House of Marionne

Cultivator Plume’s words linger as I dash up the grand stair to the third floor toward Grandmom’s. She has to make Plume reassign me to a different mentor. She and I agreed to have dinner together each evening this first week while things are so new. I banked on having better news to share of how my first day went. And I’m early. Like, really early.

My hurried footsteps are the only sound on the top floor of the estate. The upper floor makes the lower ones look like servant quarters. The doors up here are much more ornate, with intricate woodwork and brass handles. I rushed up here before, but now in the bright daylight, I can’t help but take it all in. Crystal chandeliers dangle overhead from the mural painted on the ceiling. Colorful, precise strokes depict an elderly man and his apprentice wandering through a golden field of glowing wheat. Familiarity nudges me. I’ve stared up at this ceiling before.

I blink, and I’m a small child again, my fingers wandering the carved molding along the walls. This is the private family floor. This is where I lived until I was five. This was home. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to pull more from the cobwebs in my memory. But the only image I can conjure is one of tiny feet running across a sun-streaked floor to loud giggles. Then it morphs to fire. Suffocating, engulfing, searing flames, surrounding little me curled up on a ragged bed, hugging my knees in a strange, dark place nothing like this here.

I shove down the unfamiliar memory and urge myself faster down the long corridor. Its windows offer a picturesque view of the grounds’ rolling acreage golden in the sun’s glow. I pass another few doors, but don’t recognize any one specifically that used to be mine. The hall halts at Grandmom’s unguarded door. A stubborn hint of cold lurks underneath my skin as I knock. I tighten my fisted hands and move them behind my back just in case.

Her maid ushers me in. Grandmom’s fireplace roars and I rush over to it to warm my hands, hoping I don’t appear too eager.

“If you’ll take a seat,” says a woman with a thin gold diadem in a maid’s uniform. “I’ll get Headmistress for you.”

I get as close as I can to the fire as I wait, straining to keep my back straight, remembering Plume’s warning about making the cut. Heat wafts against me, lulling my angst, and then Grandmom’s bedroom door opens.

“Well, you’re quite early,” she says as I stand to greet her. She pauses, eyeing my clothes. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Just clumsy.” I shift casually. “Spilled a cup.”

She gestures for her maid. “Pull the drapes open wider, would you? And lighten them up a bit. I’m sick of the dusty old plum.”

Her maid curtsies and hurries off, working her magic, shifting the curtains from deep purples to soft blues. Grandmom hesitates another moment before squeezing my hands, now piping hot, in greeting.

“I just finished etiquette.”

The creases around her eyes uncinch the tangle twisting my insides. She’s pleased. It’s a small victory but I savor it. “Plume is the absolute best. Nabbed him from Isla, that ole hag didn’t appreciate him.”

“Isla?”

We move to a sitting area adjacent to a gallery of framed maps, and I notice my key chain on her coffee table.

“Isla Ambrose? Three leaves that intertwine?”

I shake my head, wholly fixated on the key chain. Mom.

“Oh, you do have so much to learn. Isla is Headmistress of House Ambrose. And well, Plume was miserable over there. I’ll just leave it at that.” She rings a bell and her maid returns. “Margot, would you please have them serve dinner in half an hour?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She curtsies, then leaves.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause things to rush.”

“It’s no trouble, I—”

“Were you able to get in touch with my mom?” The desperation spills out.

Her gaze falls to the key chain, and I scoot to the edge of my seat.

“No luck.” She sips her tea. “Now, tell me about sessions.”

“Was there more . . . about my mom? She is okay, right? She should have met me here by now. But she was delayed for some reason.”

She pets my hands. “No news as of yet. But I will tell you if I hear anything. Rhea is an expert at not being found when she doesn’t want to be, you know that.”

She’s right. My chin hits my chest. “I just wish I could see her and explain myself.”

“Soon, I’m sure.” She tugs my head back up. “Today isn’t a day for frowning, dear granddaughter. Any itching?”

“No.”

“By tomorrow, I’d bet. Have you thought about if you’ll emerge silver or gold? There’s copper and rose gold that we see from time to time, but those are exceptionally rare these days.”

“I’ll just be happy to emerge at all.” Perhaps that was too honest.

“Do not fret, everyone comes to love their showing,” she says. “The magic chooses, that’s the beauty of emerging. Each diadem is unique to its wearer.” She strokes her own, its pearls glinting in the light. She lifts a teapot from a tray on the table and fills two cups and adds a splash of milk before handing me one.

“Quell?”

“Ma’am.”

“You say ‘thank you,’ dear, when someone hands you a cup.”

“Sorry, thank you.” I’ve never had tea before and certainly not in this fancy of a cup. And I am thankful. The warmth of the cup is a welcome salve; I can’t even sense my toushana anymore. I cup it with my hands like a bowl, and Grandmom grimaces. I rework my grip on the porcelain, tea sloshing over the sides. She takes an exasperated breath, fingering the hair at her hairline, as if watching my poor attempt is downright painful.

“Here.” She wraps her arms around me and separates my fingers, looping two through the hole of the cup handle. Warmth, not the magical kind but another, wraps around me. “Your thumb. Use it to balance.”

I try and the cup falters, but I tighten my grip and hold it still.

She curls my other fingers under the handle. “Very good.” She hands me a teaspoon and takes her seat. I wish Mom was here, the three of us, a family.

I note how Grandmom stirs her tea back and forth, not in circles, and I copy. My spoon tings the side of the cup and I cringe at my mistake. I try again, and the smile lines around her lips say she’s pleased.

Something shifts in me. It’s an odd feeling. A tightness that releases. My lips crack an unrestrained smile. Heat flushes my cheeks. Something as small and so simple as tea in my grandmother’s sitting room. Her showing me how to properly drink it. It’s so insignificant, and yet I feel like a mountain’s been moved. I have longed for this, in the most desperate way.

Mom should be here, too. And she isn’t. Because of my toushana.

“Now, before you go slurping it like a cow, remember to sip.” Grandmom demonstrates, slicing through my brooding. I lift straight up and take a sip, eager to do something right. She nods in approval. “But that’s not why you came early, is it? To drink tea and talk about etiquette. You have questions in your eyes, child, speak. If you’re going to draw attention to yourself, do so for good reason. Otherwise, mind your tongue.”

“I’d like to have a different mentor.”

“Ah, so Plume gave you your pair-up today?”

“He did, yeah.”

“Yes. It has an s. And you’re not pleased? Others work with Secundus. But Jordan has debuted. He’s trained under my direct guidance as a Ward of this House for the last three years, on and off Season. He knows his stuff.”

“He attacked me when we first met.”

“As he would anyone presumed to be trespassing. I do hope he’s apologized for that misunderstanding?”

“He has.”

She reclines.

“In class, Shelby was really helpful.”

“Shelby Duncan?” She sets her tea down on the tray and considers. Her gaze moves to the window and there’s much written in the lines that form on her face. “No, I don’t think that’s going to be possible. I want you to be happy here. But I can’t change your mentor.”

The more she says, the more I feel like invisible hands are wrapping around my throat.

“Mister Wexton requested you, and I’m not in a position to refuse the request.”

“I don’t understand. You—”

“Relax, dear.” She sets a hand on my shoulder, but it doesn’t comfort. “I am so glad you told me. And if it were anything else, I might be able to. But this, we need to just leave. The relationship between the Houses is prickly at best. And hosting Wards is an effort to ease those tensions. A measure of accountability, so to speak, so each House has eyes in another House.”

“But—”

She holds up a hand. “Mister Wexton gave good reason for his request, and I know the boy well.” She crosses her legs, settling deeper into her seat. “Mentorship is no light matter. After you emerge, he must sign off on your readiness for Second and Third Rites before you can participate in them. And he holds himself to the highest standards. Someone like that is hard to please, but good to learn from.” She moves on as if the matter is settled. “He will be in etiquette with you through Cotillion, as your partner, but if you want him to pop into Dexler’s or any other sessions, be sure to ask.”

“Can’t you just say you changed your mind?”

Her posture stiffens, and the gentleness that smoothed her expression dissolves. “Taking it back could give the impression there are trust issues. And his aunt, Headmistress Perl, is the last person who needs any indication I do not trust her.”

I gape. “His aunt is a Headmistress?”

“You’ve much to learn, dear, about the inner machinations of an organization like ours.” Grandmom stands and puts distance between us, her body language somehow more rigid than usual. I stand, too, because it feels like I’m supposed to.

“This discussion has ended,” she says. “You will let this go.” She gestures for her maid. “Is Mrs. Cuthers still here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her maid returns with a woman with silver hair swept back and pinned beneath a silver diadem with small white stones. She carries a stack of envelopes.

“Yes, Darragh?”

“Mrs. Cuthers, please, see to my granddaughter.” She turns to me. “She is my right-hand lady in this House. If there’s anything you need and I’m unavailable, she’ll see to it.”

“Miss Marionne,” Mrs. Cuthers says to me. “I can show you through to the dining room. I was headed that way.”

It’s not a question. I’m being asked to leave. I stand, swaying on my feet, unsure what to do with my hands. Something has shifted, again. The mountain or the whole earth I stand on. Grandmom turns without a goodbye embrace or anything, moving toward her bedroom door.

“And Quell, if you need to arrive early again, do send a note first. You’re a Marionne and really must begin behaving like it.” Her warmth is gone, as elusive as it came.

“Will I see you at dinner?” I say, my insecurity breaking through.

“Of course.” Grandmom’s lips flinch a smile before disappearing behind her door.

“Are you all right, Miss Marionne?” Mrs. Cuthers asks.

“I’m fine. Could I just have a minute, please? I’m sure I can get to dinner myself.”

“The dining room is the second door on your left off the main hall.”

I make my way out, trying to numb myself to the sting of Grandmom’s words, but halfway down her private corridor, my steps grow heavy. Too heavy to bear. I let the wall hold me up and hug my knees, smoothing the tears streaming down my face. It shouldn’t even matter.

“That’s not why I’m here,” I mutter, but the lump in my throat won’t go down. It takes a short while, but once my eyes dry, I gather myself and make my way to the dining room. I need to be focused on getting a handle on my toushana until I can be rid of it completely. Nothing else.

I bury the hurt of Grandmom’s rejection.

Deep down.

Somewhere dark.

After a painfully silent four-course dinner with Grandmom, I hurry to my room to avoid seeing anyone else. I step inside and immediately pinch my nose. Something reeks, sweaty and pungent.

“Oh my gosh, hey! How’d it go?” Abby beams from her bed, folded over a slice of pizza speckled with something I don’t recognize.

“Miserable,” I say a bit too honestly. I freeze, worried I’ve gone too far. Shown too much of myself. But Abby’s dark eyes are bright and wide, her expression entirely disarming. I sit on the edge of her bed. “I just hoped emerging would be easier.” Opening up feels like a jackhammer dancing inside. “And I made a fool of myself in etiquette. I’m not sure I can do this.” Abby’s expression softens in concern. Saying it aloud is freeing. Having someone care to listen, even more so. “Then I found out my mentor is Jordan.”

“Oh my goodness, stop!” She sets her plate aside, and I realize that horrid smell is coming from her food.

“What are you eating?”

“Pizza . . . with sardines. But it’s good with tuna, too. Never touched a pepperoni in my life and I don’t intend to.”

I dry gag. “On pizza?”

“Hey, you want my help?” she teases. “No making fun of my food choices.”

“Okay, deal.” I rotate a bit more comfortably on her bed. Her grin is infectious, and she holds up three fingers.

“Okay, three things! One, you can’t self-reject. Say it with me.”

I roll my eyes. “We don’t self-reject,” we babble in semi-unison.

“Okay, and two, it takes performing a type of magic at least thirteen times before it even responds consistently. Sometimes it just doesn’t work. You’re being way too hard on yourself. Practicing is what ultimately helps you get it down. Repetition is key. Say it.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“I’m waiting.” She holds her plate nearer to me, threatening to make me smell her fishy pizza again.

“Fine, fine! Get that away from me.” I laugh. “Repetition is key.”

“Good.”

“Seriously, dude, try pepperoni. It’s so much better.”

“Mmmmm.” She takes a rebellious bite, dramatically savoring the taste.

“Okay, so don’t self-reject, practice a lot. What’s the third thing?” All this seems like a no-brainer, but hearing it from someone else is somehow affirming. Maybe it’s not just me being a colossal screwup.

“Oh, three is omg, Jordan! He is so hot.” She squeals and shoves me playfully.

“You’re delirious.”

“He’s so . . .”

“Nope.” I hop off her bed and dig out the notebook Shelby gave me. “Between your pizza choices and obsession with Jordan I’m officially nauseated. I’m going to start studying and get some practice in.”

“You can’t deny he’s hot.”

“He’s . . . dangerous.”

“That’s what I said.” She snorts and tosses a pillow at my head. “I don’t know a person in this place who won’t be jealous when they hear the Jordan Wexton is your mentor.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and the foreign feeling unsteadies me. I toss the pillow back, and I stick out my hand for a shake. “Hi, I’m Quell, have we met?”

She chuckles, and a laugh bubbles up my throat.

“He is good-looking, I will admit.” I struggle to meet Abby’s eyes.

“And?”

“And yet . . . terrifying.”

She folds her arms. “I don’t see the issue.”

I roll my eyes. “If you have any notes on Natural Path of Change, I’d love to see them.”

She snatches up her bag. “You’re going to stress yourself out of emerging. There’s a reason Secundus and Primus are still practicing that with you in class. It takes time. Magic can be stubborn.”

“Tell me about it.”

She hands over her notes.

Abby’s kindness tugs at me. The disaster with Grandmom tiptoes through my memory. I feel like an outsider everywhere but in this room, it seems. “Are you going to hang out here awhile? I need to study, maybe we can study together or something.”

“For sure. Hey, are you all right?”

“Sorry, was that weird?”

“No. You just . . . For a moment you seemed sad or something.”

“I’m fine, really.” I turn my back to her and skim the first page and immediately spot a problem with how I’ve been doing things. It suggests when I feel the heat of the Dust stirring in me, instead of trying to amplify it right away, I should latch on to it and just hold it there. Let it rev up like an engine to make it even stronger. I sit on my bed, pondering. I’ve definitely been latching on to the warmth and trying to spread it right away. So that it chases away my toushana. Maybe this can help.

“How long did it take you to emerge?”

“Sixty-three hours.”

A little over two days. “Hmm.”

“Oh my goodness, girl.”

“What?”

Abby tosses her plate aside and primps in the mirror. “Come out with me?”

“Out. No, I don’t—”

“You’re way too uptight. You won’t emerge if you’re wound up like this. You need to relax.” She squeals. “And I know the perfect place.”

Going out is not my scene. I’m already in a fishbowl here. “No, really. I need to study.”

“Oh, come on. There’s hotties there,” she says as if that’s a dangling carrot that has any appeal at all to me. A strangled laugh escapes my throat at the ridiculousness.

“And gossip.” She swipes my schedule from my desk.

Right, which is why I shouldn’t be there. I laugh again, but she mistakes it for my being excited and throws an arm around my shoulder.

“Please.” She holds my schedule up. “You don’t even have morning sessions tomorrow, so you can sleep in.”

“I’d planned to use that time to practice and get to the library.” I also need to get a better handle on my toushana. Its random thrashing inside me is going to get me killed.

“I’ll take you to the library myself at eight. I swear!” She crosses her heart with her half-eaten slice and holds it up in salute. “You won’t regret it, I promise. Literally everyone who’s anyone will be there. It’s better than the end-of-Season balls, and those are usually so wild they make Debs Daily.”

“Fine,” I relent. “If relaxing will help, I’ll go. But only for a couple of hours. I need to make some real progress.”

“You’ll probably emerge by the time you wake up tomorrow, Marionne.”

I sift through the closet of clothes Grandmom gave me for something that looks casual and not super noticeable. Maybe black. Or gray. Abby refreshes her makeup and slips into a dress that accentuates her diadem. Grandmom didn’t give me any T-shirts or comfy pants. I settle on an olive top that ties at the waist and my same pair of dingy jeans.

“What’s this place we’re going called?” I ask, grabbing my bag.

“The Tavern, why?”

“I was going to leave Grandmom a note.”

“Don’t be dense.” She takes the pen out of my hand. “The Tavern is obviously prohibited, which is precisely why we’re going.”

I groan. “This better be worth it, or I’m leaving,” I say, following Abby out the door.