House of Marionne

A man reaches into my chest.

And pulls out my heart.

I fall to my knees, cold all over.

Clutched tightly in his hand, he tips the glass, pouring.

Blood spills onto the floor, dripping from the rim.

I shiver, pleading.

He licks his lips in a vile smirk, a coin glinting at his throat.

The glass, now upright, refills with a black substance.

With it filled to the brim, he squeezes and squeezes until the glass shatters.

Isit up, gasping. Cold sweat sticks to me. Abby’s bed is empty and sun winks at me from the window. Mom. I feel through my covers for my key chain. It’s over the edge of the bed on the floor. I snatch it up and squeeze. Squeeze back, Mom. Let me know you’re okay. That you’re still coming. I blow out a breath, hands shaking, cold, from my dream, I’m pretty sure.

Outside is green as far as I can see, the estate rimmed in morning fog. Right below Abby’s window is a garden wrapped in shrubbery. Several pupils wearing diadems or masks in varying sizes and shapes gossip and gab over breakfast. It reminds me of a high school cafeteria where everyone’s plugged into the drama for the day. Except here, no one’s sitting alone.

Think.

Sharp aches bluster to and fro through my bones in warning, like winds before a winter storm, my toushana threatening to rise up. Mom hasn’t come yet. I can’t stay here. I slip on the plain scoop neck dress that Grandmom gave me so I at least blend in. It’s a simple straight cut, embroidered with fleurs on its capped sleeves. My body tingles all over as the dress seems to tighten itself in places. The prickle of cold stabbing me sharpens. I can feel my toushana more clearly or something. When I grab my bag and dash past the mirror, I catch a glimpse of myself and still. The soft, fine linen is dusty pink, the color of the sky before nightfall. It fits as if it was made especially for me. I peel myself away from the mirror, ease the door open, and book it down the hall.

Down the stairs, I halt at a rush of people with no exits in sight. My toushana’s ache deepens, pressing into me like a scrape of a knife on the underside of my skin. I knead my hands to try to warm them before it’s too late. The hall is a cloud of conversations, and for a moment the world stops spinning. I’m surrounded by gleaming masks and radiant diadems, mindless titters and chatter behind gloved hands. Heads swim around me, and I’m pinned in the center of it all like a thorn in a bunch of handpicked roses. My feet won’t move. My heart won’t slow.

“Excuse me,” says a girl with a sharp chin and coiled hair down her back. The diadem on her head is angular and rimmed with small purple stones.

“Sorry.” I step aside, out of her way, gaping at the showing of magic growing out of her head.

She and a friend hurry past, both in beautiful gowns much more ornate than the simple one I and mostly everyone wear. I crane for a view of where they might be going dressed so fancily.

“Is that her?” someone behind me whispers, and I realize my staring has garnered attention.

“Headmistress’s granddaughter returned from the dead,” another snickers. My heart stumbles and I scan desperately for an exit.

“I heard she was back because Headmistress is sick and she wants all her money.” I resist the urge to plug my ears, and I take off in the direction that looks most familiar. It was so dark when I arrived, everything looks so different now. Grandmom’s a fixture in the busy corridor, ushering people to their sessions. She’s the last person I want to see. I hurry, trying to blend into the blur of the rush to morning sessions as I look for the foyer we came through last night, the hovering sphere, something to orient me in this maze of a place.

The crowd moves down an expansive corridor of what appear to be classrooms: tall carved doors beneath arched thresholds with engraved inscriptions in a language that’s unfamiliar to me.

Chill settles on my bones like a layer of morning frost, my toushana fully awake.

“Quell?” a familiar voice calls. Jordan.

Oh god, not now.

“Don’t make this hard,” he says, following me.

I pick up the pace to a light run, my heart racing my feet, knowing what the Order does to people like me. He can’t see me, not like this . . . not while my toushana’s this inflamed. I round another corner, and it’s a dead end where an intricately sculpted sheet of stone eclipses most of the wall. It looks like a scene plucked out of a history book. The sound of panting is on my heels, but I don’t see Jordan. Yet.

I wedge myself into the small space between the statue and the wall. The time between his footsteps lengthens as he rounds the corner. I rest on my heels, waiting, hoping he doesn’t realize I’m hiding here. The wall is firm against my back.

Then it’s not.

I fall backward, rolling right through the paneled wall, and hit my head on the hard ground. “Ow!” Darkness surrounds me. The only ray of light shines from a peephole in the wall. My hands rove the hard floor as I gape at the sturdy wall in front of me. The wall? I just went through a wall? Using the peephole, I spot Jordan, staring at the stone display with hardened frustration. But after a moment he turns to go back the way he came.

I dust myself off and look for some indication of where the corridor goes. Judging by the well-scuffed floor, it’s a commonly used one. After several minutes, my pulse slows, my toushana retreats, and the rubbing of my hands finally warms them. I push against the wall that I fell through with my elbow to avoid using my fingers, just in case, and it gives like a trapdoor. I could go back that way. But if there’s a way out of here that doesn’t involve potentially running into people, Grandmom, for example, I prefer that.

Clack.

“Hello?” I tighten my grip on my bag, running my hands along the wall, feeling for some sort of alternative exit. I ease out my next breath to calm the anxiety pulling at me. The walls are all smooth. No archways, handles, or doors. I follow it until the peephole is so far behind me, my hand is invisible in front of my face.

Laughter flits through the air, dotted by footsteps. Several footsteps.

I follow the sounds, my feet much braver than my conscience, when a faint melody plays. High, strained notes. The music cries higher, and I press my ear to the part of the wall where I hear it loudest. There’s no proper door, but there’s something behind here. My fingers trace every divot on the wall, pushing, leaning into it. It shifts, and a door appears. I gasp.

Light splits the darkness and the music swells. I peek inside. The light flickers and the laughter is louder. Inside, a long table wreathed in chairs fills most of the room. Stacks of old leather books are piled in the corner. I look for a record player or some source of the music, but there’s nothing like that. And no one’s here. The hair on my neck stands. I heard people; I know I did.

I back away, and my foot nudges something piled on the floor. It spills, clattering. The thin long rods at my feet are slender with knobby ends like very large bones. The music stops. I gaze around, but only shadows shift in the corners. Goose bumps race up my skin. I turn to go back the way I came.

“You’re early.” The voice comes from the entryway, or trick door, rather, just as a busty woman with an earthy complexion and slick, dark hair appears. Black tulle gathers at her neck and wrists, cinched with a glittery fleur brooch. Her diadem is low to her head, covered in a cluster of blue stones.

“Cultivator Dexler.” She sticks out her hand, and I take it, despite my confusion. “Your grandmother told the staff you might pop into some sessions today. I’m honored you chose to sit in on mine. No trouble finding the room, then?”

“I was—”

“Yes?”

“No, no trouble finding my way down here.”

“Good.” She claps me on my back. More file into the room, several with daggers in hand, and Dexler indicates a chair around the table for me to sit. I play the part, pretending. But when she dismisses us, I’ll follow the corridor and see if it leads to the outside. From there, I’ll try Mom again. I glance at my key chain, but it still isn’t glowing. I chew my lip.

Next to me, someone wearing a bemused expression flicks her blue eyes in my direction, smacking on bubble gum. She pulls at her earring, eyes me up and down, and offers me a plastic smile before turning her attention back to a small black book. But I’m too distracted by the gold diadem, tall and ornate, stacked with gems arced over her cropped blond hair.

Dexler claps. “Now, where were we?” The word Transfiguration is on the wall behind her. “We’ll start with recitations. Electus?”

“Ma’am?” a small group asks in unison, while the rest stay quiet.

“What is your charge?”

“Emerging one’s magic,” they chant. “Rich is the blood of the chosen.”

“Very good,” she goes on. “Primus, what is your charge?”

“Honing one’s dagger.” A different group speaks this time. “Arduous is the work of the laborer.”

“And Secundus, what is your charge?”

Only a handful speak this time, including the blue-eyed girl next to me. “Binding fully with one’s magic. Entrusted are many, proven are few. Duty is the honor of the willing.”

“Excellent, and two more. Transfiguration?”

“To transfigure is to change,” the group says in unison. “The core of magic is change. Transfiguring one thing to something else with regard to the Rules of Natural Law.”

She snaps, keeping tempo with the cadence of the class’s recitations. “And what is the First Rule of Natural Law?”

The session answers, their voices a blur of words and meaning.

“Superb.” Dexler’s gaze falls on me. I shift in my seat. Please don’t call on me. I know nothing.

“Before we get started, hand up your independent study work on augratics.” She moves around the room, collecting papers. I sit up.

“Today I’ll be reviewing necrantics, a type of Shifting that deals with the transfiguration of dead anatomy, for those who need the refresher.” Whispers swarm. “Remember, these reviews in sessions are only a fraction of your training. Magic is a kinetically acquired skill. Staring at me talking isn’t going to grow your magical ability.” She pulls her glasses off her face, eyeing each of us in the room. “You should be spending hours every day on actual independent practice and study. You Secundus, especially. Free time isn’t for socializing.”

Dexler shushes everyone and picks up a bone from one of the piles on the floor. It’s longer than my whole arm. I hang on her every sentence, awestruck.

“Today’s lesson is a bit more hands-on. First, you’ll need your kor. Your energy source. Eventually you’ll be able to summon your own energy, but for now, most often fire will do.”

Fire. I swallow.

She secures a ring with a chunky purple stone on her knuckle before pulling a bunch of uncut taper candles from a box and separating one, slicing the wick close to the wax. Once she fits it into a candleholder, she rubs her hand over it, the purple stone glows, and the candle ignites.

I flinch, pressing back in my seat for a moment before leaning forward, gaping in awe. I realize I’m gripping the table so tightly, people are watching.

Dexler smirks at me. “First, I shifted the composition of the air to make it more flammable.” She holds her palm face out and it’s dull gray. “Shifted my skin to give it a layer of something complementary to the kor. For fire I chose magnesium.”

Pencils scratch paper, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

“Now, for the bone.” She holds the bone, turning it in the flame, working her fingers up and down it, the stone of her ring still glowing. After several spins, she wraps the bone in a rip of fabric. Again, she turns it over the flame. I sniff for some sign of burning, but there is none. The fabric bubbles against the bone as Cultivator Dexler works her fingers, smoothing the bubbles out when the purple gleam of her ring stutters.

The flame swells larger.

“Ah,” she shouts as the fire goes out, and she tugs the ring off her finger, wincing. “Well, it’s a start. Magic is prickly.” She returns the ring to its locked box, then sets the bone in the middle of the table, and everyone leans over it. The fabric wrapped around the bone has changed to cylindrical fibers, like muscle. “That’s the leg of an ancient creature. And with enough time and focus and skill, we could recreate the entire carcass. That’s the skill of a Shifter, a master at transfiguring one material to another. Common Shifters manipulate solids. The rarer complex Shifter can manipulate liquids and gases. They can change the air you’re breathing into toxic gas with the right manipulation of their magic.”

All around the room, mouths gape at her.

“So don’t turn up your noses at the most prevalent specialization. Most of you will be Shifters, and they’re quite impressive.” She picks up the dead leg. “Now, if this creature were alive, to transfigure it, a Shifter wouldn’t suffice. We’d need an Anatomer.”

I stare in utter disbelief. She recreated the leg of a dead animal.

“Shifter magic is used to heal wounds. And to some degree, transfigure the body. So you Healer hopefuls, pay close attention. Your turn to try.” She claps and the session jumps into motion, not the slightest bit confused. I, on the other hand, am stuck in my chair. Can I do that? I glance at the door, then my bag, but curiosity pins me to my seat.

Dexler works at a small table in the back, passing out materials, and I hop in line to try. She gives everyone a kor already lit, fabric, and a bone. Once I have mine, I settle in a corner of the room to work alone. I do my best to gulp down my annoying fear of fire and rotate the bone over the flame, like she did, slow and careful, then wrap the fabric around it. Suddenly everything in me goes cold. The white edge of the bone blackens, turning to rot. I drop it, my pulse thundering through me, glancing around to make sure no one sees. I could never do this. Toushana is the only sort of magic I can seem to reach. And all it does is make a mess of things. I’d probably kill someone trying to heal them.

“You need some help?” Dexler approaches.

I stumble up. “No, I’m good.”

“Let me see what you’ve done.”

“No, really, it’s okay.”

But she picks up the bone, turning it. I’m rigid with fear.

“Well, that’s odd. I thought I gave you a fresh one. This one looks like it’s rotted.”

My heart thuds in my ears, too stressed to actually be relieved by her confusion.

“Here’s a fresh one,” she says, setting a new bone in front of me. My toushana rolls through me in a wave of chill.

“Now, again. Ready?”

Away, I tell my toushana, please, rubbing my hands together. As they warm, I replay the steps in my head. My fingers heat a moment, but chilliness chases the feeling away.

“The first time you use your magic, it burns a little,” she says, her expression eager. “But if you push through it, the magic will listen.”

Burns? My only experience with magic is bone-chilling cold.

“Thanks,” I say, giving my fingers another moment to fend off the cold before grabbing the bone. Warmth. Lean into warmth. I close my eyes and picture my toushana, buried deep down. But an iciness wiggles its way into my hands and out toward my fingers. I hold my breath and the air tight in my chest swells against my ribs as if I might explode.

“Ready when you are, dear.” Dexler hovers behind me, whispering, and I feel a hot rush of something seep into me, grainy and earthy.

It blooms, then crescendoes into a searing heat that thrashes around inside me like a pile of violently blown leaves. My toushana shifts against the inferno building in my chest. I focus hard, tightening my every muscle, imagining the feeling growing, winning. The wintry magic lurking in my veins retreats as my hands begin to warm.

Harder.

I clench my fist. My insides are fire. Again, I hold the bone over the flame, seizing the moment, rotating it steadily. The fabric ripples. It’s working! I rotate the bone more vigorously.

“Yes, yes, that’s it.” Dexler grips my shoulders, tight.

My fingers get too close to the flame, and I hardly feel the fire licking my skin.

“That’a girl,” Dexler says. “Steady now, just like that.”

The place where Dexler is touching me sears. The fabric wrapped around the bone bubbles, shifting. “Oh my god!” The threads elongate and become rubbery and fibrous.

“Yes,” Dexler shouts. “The transfiguration is setting in nicely.” She lets go of my shoulder and I rear back in my seat. “You did it.”

“You . . . helped?”

“No more than I do with anyone. Cultivators can share a little of other magic”—she indicates the ring—“but I can only bolster what’s already there. You did it. Quite easily, I might add.”

I blink and blink again.

Oh my god.

I did real magic!