Isit through two classes. Nothing sinks into my brain, which is too busy dissecting what happened in the hallway earlier. I write Jasmine’s name and drag my pen through it, slicing neatly through the paper. If I were a witch, I bet this would hex Charlotte’s bestie somehow.
Who fondles random men’s arms?
Also, Charlotte thought Slate wasmyboyfriend, so Jasmine must’ve assumed the same.
Who touches another girl’s boyfriend?
Also . . .again. . . and this is really the most perturbing part, why do I care?
The bell rings, and the pen I’ve been wringing the ink out of falls from my fingers. I bend over, pick it up, and fling it inside my bag where it rolls between my laptop and astronomy notebook.
Slate isn’t your boyfriend, Cadence,I remind myself because myself somehow thinks she has a right to be jealous.Slate’s not even your friend. He’s just your fellow Quatrefoil gatherer. A pompous stranger who looted your family crypt.There’s no reason in the galaxy—certainly, not his great abs or fearsome scars—why you should be attracted to him. Plus, he’s the guy who broke your New Year’s tradition because he didn’t want to kiss you.
You don’t like him.
Not one bit.
This isn’t my first inner monologue, but it’s definitely my lengthiest, which should probably worry me, but considering the events happening around Brume, I decide talking to myself is not all that concerning. Whatisconcerning is that I’m more worried Slate might like Jasmine than I am about surviving the Quatrefoil.
Even though I’m not especially hungry, I have two hours to kill before my afternoon classes, and Alma’s still in hers, so I decide to head down the hill to Gaëlle’s shop for her magical soup and scones—they aren’t spelled or anything . . . at least, not yet. Plus, I need answers as to whether she is seeing Papa. I didn’t ask him yesterday, and this morning, he was already with Jacqueline by the time I woke up, and it didn’t feel right bringing it up in front of his physical therapist. I could, of course, wait until I get home, but for some reason, I feel more comfortable discussing this with Gaëlle than with Papa. I’m still not sure how I might react if Alma’s hunch turns out to be true, and I don’t want to hurt my father by responding badly to the news.
Au Bon Sortis bursting with students by the time I arrive. All of the small round tables fitted between the aisles of witchy wares are occupied, and the line to the glass case displaying today’s lunch offerings snakes around twice. I spot the top of Romain’s blond head bobbing over the hungry crowd, and then I spot Gaëlle coming out from the small kitchen in the back, a pen stuck through the hair she’s twisted and piled on top of her head. Between her undereye circles and the questionable stain on the shoulder of her gray T-shirt, I take it this isn’t the right time to confront her.
I’m about to leave when I take pity on mother and stepson and carve a path through the crowd toward them. “I have an hour. Need some help?”
She looks up from scoopingcrème fraicheonto bowls of cider-braised apples. “Oh, yes, please!”
Waving hello to Romain, who grins at me as he rings up a customer, I circle the glass case and head to the back kitchen where I drop my bag and coat, and wash my hands. Before going back out, I tie a redAu Bon Sortapron over my white blouse. I stare at my reflection in the narrow mirror glued to the door. I didn’t fasten the buttons of my shirt all the way to the collar, but close. So much for dressing a little sexier.
I finger the buttons, hesitating to undo one or two. In the end, I leave them be. Walking around looking like a naughty school girl just isn’t me. Besides, I don’t want to hook a guy with a lace bra—yes, I wore one, even though, frankly it’s so itchy I’m dying to take it off—I want to hook a guy with my personality.
Pushing my hair behind my ears, I walk back out and help get the lunch orders bagged or plated. Thirty minutes later, it quiets down. And then another fifteen minutes after that, andAu Bon Sortall but empties out. Only a few people remain, munching on theMagie Noirecookies Gaëlle bakes daily, or sipping one of the homemade caffeinated brews, or browsing the narrow aisles of witchy-inspired products that run the gamut from costumes and spell books to board games and scented candles to jars filled with dried herbs and ointments with supposed magical properties.
“You’re a lifesaver, Cadence.” Gaëlle grabs the last Dark Magic cookie with a piece of waxed paper and hands it over.
“It was nothing.” I take the treat from her and bite into it, moaning.
Her lips arch with pride.
Licking a glob of gooey chocolate off the corner of my mouth, I say, “I remember you promising to teach me how to make these.”
“I haven’t forgotten. It’s just that between the twins, Romain, the shop, and—” She stops herself from mentioning the Quatrefoil out loud. Unless it was Papa she was about to mention.
“Gaëlle, do you have a minute to talk? Not about the . . . leafy thing.”
Her eyebrows jut down low. “Um. Sure.”
After asking Romain to check if anyone needs refills or sweet treats, she grabs a bottle of hand-squeezed orange and ginger juice from the refrigerated glass case and gestures to a table at the very back of the shop, against a shelf bursting with tins of tisanes that can supposedly mend anything from a broken heart to a broken bone.
“Is everything all right, sweetie?” she asks as we take our seats, the old wooden rungs of the chairs creaking.
This place has been in her family forever, which leads me to wonder if it was an actual magic shop back in the day.
Peeling the parchment paper off my cookie, I say, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me.”
She unscrews the top off her bottle and brings it up to her mouth. “Okay . . .”
“Are you and Papa dating?”
