“Groac’h.”
“Yeah. What if thisgroac’hsaws off the rope?”
“I’ll jump in.”
I doubt he’d sacrifice himself for me, but the sentiment is heartwarming. I rethink his nickname a second time. “Is the library open at this time?”
“If it’s not, Cadence has the keys.”
“I don’t have her number.”
“Oh. I can text her. Tell her to meet us.”
As we head toward the temple at the top of the hill, it starts to snow.
If the water fairy doesn’t kill me, this fucking weather will.
20
Cadence
Ican’t shake the chill in my bones, maybe because it’s composed of so many layers—the thing in the well that made me think Papa was drowning, Nolwenn’s allusion to Pandora, Alma’s insinuation about an affair. Not having slept doesn’t help. Even though I’m dying for a thermos of scorching coffee, I don’t dare bring any liquids into the archival room for fear of spillage. Especially now. We can’t afford to ruin any documents.
I’m only on the tenth page ofIstor Breou—I’m not as fluent in Breton as Adrien, plus I’m jotting down everything and anything that sounds remotely linked to dark magic—when the glass door beeps open. It’s Adrien, and he isn’t alone. He kept his promise, which shouldn’t surprise me. The man’s never broken one before.
They approach the laminated white table over which I’ve spread out my research—Istor Breouand other books I got from the library mentioning fantastical aquatic monsters. I’m hoping there could be some applicable truths inside works of fantasy fiction.
Adrien examines the mess of papers and open books. “Find anything interesting?”
“The giant Pacific octopus has three hearts, nine brains, and blue blood.”
Slate, who stands behind Adrien with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat, snorts.
Adrien blinks. “Why are you researching octopi?”
“I’m researching all aquatic monsters. Especially shapeshifting ones.” I look at Slate again, at his mussed black hair dusted with melting snowflakes, at his thick lashes that shield guarded eyes. “I saw Papa, but I know that was personal to me. Was it my father you saw in there, Slate?”
He stares at the cover of a Greek myth anthology. “No. But I also didn’t see a nine-brained octopus.”
My lips quirk, which is a feat considering how stressed I feel.
Adrien steps past me and lifts one of the books. “Good. You got Homer out.”
“I was looking for a siren’s weaknesses. I didn’t know if we could use methods written in works of fiction—”
“Maybe some of these aren’t fictional accounts,” Adrien says. “After all, the worlddidhave magic.”
Adrien’s comment stuns me into silence. After a beat, I say, “I keep forgetting that part.”
“I don’t blame you.” He skims a page, then flips to the next one. “Magic was stripped from humans in 1350, so we should probably focus on works written before that time.”
That pretty much excludes everything butIstor Breou,TheOdyssey, and a couple translations of Asian myths.
Adrien lifts my notepad. “DoesIstor Breoumention agroac’h? Or something that lures men in by taking the shape of a person they love?”
“I think love is a strong word,” Slate interjects.
I wonder why he feels the need to make the distinction. “You seemed pretty desperate to fish out the person you saw.”
