“A mask and a flashlight.”
“Hmm. Good thinking, Mademoiselle de Morel.”
“An insulated dive suit and some fins. Oh, and an air tank. Or at least an air hose . . .” I scribble all these items down, a grocery list of sorts. “Have you ever scuba-dived?”
“Nope, but since water’s my element, I’m probably part amphibian.” He stretches his fingers, as though checking if they’ve suddenly become webbed. “Adrien suggested tying me with rope in case I decide not to get out.”
“That’s wise.”
“He seems like a wise man.”
“He is. We’re lucky to have him on the team.”
Slate’s Adam’s apple jostles in his throat as though he didn’t appreciate me calling us a team. Trust really isn’t his forte.
We both go back to reading after that, and the quiet that expands between us is surprisingly pleasant.
In between a passage about an orchard that bloomed in the winter and saved Brume from famine and a blacksmith whose forge produced swords able to turn enemies into allies, I ask, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Slate looks up, and I blush. I’m not even sure why.
“Or close friends?”
“Why? You want their phone numbers in case I don’t make it out of the well?”
A chill spreads over my heated cheeks, as though someone tampered with the fan’s speed in the vent overhead. “That wasn’t why I was asking.”
“Then why were you asking?”
I set my elbows on the table, twirling the pen between my fingers. “I saw Papa in there. If the well were my mission, then I’d want constant reminders that it’s not my father. Instead of playing music on those earphones, maybe hearing the voice of the person you’re seeing could help your focus. That’s why I was asking about girlfriends or friends. Maybe they could talk you through it.”
His eyes darken as fast as the Brumian sky in winter. “No.” His tone is final, brooking no argument.
No to girlfriends and friends? Or no about involving anyone else?
“How aboutItalk you through it, then?”
His lips purse as though I’ve just suggested slathering him in stinky Maroilles cheese to make the siren, or whatever’s in the well, flee.
“I seem to have a talent for annoying you, which might help keep your brain sharp.”
“Fine.”
I’m so surprised he relented that the pen tumbles out of my fingers and rolls off the table. As I bend to scoop it up, I say, “Great.”
But is it all that great that he finds me so annoying?
21
Slate
Instructions come at me like bullets:
“Don’t hold your breath,oryou’ll die.”
“Control your anxiety, so you don’t burn through the air supply,oryou’ll die.”
“Don’t ascend faster than the bubbles,or you’ll die.”
