“Oh my God!” She slaps her palm over her mouth.
“What?”
“She’s having an affair with your dad!” Her exclamation is thankfully muffled by her palm.
“What?” We were discussing magic and curses, and this is what came to her? “No.”
Alma nods, lowering her hand and wrapping her fingers around her juice glass. “Shesois. Seriously, she’salwayscoming over to your house. And did you see her face when Sylvie kissed your papa on New Year’s?”
“Nothing romantic is going on between them,” I say, defensively now. I don’t want Alma spreading rumors of an affair.
“Maybe that’s why her husband left. Maybe the twins are your half-brothers.”
“Alma, stop!” I scrape my chair back so hard the wooden feet clack across the tiles.
She shuts up. But then, because her lips are incapable of staying closed, she adds, “Why are you getting so annoyed? You love Gaëlle.”
“I’m annoyed because it isn’t true.”
“Are you sure? She didn’t even glance at that fireman . . .”
“I can’t do this right now. Have this nonsensical conversation when there are so many real andimportantmatters to worry about.” I get up and pluck my coat off the chair. “I’ll call you later.” I ram my arms through the sleeves, but one gets stuck. I wrench my hat out, then jam it on my head, stick my coat on, and stalk out of the tavern.
I glare at the well, anger simmering beneath my skin. I’m so angry I want to knock over the giant soup pot. My father is nothaving an affair with a woman over a decade younger than him, and the twins aren’t my siblings. He wouldn’t do such a thing. Matthias was his friend.
I stomp down the stairs to First Kelc’h. My feet carry me to the cemetery, to Maman before I remember I haven’t called the groundskeeper yet. I almost turn around, especially when I notice the door of our crypt is closed. I inch closer and push the door open a crack. I blink, press it wider. The stone lid’s been placed back on top of the sarcophagus, the other coffins all have lids, and the bottle of wine no longer litters the floor. Papa must’ve contacted the custodian himself.
I’m so grateful because I couldn’t have stomached another glimpse of my mother. Plus, that he took care of this shows he thought of her. That he hasn’t replaced her with another woman. That he still loves her.
I shake my head, trying to wring Alma’s words out of my mind, but they cling like the fog obscuring my view of the manor. I’m tempted to stomp over and check that all Gaëlle and Papa are doing is talking, but that would mean I’m harboring doubts.
Besides, I have way more pressing matters to worry about.
Like saving Slate.
Where is he anyway?
19
Slate
Adrien’s like a giant burr. He stopped trying to talk to me a while ago but hasn’t stopped trailing me.
“Don’t you have a class to teach, Prof?”
“Not for another hour and a half.”
We go another fifteen minutes without talking. I don’t even know where I am on the hill. All I know is that I’m still in Brume, and I know this because I have a ring that won’t let me escape this freezing hole that’s turned me into the shittiest version of myself.
I arrive in front of a set of vertiginous stairs. Unlike the staggered sets of stairs between eachkelc’h, this particular set goes on for eternity. It leads directly down to the lake. The sun’s just coming up, so there’s enough light for me to make out the smoking waterline through a break in the cracked ramparts below.
Gripping the icy metal rail, I start the descent, each step reverberating through my body like cymbals in a brass band. My boot slips on a patch of ice, and I almost go down.
“Roland!” Professor Prickhead jogs two steps below me and readies his hands to catch me like I’m an octogenarian with a bad hip. “Careful, there.”
I can’t even imagine what I must look like for him to do that.
My head aches. My toe smarts. My fingers throb. My knuckles sting. And my elbow . . . I clench my jaw.
