House of Marionne

Part 3

Morning comes entirely too soon, but despite my heaviness from too little sleep I pop out of bed. Abby’s already gone. After a bit of curtsy practice and table manners studying, I’m up and dressed and out the door for etiquette. But downstairs, the grand foyer is set like an auditorium with chairs arced around a podium.

“You’re here.” Abby hooks her arm into mine, guiding me to a seat.

“What is all this?”

“She called an assembly this morning because of last night.”

“My diadem?”

She snorts and points to the Sphere, which hangs above the impending meeting, its blackened matter tossing to and fro treacherously. The tiniest crack lines its surface.

“Was that crack always there?”

She shakes her head. “Happened last night.”

As we move to a pair of seats in the back, I quickly realize the foyer isn’t swarming just with students, but with adults, too. This is serious. I clear my throat and press back into my seat. Fear wells up in me. My diadem emerged the same night the Sphere cracked. I hope that is a coincidence.

“It’s a big deal, seems like?” I say to Abby.

She faces me, thunderstruck. “A huge deal. If the Sphere ever empties, magic is gone. For half a century at least.”

I stiffen, her words ricocheting through me. “Gone?”

“Yep. Gone. No magic. Anywhere.”

I’m sure it’s hard for her to imagine a world without magic. But the thought doesn’t sit with me the same. If there was no magic, I’d be free in a way.

“And, rumor has it, the Headmistresses of the Houses would pay the price.” Her countenance pinches with the hint of something sinister. She slides a thumb under her throat. “I mean, it’s only a rumor, but still.”

I’d say execution seems a bit severe, but those who’ve earned their place, built their trades around magic, would be livid. They’d expect someone to pay for it.

“Is there a way to fix it or patch it or something?”

“No idea. No one even knows where the Sphere is. When it was made, it was hidden for the protection of all magic.”

The crowd is a sea of golden and silver diadems, and the events of last night pick at me. The Sphere commands my attention. Its tiny specks—names—etched on its surface seem to gleam angrily. Blackened matter crashes against its glassy surface, ferocious and thrashing as if it intends to claw its way out. I bite down knowingly. That’s how my toushana feels.

My hands twinge with a hint of chill as my worry unfurls. I rub them together, fixated on the Sphere hovering like a foreboding storm. I press my feet more firmly to the floor and urge away the cold seeking purchase in my bones.

“It’s so angry,” I say, before forcing myself to look away.

Abby cocks her head. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I guess it does sort of look mad. My father told me the stuff inside used to be clear with glowing granules of Dust.”

“So the Sphere’s been changing for a while?”

“Guess so, yeah.”

Then it couldn’t have anything to do with me.

“My parents are up in arms about something disturbing the balance.”

Her words are lasso and hook around my throat. I raise an eyebrow, as if to ask for more information.

“The Sphere represents the balance of all magic being used, including the forbidden kind. So whatever happened last night somewhere in the world upset it.”

My heart races as fear takes me tightly in its grip. I lean forward, gasping.

“Quell? You okay?”

“I need air.” I walk off, back toward the stairs, to quiet, a hallway without eyes and people. Whatever happened last night disturbed the balance of magic. I know what happened last night. I pace until the ice in my veins melts. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of a portrait on the wall. My diadem is still so radiant to behold. Like the moon on a clear night, I can’t imagine staring at it will ever get old.

This can’t have anything to do with me or my toushana or my diadem. It just can’t. I’m one person. Abby said the Sphere encompasses all of magic, like, everywhere.

“There’s no way,” I whisper, peeking back around the corner at the crowd as Grandmom approaches the stage.

“Excuse me,” someone says, rushing past me to find a seat.

I scoot out of the way. Then hastily set a foot in the same direction. I belong here.

I look for Abby in the spot we were just sitting but she’s gone, and it’s filled with someone else. I grab another open chair just as Grandmom takes the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’d take your seats,” she says, and a barrage of people swarm into the seats. I cross my ankles and pull at a loose thread on my dress.

“Thank you for appearing on such short notice.” She surveys the crowd. “I . . .” Her gaze lands on me and her lips purse in a restrained grin. She sees my diadem.

My lips curl in a smile.

“Sorry, where was I? I am happy to report, but for a few cherished heirloom chandeliers, no one was harmed in last night’s incident.”

Grandmom clasps her hands, and I recognize it as nerves. I sit up taller. Maybe the rumor Abby mentioned is true. What else could make Grandmom sweat?

“The Sphere, as you can see, has been cracked. But the Headmistresses and I are working around the clock to figure out how this has happened. I assure you, everything is under control.” She tugs at her blazer. “Your patience is greatly appreciated as we sort out answers. The good news is that we do have eyes on the problem.”

A hand shoots up from the crowd.

“Yes, sir?”

“Does this mean the Sphere’s location has been discovered?”

“Yes. But as we all know, it’s designed to protect itself.”

Chatter erupts.

“I don’t like this,” someone whispers next to me.

Grandmom huffs, flustered. I squirm in my seat, watching it unfold. Cultivators line the front row, each hanging on Grandmom’s words in silence. Plume twists his bag strap around his finger, over and over. Winding and unwinding.

“So you’re saying it has not relocated itself, or—” the parent presses.

“I’m saying.” Grandmom’s tone rises. She wants to be done with this public interrogation. “We have it under control. All signs indicate that it’s an accident tied to some random natural disaster.”

I sit back in my seat, and the air in my lungs expels. The relief chases away any remnant of chill.

“Each of us four Headmistresses takes this very seriously. The Sphere will not crack further. When we have more updates, we will share without hesitation.” She tucks her clutch under her arm. “Now if you will, your children have a full day of practice and studies ahead. Please, let them get to it. I bid you all a good day.” She exits the stage, ignoring the next questions thrown her way.

The meeting adjourns as quickly as it appeared, and Grandmom beckons for me to meet her beside the stage.

“You are exquisite.” She air-kisses both my cheeks and turns me around, taking in the diadem on my head.

“I’m so glad you’re pleased.”

“I am more than pleased, dear. This showing will be in the Hall of Excellence one day, mark my word. It’s . . .” She turns me again and whispers, “Astounding.”

“Thank you. Any word on my mom?”

“Actually, yes.” She digs out my key chain from her pocket.

My heart skips a beat.

“I tried the key chain a few times with no luck. So I sent a few letters but those garnered no response either.” Her nostrils flare. “So I had the Dragunhead send a few of mine to look for her, discreetly, of course.”

“And?”

“And she was spotted about forty miles from here. I insisted my people not get near her so as not to alarm her. She didn’t appear to want to be bothered.”

Mom is staying close by. I reach for my key chain. She hands it over. A part of me unwinds, then tangles up again. “Then why wouldn’t she respond to your letters?”

Grandmom grimaces. “Who knows why Rhea does what she does? I just wanted you to know I took care of it, as promised.” She eyes the key chain, but I stuff it in my pocket.

“What’s my mother’s middle name?”

Grandmom’s lips thin. “I don’t see how that’s helpful.”

“I would really like to know.”

I pull harder at the thread of my dress until it comes out completely. I don’t want to upset her, but Mom might not respond because the letters are coming from her.

“Marie,” she says, begrudgingly. “If that’s all. You should be getting along to sessions.” She departs before I can respond, but I don’t miss the disappointment in her tone.

Unsure what to do to smooth things over with Grandmom, I scribble a quick letter to Mom updating her on things, telling her my plan, that I’ve emerged, and drop it in Mrs. Cuthers’s outbox before booking it to session.

Cultivator Plume is already there by the time we file in. Whispers accompany me as I move across the ballroom toward the small crowd of waiting students. Eyes follow me, but not gaping at my face or my clothes, my ratty shoes, the stains on my zip-up. The things I know how to walk past and ignore. These stares gawk at my diadem. My lie. My foot hesitates at my next step, the urge to run whispering to me like an old trusted friend.

“Oh, the rose gold and her eyes,” someone whispers, her tone sparkling with awe more than disdain. “Michelle, did you see?”

“What did you expect? She’s a Marionne.” Michelle, whoever that is, twists her mouth in contempt.

I watch my shoes the rest of the way across the glossed floors.

Until I spot Jordan.

He’s unfurling a microphone cord next to a speaker. It hits the floor when I pass. Our eyes meet and he sits there crouched and frozen. The air in the room buzzes, and the floor beneath my feet must vanish because I feel as if I’m standing on air. His lips part and I still, his attention a tether, holding me in place.

“Quell,” he says. The word falls from his lips as if unbidden. I search for something in his expression to ease my nerves and find none of the usual hard lines there. The curve of his lips tugs up, softening his jaw. His heavy brow, typically pinched and low, has widened, as if he’s seeing something new for the first time. His chest rises a bit faster than normal, and for some reason it makes my breath patter faster too.

Is he going to say something?

But his eyes trace me like a drawing he’s paying the utmost attention to, around every curve, careful at each dip so as not to make a mistake. So as not to taint the art. When he does finally meet my eyes again, the green in them has deepened. My breath catches. Look away. But my body doesn’t listen, my gaze as transfixed as my feet at the way Jordan Wexton is staring at me.

Say something.

But courage escapes me, and the moment seems to render us both speechless.

“Jordan,” I manage feebly, wondering if he can sense the weirdness in my tone. But his gaze doesn’t falter. Those green eyes hold on to me tighter than a grip, warmer than a hug.

“Very nice, Miss Marionne,” Plume says, inserting himself between us. He ogles at my diadem, then spins me around. “It’s simply regal. Headmistress must be beside herself at such a strong showing! How are you feeling?”

“Good. Different. It’s all so new.” Warmth rushes into every part of me that’s usually knotted with angst. “It just happened last night.”

“Sounds like you had a better night than the rest of us.”

The Sphere, he means.

“Yes.” I pull harder at the hem of my sleeve. “I guess so.”

“Well, go on, with the others.”

I hurry to blend into the crowd, waiting for my insides to twist tighter. But I’m halfway across the Grand Ballroom floor and none of it comes. The urge to look down pulls at me, but Jordan’s stare plays on repeat in my head. By some miracle, my chin holds parallel to the floor, and the others pointing at the gems on my diadem, commenting on their size and type, the rarity of the metal, are easier to ignore. I set my shoulders back and tuck my stomach in for proper posture. I move nearer to the front and ready myself for instructions. My days of blending in are over. I’m one foot into this world of magic, and there’s no going back.

Jordan finishes his business with the speaker cord and joins the rest of us. I risk a look his way, for some foolish reason, and he’s still staring. Maybe he’ll back off some now.

“Posture is what we’re working on today, and proper movement,” Plume says, sashaying front and center. There’s no table set up today, instead the floor is marked with taped lines. He points a toe and glides sideways. “You are an art form at your debut.” He slides a foot back and bends at the knee. “Curtsy, keep your head up, float down.” He holds the curtsy position. “Now bow your head, eyes to the ground.” He lowers his chin. “Now come up, finish on the back foot.” He moves in one even motion. “Slide, cross, slide, again.”

Music hums from the speaker in a melody with an even cadence. He assigns each of us a line on the floor. Jordan is a fixture at my side, his energy entirely different than usual. He’s quiet, for starters. The music drums on and I mimic Plume’s moves. The knee bending and balance proves to be the trickiest part.

“Now slide, cross,” Plume chimes from the front. My feet tangle, and I trip over them, stumbling into Jordan’s arms. He catches me. A beat passes as we gaze at each other before I pull away from him.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat and looks away.

“It’s fine.”

“Imagine an invisible string pulled up from your head,” Jordan says. “The motion is silk. You slide . . .” He demonstrates, and he’s shockingly graceful. “Like you’re being pulled, not like you chose to.”

I throw a foot out and try it. “Like this?” I hope my body is doing it, but I feel like an octopus trying to imitate a gazelle.

His lips tilt up ever so slightly.

“I’m trying, hard.”

“Here, let me.” He moves behind me, careful to keep distance between us. His scent wraps around me, notes of smoky vanilla and cedar tickling each one of my senses. He pinches his fingers above my head. “Now picture the string.”

I bend into a curtsy, following his lead.

“Good, now bow your head, in one even motion. Don’t stop, float on the movement.”

I let his instructions seep in. He lowers the string, and I dip with it. Then up again, and he slides to my left. I follow, imagining I’m a feather on the wind, fettered to his will. He shifts and I move, the space between our bodies almost nonexistent.

“Now cross.”

I slide my foot over, his hand stroking the air. I emulate the motion, imagining his hands in control of my body’s every flinch.

“And one more slide.”

I finish breathless. Pride tightens around his lips, and it does something to me, inside.

“You’re a good teacher.”

He folds at the waist. Plume claps us to attention.

“Jordan, if you could,” he says. “Quell’s doing nicely. Hallie is sick today, and poor Evelyn needs some help. Could you?”

He departs quickly, without a word of goodbye. The flutter of the moment burns me with shame at how foolish I’m being. I give Plume my undivided attention. For the remainder of the lesson, we curtsy and cross and slide until my thighs ache from holding the stances so long.

When it wraps, I’m actually sweaty. I look for Jordan but he’s still helping someone else. I’m shouldering my bag when my name is called. As some of the class departs, a bunch head in my direction. People who haven’t given me more than a side-eye are eyeing me up and down. Mostly up. At my diadem. Breathe.

“Congrats on First Rite,” one says. Lavender stones set in silver metal arc above her head.

“Thanks, I—”

“That’s a strong showing,” someone else whom I’ve only seen in passing says, his bronze mask seeping into his midnight skin.

“Thanks.” For once in my life, my cheeks burn hotter from excitement and not shame. I force myself to meet their stares. I’m cornered, but skimming their warm expressions keeps my panic at bay.

“The Tavern, tonight,” another says. “Don’t be late.”

“What for?”

But the circle breaks and they’re gone. I hurry to the dining hall, trying to hide the ridiculously huge smile plastered on my face.