loosens tongues or from having witnessed the previous generation’s hunt?
My gaze releases hers to trace the quatrefoil motif beneath my feet. Brume lore is everywhere. In every cobble and tile. In every stone and plank. In the earth and in the trees.
“Some even believe that the symbol on my floor is based on a real artifact that, if found, could restore magic to Brume. To the entire world.”
I whip my gaze back up to hers.
“Wouldn’t that besocool?” Alma chirps, sloshing orange juice into her glass.
I force myself not to look over at Gaëlle when I ask, “Do you believe the Quatrefoil exists, Nolwenn?”
A long swallow of coffee makes the older woman’s throat contract. “Yes. But I think it’s the source of all evil and should be left alone.”
Panic flashes across Gaëlle’s features. Is she worried Nolwenn might try to stop us?
In a tone too serious to be a joke, her mother-in-law adds, “Remember what happened to Pandora when she opened her box.”
Curses escaped and damned the world.
The heavy velvet curtain shifts again, inviting in the icy morning and dragging away Nolwenn’s unsettling gaze.
She sighs and rises. “Work beckons.” She puts a hand on Gaëlle’s shoulder. “The boys are all set for the day?”
“Twins are at daycare, and Romain’s spending some extra time in the arms of Morpheus. I swear, that boy’s been sleeping thirteen-hour nightseverynight.”
“He’s growing. Juda had to bang pots to get Matthias out of bed when he was an adolescent.”
The mention of Matthias has Gaëlle tugging on a long spiraling lock. “I should . . . should go.” She pushes her chair back brusquely and starts winding up her scarf. “Fill in Rainier. About the well.”
Alma frowns as both Nolwenn and Gaëlle depart. “Well, that was . . .weird.”
Understatement of the year. Then again, the year’s two days’ old.
