12. Cinn
twelve
Cinn
T he imposing grandfather clock in the middle of the corridor loomed over Cinn. Five minutes to six. His fisted hand wavered over Julien’s door. At least, he hoped it was Julien’s door. Julien had shown him the way before dropping him off at his own room earlier, but his elaborately sprawling mansion was impossible to navigate.
The door swung open.
“Why are you standing there like a lemon, as Darcy would say?”
“How did you know I was there?” Cinn crossed his arms.
Julien leant forward, sniffing, to say, “You smell like a lemon, too.”
Cinn scowled, tugging his beanie down lower on his head. “It’s the only shampoo the corner shop sold.”
Julien motioned for him to come in. Crossing the threshold, it became evident that ‘Julien’s room’ was actually ‘Julien’s suite’—the living room he currently stood in housed four separate doors leading off it.
The centre of the room was airy and spacious, whereas the walls were jam-packed—rows and rows of bookcases, a half-filled wine rack beside a globe drink cabinet, a handful of small sculptures in display cases. The largest Persian rug that Cinn had ever seen covered the hardwood floor, its light blue and mustard yellow adding subtle dashes of colour to the dark room.
Eyeing the glistening chandelier in the centre of the ceiling, Cinn said, “This is… nice.”
Julien smirked, eyes twinkling. “ Oui , nice was exactly what I was going for.”
“What do you want me to say? To be fair, I just spent the day at the Louvre. My standards are higher now.”
With a laugh, Julien walked backwards, gesturing for Cinn to follow him through the nearest door. “If it’s more art you’re after, I put all of my favourite pieces in my bedroom. Come see them.”
Resisting a joke about being lured into his bed, lest he encourage Julien’s line-crossing, Cinn followed Julien to find the space just as opulent and luxurious as he’d imagined. The queen-sized four-poster bed hardly took up a fraction of the floor—in fact, Julien’s numerous wardrobes dominated the room.
Remembering he was here to see the art, he followed Julien to the far wall, practically a gallery in its own right. He wasn’t sure what sort of paintings he’d expected to see hung on Julien’s walls—more classical pieces, perhaps—but these surreal and abstract canvases surprised him.
Cinn’s eyes magnetised to a painting where eerie shadows danced across a desolate landscape, the skeletal remains of twisted structures looming in a haunting display of despair.
He moved down the wall. Each piece, clearly by the same artist, contained abstract settings, intimidating creatures, and distorted forms. A gathering of skeletons around a crackling fire, bones bleached white, eye sockets staring out at the viewer. A monstrous head with a gaping maw, out of which humanoid spiders were clawing their way. A large, gnarled tree with many skeletal hands emerging from its trunk and branches, reaching out in different directions, as if grasping at something unseen.
Cinn reached out to hover his fingers a few centimetres away from one canvas’s brushstrokes. Julien, why the fuck do you want these in your bedroom, you absolute freak?
“They’re a bit… doom and gloom,” Cinn said, moving to the final painting, which featured predominantly red hues. The nightmarish, dystopian tableau reminded him so strongly of his visit to the shadowrealm, he clutched his golden bangle to make sure it was still there. “This one looks particularly similar to where I went when I tried to find Béatrice,” Cinn said. “Who painted these?”
“Zdzis?aw Beksiński .” Julien’s hands ghosted across the canvas. “He once said, ‘ I wish to paint in such a manner as if I were photographing dreams’.”
“Well, I love his use of expressionistic colour,” Cinn said, sounding very smart indeed, but Julien snorted.
“Good job listening to me and Darcy today. For five minutes, anyway, before prattling around with Elliot.”
“What’s this one called?”
“He left most of his works untitled. So as not to impose a specific narrative on them.”
“Sounds like something you would do.”
Julien’s infectious cackle made Cinn’s heart beat ever so slightly faster. His laugh was quickly becoming like a drug to Cinn—he was unable to resist chasing it, knowing how it would light up Julien’s eyes, cause his nose to scrunch up slightly, deepen his dimples.
Cinn inched closer to him. “Don’t you want all this in your Talwacht apartment?” Over the last few weeks, Cinn had found himself increasingly curious about where Julien went after he dropped him off each day.
“Eventually. I don’t really like the apartment, though.” Julien’s lips pursed, and he flinched as if he’d said too much.
“Why don’t you take Béatrice’s old room at Darcy’s cottage?” Cinn regretted the stupid question even before he caught the look of horror that flashed across Julien’s face. “Sorry, sorry, ignore me.”
Julien walked out, with Cinn awkwardly following him to the sumptuous chaise longue in the middle of the sitting room. He really should be on his best behaviour now, but he couldn’t resist touching a large ring-bound sketchpad lying on the coffee table .
“Can I?”
Julien appeared hesitant. “They’re all old designs… but if you really want to.”
Flicking through the pages, Cinn discovered dozens of incredibly detailed drawings of what he could only presume were motecraft inventions, each with numerous scribbled annotations in Julien’s messy French scrawl.
A compass-like object, possibly to guide the user to sources of large quantities of motes. Goggles that appeared to give the wearer the ability to see through solid objects. A cross-section sketch of a pillow, containing five different layers, with doodles coming off a sleeping woman’s head—an illustration of a sun, a book, and a dog. Some sort of happy-dream device? Cinn would kill for that.
“Julien, these are incredible.”
“You don’t even know what you’re looking at. Half of these are impossible. They’re just fantasy.”
Cinn rolled his eyes. “God, you’re so difficult. Just take the compliment.”
“Oh, I did, don’t worry.” Julien drifted across the room to the full-length mirror. “We should head downstairs now.” He combed a hand through his hair and straightened the collar on the smart white shirt he was wearing.
Cinn stood to copy him, hovering behind him. The other day, Darcy had accompanied him into the town to help him buy relatively nice clothes for this weekend. As he’d saved the fanciest shirt for the birthday party the following evening, he was in the cheaper black linen one. It itched his neck.
“Oh shit. Can I leave this here?” Cinn went to pull his hat off his head—it surely wasn’t appropriate to wear it to dinner in this fancy palace. Even he knew some level of social etiquette.
Catching his arm, Julien pushed it down, then tugged on his beanie like he’d done the other day. “No, no. Keep it on. You’re all good.”
Cinn opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it. Without the hat, he felt stripped of his shield, as silly as that sounded.
As they traversed the maze of corridors into the main body of the mansion, a ball of nerves bounced in Cinn’s stomach. Just how had he ended up here? “Anything I should know about them? Your dad and step-mother? Do I need to do anything special?”
Julien turned to him. “Just be your normal self.” He flashed him a grin. There was a hint of something in the smile. Something that doubled Cinn’s anxiety as they turned the final corner to reach the drawing room.
Around a roaring fireplace, a collection of armchairs sat arranged in a perfect semicircle, with figures occupying two of them. Upon their approach, they stood up to greet them. The woman swiftly kissed Julien’s cheeks, while the man shook his hand. His father. He possessed Julien’s wiry frame, but that was where the similarities ended.
It was hard to pinpoint what gave the man the air of authority he exuded. Perhaps it was his short-cropped grey hair and beard, in addition to a sprinkling of fine-line wrinkles. Perhaps it was his reputation. Or perhaps it was the way he moved—like he owned the world.
“Julien,” he said, in a far thicker French accent than Julien’s, then turned to Cinn. At first, Lucien Montaigne squinted at him with a frozen smile, like Cinn was an enigma, a lost stray that wasn’t meant to be there. Then he composed himself, reaching over to firmly shake Cinn’s hand, his gaze scrutinising every inch of him, hovering a few too many seconds on his eyebrow piercing and beanie in turn.
“Lucien Montaigne,” he declared.
Behind his father, Julien wore an infuriating smile. Like he had set the stage and now was ready for the performance to unfold.
For fuck’s sake, Julien. What have you done this time ?
The woman—at least a decade Lucien’s junior, but surely his wife, Carrie—seemed far less fazed, reaching out next for his hand. Dressed in a long purple evening gown, her bright red lipstick reminded Cinn of the shade his mother used to wear on the nights she went out and left him with their crazy cat lady neighbour.
“English, yes? Who do we have here, then?” Carrie’s light, musical voice didn’t fool him; her eyes were as calculating as a poker player holding a winning hand.
Cinn’s head snapped straight to Julien, heart rate spiking. Had he not even told them his name ? Did they even know he was staying here?
“I was promised that Julien was bringing home a date, but it’s always delightful to meet new friends. Especially after that last friend he introduced us to.”
Elliot? It had to be.
“Cinn Saunders,” Cinn said, cringing at the waver in his voice. It’s just one dinner. You can get through one dinner.
Carrie smiled, but a shadow darkened Lucien’s face. Did he know about him? What did he know about him?
“Well,” Lucien drawled, his fingers elegantly navigating his perfectly groomed beard. “ Quelle surprise . I didn’t expect to be meeting the infamous shadowslipper so soon. You’ll forgive us, Cinnamon, for not being adequately prepared. My son seems to have a penchant for forgetfulness amidst the brilliance of his mind.”
At the use of his real name, Cinn grimaced, biting his lip for a millisecond before remembering everyone was focused on him. Don’t give them an inch, Cinn.
“Actually, his name is Cinn,” stated Julien, moving to stand near him. “He doesn’t go by Cinnamon at all.”
Heat shot across Cinn’s face. “Anything is fine,” he mumbled.
“Cinn,” Carrie repeated, slightly scrunching up her face. It’s a damn sight better than Cinnamon, woman .
Julien pressed the small of his back, and Cinn had to fight not to jump away from him at the touch, fiery anger coursing through his veins.
“Let’s sit,” Julien said, pushing Cinn towards a chair.
Cinn stared into the fire as Lucien set about pouring drinks for them from a sidebar. Usually, the fireplaces at Auri brought him great comfort—he’d never lived or even visited anywhere with an actual fire in London—but this one seemed set to reach out to devour him.
The sound of liquid being poured into glasses filled the suffocating silence. Lucien set a silver tray with four wine glasses onto a small table.
“Oh, Père , Cinn isn’t a fan of red wine. Do you have any beer?”
Julien’s face was the picture of innocence as Cinn shot him his most furious glare. “Red wine is absolutely fine. Great in fact,” he babbled, reaching for one. He searched his mind to recall Julien and Darcy’s conversations about expensive wine—which occurred with alarming frequency. “Is this Chateau Margaux?” he added, butchering the pronunciation.
After a calculated blink, Lucien emitted a brief, disdainful laugh. “No, this is merely a sneak peek at a new collection from an emerging vineyard. However, I can extend an offer for Chateau Margaux , if that aligns more with your preferences?”
“No, no, this is great.”
The look in Lucien’s eye told Cinn he hadn’t fooled him, so Cinn took a large gulp of his drink to prove he liked it. He almost choked. You sip wine, Cinn, he chastised himself, glaring at the dark red liquid. How could a liquid dry your mouth?
“So, Cinn, how have you found the Aurelia Institute so far?” Carrie asked.
His mouth dried further, descending into sandpaper territory. “It’s been… okay.”
Carrie continued examining him, clearly expecting more than a three word answer .
“It’s very different from London. I mean, obviously London is a city and Auri is… whatever Auri is.”
“And Eleanor tells us you knew nothing of motecraft or of your rare ability until she came to collect you?”
Eleanor . How had he forgotten Eleanor was best friends with these people?
“That’s correct, ma’am.” Cinn cringed at his own odd formality.
Lucien swirled the wine delicately within his glass, savouring the moment before taking a deliberate sip. His piercing blue eyes, devoid of warmth, appeared hesitant to detach from Cinn, casting an unsettling sensation upon his skin. “I trust my son and his associates have been providing you with the appropriate level of care,” he remarked.
Grabbing onto the easier topic of conversation, Cinn said, “Yes, Darcy has been very welcoming.” Your son is a bloody nightmare, though.
At the mention of her, Lucien’s face lit up. “Ah, Darcy Beaumont!”
“Don’t start waxing lyrical about her again, Père ,” said Julien, who had sunk so deeply into his armchair he was barely visible in the dim light. “Cinn may get the wrong impression of you.”
Carrie made a tiny sound of discontentment, covering it quickly with a sip of her drink.
A woman, dressed in a double-breasted chef jacket, apron and neckerchief, appeared in the doorway, greeting them in French.
“Marie,” said Carrie. “We have a special English guest with us this evening.”
The chef offered Cinn a wide smile. “Pardon me. Good evening. If you would please follow me into the dining room.”
With a sense that his hellish evening was only getting started, Cinn forced himself to his feet to follow behind the others.
“It’s a pleasure to see a new face,” Marie said as she showed them to their seats .
I bet it is.
“Hungry?” whispered Julien into his ear, his breath tickling the back of his neck.
Throwing Julien the sharpest of daggers, Cinn responded with, “Don’t even dare. I’m so fucking furious at you it’s unreal.” Then he slid into the seat next to him, opposite Lucien and Carrie.
The mammoth dining room table was meticulously adorned with fine linen, crystal glasses, and several candelabras alight with flickering glows. Each place was set with a ridiculous amount of polished silverware.
While Lucien spoke to Marie, Julien turned to Cinn, glancing down to their place settings and opening his mouth.
“If you even think about trying to explain this cutlery to me, I will cut you,” Cinn hissed, tapping the handle of the steak knife for good measure.
Julien smirked. “Why would I need to explain cutlery to a Michelin star chef such as yourself?”
Cinn was about to pick up the knife anyway when Lucien and Carrie’s attention gravitated back towards them.
“Julien, one would assume you’ve received correspondence from MEET by now concerning your application,” Lucien said, his tone one of condescension.
“Non, Père.” With a glance at Cinn, he added, “Mote-Enhanced Engineering & Technologies.”
“I know what MEET stands for by now,” Cinn mumbled. “You don’t shut up about it.”
Lucien chuckled. “My ambitious son has always possessed a talent for relentless chatter. Speaking of MEET, however…” Lucien’s gaze narrowed in on Julien. “You still haven’t offered me your thoughts on the steam-engine proposal.”
“There wasn’t too much to say. Besides, I heard through the grapevine your people had already motioned to acquire it before anyone else had the chance to pick up up their pen. ”
The older man stared at the younger as if he could burn him with his gaze. “Of course. Improving the efficiency of cargo ships will only benefit the entire planet, especially those populations in developing countries whose economies rely on exporting goods.”
“ Oui , but it doesn’t need HorizonTech’s stamp on it to do so.”
The tension in the air was beyond palpable. Cinn stared down at the table, unable to maintain the back and forth.
“May I remind you that HorizonTech—”
“Gentlemen, save the business talk for the party tomorrow,” interjected Carrie, with a nod to Cinn, who couldn’t help but flush.
Lucien smiled a flash of sharp teeth. “Quite right dear. Now, Cinn, as you find yourself assimilated into the institute, do you harbour any grand visions for your future with us? Perhaps some objectives?”
Visions ?! Objectives ?! Was the man joking? Cinn’s only plan was to keep his head down and hope they somehow forgot to ever ask him to go and banish those terrifying monster things to the shadowrealm, or whatever the fuck they actually wanted him there for.
Marie gifted Cinn a precious few moments to prepare his answer by presenting their amuse-bouche, the existence of which caused Cinn to wonder just how many courses he was going to have to sit through, and distracting him from producing his answer for Lucien.
“Um…” he started.
Julien interjected with, “Eleanor and Noir are formulating an agenda for Cinn to spend some time shadowing at various Auri departments.”
They are?
“That’s a splendid plan,” commented Carrie. “A great way to immerse him in how things work.”
Resisting shaking his head, Cinn used the soup spoon to scoop up his hors d’?uvre from its shallow bowl. This was the most awkward dinner of his life, but he couldn’t deny the single, bite-sized truffle-infused oyster velouté with caviar was tasty .
Determined that Julien wouldn’t be his mouthpiece, Cinn added, “I still have lots to learn about shadowslipping from Noir first, before I think about anything else.” He glanced down at the golden bangle around his wrist, the life-changing device that suppressed unwanted slips. If only he’d been given it from the beginning. He’d have grown up unafraid, and four lives wouldn’t have been taken.
Lost in his thoughts, Cinn didn’t catch the name of the next dish, some sort of duck liver with a fig compote. If he were in the kitchen, he would have added a touch of balsamic reduction, but he certainly wasn’t about to tell Marie that.
When the next dish wasn’t the main, but a soup, Cinn wanted to scream. Marie’s lobster bisque with saffron and chervil oil turned his stomach even before his first mouthful, the pungent seafood aroma overwhelming him. Fish do not belong in soup, he thought miserably, placing a miniscule amount on his spoon.
He tuned back in to hear the phrase, ‘Arcane Purifiers’, spat from Lucien’s mouth.
Hoping he wouldn’t be asked his opinion, Cinn glanced at Julien to catch the twinkle in his eye. The twinkle that meant he was about to cause trouble. “However Père , you can’t deny that the evidence is there. Since the Calamities of Nineteen Sixty-Five, the rise in natural disasters has been fully consistent with our constant increase of mote channelling and mote application. And, now, with these new umbraphage creatures attacking people on city streets…”
With cold, flinty eyes bulging, Lucien elevated his chin. “Don’t you dare extend sympathy towards their narrow-minded crusade within this household, mon fils . Their misguided, ill-informed quest poses a threat to the stability of the moteblessed community. They are nothing short of terrorists. I would have expected, especially after witnessing their work first-hand recently, that you wouldn’t utter a word in defence of their cause.” His words cut through the air with an authoritative sharpness .
Cinn suddenly found a fresh wave of appeal for his soup.
“What do you think, Cinn?” Julien asked, in a pleasant tone, as if they were debating tomorrow’s weather.
Cinn chewed on his bread. Swallowed. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
Once this dinner was over, he was going to murder Julien. Murder him, then slip into the shadowrealm and murder him all over again.
“ Père , what did Béatrice think about the Arcane Purifier movement? Do you know?”
Eyes closed, Cinn murmured a silent prayer to any deity that might be listening.
Carrie’s musical lilt filled Lucien’s silence. “I hardly think our guest is interested in this topic of conversation.”
But Julien wasn’t letting it go. Shoulders drawn back, he seemed oddly tense, his unwavering gaze directed straight at his father. “Did she ever say anything on the matter to you?”
With a clatter, Lucien dropped his cutlery onto the table. “Assez. Tu sais que Béatrice partageait mon point de vue sur ce sujet. Tout comme toi, je l’espère. Maintenant Julien, si tu pouvais arrêter d’embarrasser ta famille, je t’en serais gré.”
Red splotches of colour dotted Julien’s cheeks. His grip on his cutlery turned his hand white. A shred of sympathy shot through Cinn—just the teeniest fraction.
“En parlant de ta très chère fille, pourquoi cela te dépla?t-il autant de me voir enquêter sur sa mort?” Julien replied.
He couldn’t understand a word of it, but what he did know was that this was all too much. Far too much.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Abruptly, Cinn stood, and before anyone enquired if he needed directions to the nearest bathroom, he dashed off towards the kitchen .
He found Marie instructing two assistants, elbow deep in potatoes. Her eyes widened as he approached.
Before he could be ordered out, he said, “ Please let me do something for you. Just for five minutes. I’m a trained chef. Well, semi-trained chef.”
Likely at the desperation in his eyes, she nodded towards a pile of leafy asparagus. “Wash and trim those. If you don’t fuck that up, you can blanch them for me.” She studied him, eyes roaming up and down. “What’s a semi-trained chef doing dining with the Montaignes this evening, anyway? You don’t look like their normal victims.”
“I was coerced into this horrific event by their son, purely for his entertainment, it seems.”
She laughed, a genuine hearty laugh that was music to his ears.
For a moment, he focused only on the noises of their combined efforts in the kitchen and pretended he was back at Rosewood Parlour with Sarah whispering gossip in his ear when she was supposed to be washing dishes, and Benny barking orders. Any second now, the head chef would shout out one of his stupid rhyming commands. Less chatter, more batter! Less stressing, more dressing! Less clutter, more butter!
“Not bad.” Marie admired his line of uniform asparagus. “If I ever crack under the pressure of working for my exasperating employers, you can have my job.”
A shadow at the doorway told him his time was up. Cinn washed his hands before pushing past Julien, deliberately not looking at him. He’d deal with him later. He just had to make it through three more courses.
When he returned to his seat, Lucien inquired, “Is everything alright?” His tone didn’t invite any deviation from ‘yes’.
As Julien slid back in next to him, Cinn nodded. “Marie just wanted some extra help in the kitchen, that was all.” They’d know it was an excuse, of course, but couldn’t challenge it. “And I’m training to be a chef.” Not exactly true, not anymore. “I mean, I was. In London.”
Carrie’s face brightened with delight. At least the woman was good at feigning interest. “Oh, how… lovely!”
“Yes. It was.” Cinn aggressively dunked his baguette slice in the now-cold soup, imagining he was punching Julien’s face.
“Cinn is giving Darcy a run for her money with his cookie making skills.”
“I’m just messing around in her kitchen. I’m not really a baker.”
Neither Carrie nor Lucien seemed equipped to continue a conversation about cookies, so a tense silence fell between the four of them.
Then he felt it.
The lightest brush against his ankle.
Cinn shuffled slightly across, giving Julien more room.
Then, another nudge came, followed by small circles on his lower calf, before Julien hooked his foot around Cinn’s, pressing their legs together.
What in the world? How did Julien have the audacity to attempt to play footsie with him under the table right now?
With all the force he could muster, Cinn shot out his leg to kick Julien, who lurched forward, dropping his knife with a loud clatter. Mission success.
Plastering his best butter-wouldn’t-melt expression on, Cinn asked, “Are you okay?”
And that’s when Cinn realised his error. Because he’d forgotten something vital—Julien loved games. Lived for them, seemingly.
The smile Julien flashed him was as bright as the sun, and he was Icarus, about to burn.
Thankful that Lucien and Carrie had struck up their own quiet conversation, Cinn leaned in close to Julien to hiss, “If you touch me one more time , I’ll announce I’m feeling ill, go grab my stuff, and walk to Darcy and Elliot’s hotel if I have to.”
Hell, he’d sleep on the street if it came to it .
“Pardon. It was an accident.” However, Julien didn’t look anywhere near as guilty as he should, his eyes still shimmering with a hint of amusement. Oh, what Cinn would do to smack that expression off his face.
He narrowed his eyes, attempting a contemplative look. “Maybe Elliot will let me sleep in his room.”
A flash of something crossed Julien’s face before he composed himself, and Cinn counted that as a win. For good measure, Cinn shuffled his chair away from him. The loud scrape was worth it.
The rest of the meal was uneventful. Cinn was too stressed to enjoy the impressive main, which Marie announced as chateaubriand steak with béarnaise sauce, truffle mash, and asparagus bundles. At least each bite helped him count down the seconds until he could escape. Lucien continued to ask him questions about his experience of Auri, then launched into random speeches about the consortium he held a chair of, but Cinn didn’t even attempt to follow, nodding in random places in agreement.
As for the dessert, a Grand Marnier soufflé delicately flavoured with orange liqueur, he was far too full by then and only managed three bites before admitting defeat.
“Shall we retire into the drawing room with our coffee?” Lucien asked, once what Cinn had assumed were the final dishes were cleared.
Coffee?!
Too quickly, Cinn stood up, causing his chair to screech again. “Actually, thank you so much for the lovely meal, but I’m rather tired after sightseeing today, and I want to be refreshed for your party tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Carrie gave him a tight smile. “We look forward to seeing you there. It will be a great chance for you to meet important people within our community.”
Another evening of absolute torture. Maybe he should see if he could change his ticket and head back to Switzerland tomorrow morning. Alternatively, he was now incredibly close to England …
“I am also feeling tired,” announced Julien.
I bet you are, after that ludicrous show.
After dragged-out farewells, Cinn was finally free to leave the room, Julien hot on his tail. He darted down the halls, retracing their earlier steps.
Of course, their earlier steps led him straight to Julien’s rooms.
Cinn stopped outside of it. Shaking with rage, unable to even meet Julien’s eyes, he said in an unsteady voice, “What the actual fuck was that?” The skin under his golden band tingled with warmth.
“Dinner with my darling father and his wife.”
“No, that was an absolute shit-show that you dragged me to for your own entertainment.”
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”
Something inside Cinn broke.
He’d had enough of this entitled princeling who thought he could fuck with him.
Closing the space between them, Cinn forced Julien to take two steps backwards until his body pressed into the door.
“Are you joking? It was awful,” he snarled at Julien, blood turning to lava as it pulsed angrily through his body. “You’re such a prick. Did you stop to consider for one moment how shit it would be for me to sit through you deliberately winding him up? You didn’t even tell them I was staying here for some fucked-up reason.”
Cinn unleashed an angry, strangled scream, slamming his fist against the wood beside Julien’s head, lest he smash his stupid pretty face in.
Julien wasn’t smiling anymore. Rather, his face had gone very blank, and any shred of colour drained from it.
“And this is all after I forced myself on a bloody aeroplane to be here to help you.”
A flinch .
“Which I didn’t mind doing, because I’d do anything for my friends. But if this is how you treat yours—”
“It’s not.” Julien’s voice was so quiet, he barely heard it.
A pause.
“Well?” Cinn spat. “Aren’t you going to say anything else?”
Without warning, Julien pushed the door handle down, throwing his weight backwards to open it, sending them both stumbling through the doorway.