House of Marionne

Shame burns my cheeks as I ascend the stairs; dinner with Grandmom starts in ten. She will expect an update, and I have nothing to give. I keep my head down as I hurry through the halls. A throng of Primus greet me as they pass, but I can’t look at them. I’ve told myself I belong here, but maybe believing it isn’t enough anymore.

I arrive to Grandmom’s sitting room adjacent to the dining room. Her maid ushers me inside.

“She’s in a meeting; she’ll be out in a moment and you can go through.”

“Thank you.” Whatever I do, I can’t let on that anything’s awry. Get out of here quickly and get back to honing. That’s the plan.

The room is as stilted as the rest of Grandmom’s quarters with its high-back settees, crystal chandelier, and towering drapes. I warm myself by a fire, still haunted by the blue stone I tried but failed to fold into my blade. Everything just seems to get harder the closer I get to Cotillion. The truth weighs me down like an anchor, and I immediately regret admitting it to myself.

Servants dip their heads in and out a few times, offering me refreshment. But I’m not in the mood to drink, or even eat. I should have faked being sick and skipped dinner altogether. There’s no letting up. No mercy. Just the weight of my toushana closing the walls in around me. Frustration knocks me between woe and fury like waves on a stormy sea. I hate this. I hate all of it. Jordan’s face flickers through my mind. I try to blink away his brooding gaze, but it lingers like a stain.

“Quell?” Dexler exits a door on the far end of the room.

“Cultivator Dexler? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, nothing. Just a meeting.” She averts her eyes and I’m immediately uneasy. “Honing going all right? On track to have everything worked into your blade by morning?”

“It’s going fine.”

“Very good, then. I’ll see you.” Dexler waves, then wrings her hands as she leaves. Was she here about . . . me? I jump to my feet and press myself to the door, listening.

“It’s unnerving, but I’m not getting my drawers in my ass about it,” someone with a fruity voice says.

“Are you some sort of mongrel or a lady? I honestly cannot tell,” a husky voice chastises. “And as far as this issue goes, the situation is being handled; I’ve told you I’m looking into it.”

I chew my lip.

“Forgive me, but I don’t trust your House to handle this by yourself,” a third person says.

“Then have your Draguns join in the search, Isla, if you must!”

I press closer, my ear flush against the wood.

“We should all put a few from our Houses forward. Put it to a final vote.”

“I’m not sending my Draguns after some pipe dream for glory.”

“This isn’t about Houses, Litze,” Grandmom says. “If that crack worsens, all our lives, all our magic, are on the line.”

The Sphere. Of course. I sag against the door a bit too hard.

It creaks.

The voices hush as the door eases open.

My heart stumbles.

Footsteps patter toward me. “Oh, look at the time. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” The handle jiggles, and I turn to dash.

“Quell?”

Too late.

“Grandmom.” My chin rises, parallel with the floor, channeling everything Plume has taught me. “I was looking out the window. The view from up here is breathtaking.”

“You are simply regal, child.” She turns me, admiring my diadem again, and I spin, a feast trapped in Grandmom’s web. I try to calm my racing heart. Trying to forget I was sobbing on the floor no more than an hour ago. And put on my best everything-is-fine face.

“I’m just finishing a Council of Mothers meeting. But you must come inside and meet everyone! They’re all dying to meet you after . . .” She smooths her blouse. “So many years.”

Meet them . . .

The Headmistresses.

“All of them are in there?” I swallow.

Inside, fresh flowers tied with pretty ribbons fill vases around the room, and a tea cart full of artsy confections is parked beside three women who couldn’t be more different. Each sits cross-legged around a table. The blond woman with a brightly colored diadem set in silver doesn’t even look up when I enter, tapping on her phone. Her pantsuit is widened at the legs, and her blazer does the same, giving her petite frame an oddly modular appearance.

The gangly woman beside her, with a face and complexion that reminds me of carved bone, wears a scowl. Her brownish-red hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and bangs shade her eyes, which match her drab gray dress uncannily. A sleek diadem hovers above her head, unadorned and minimalist without a single gem. We meet eyes and she folds her tattooed arms across her chest. Isla Ambrose.

“My, my, aren’t you a sight,” the woman with the husky voice says, standing. I don’t have to guess which one of the Headmistresses is most intrigued by me. I face her as pleasantly as I can. A crown of silver hair coiled in a bun sits on top of her head and fur is wrapped around her shoulders. Her frame matches her voice. Her diadem is statuesque, a bronzy-gold color, adorned with deep honey-colored gems. She moves closer, and a brooch in the shape of a cracked column glistens from her scarf.

I take a tiny step closer to Grandmom, who hovers nearby like a queen watching her finest peacock spread its tail feathers.

The woman who sent her Dragun to kill me catches me staring and holds out her hand, knuckles swallowed in black and red gems. “Beaulah, Headmistress, House Perl.”

My heart thuds in my throat as I kiss her hand, then slide a foot back, fold at the knee, and let my head dip like the falling crest of a wave at sea. If I am perfect, what could she possibly suspect me of? “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Headmistress Perl, I am Quell Marionne.”

I scrub my face of expression and catch sight of Grandmom, lips parted, watching my curtsy, which, I’ve practiced enough now to know, is absolute perfection.

“I must remember to give Plume my compliments when I see him,” she says. “He’s turning this granddaughter of mine into a work of art worthy of her name.”

“Such poise,” Beaulah says, her words curling with curiosity more than admiration. “You must be beside yourself, Darragh.”

Grandmom’s lips pucker, smugly, at the Council staring awestruck. “Supra alios.” She winks and my cheeks warm; pride hangs in her posture kindling my own.

“So it’s true.” Headmistress Perl pulls her fur tighter over her shoulders, her tone sharp yet cautious. I’ve seen her type before. She plays coy as a cover. She doesn’t like Grandmom, but she’s hesitant to outright cross her. “An heir to this House has finally returned.”

I search Grandmom’s face for some flicker of truth at such a proposition, but she’s as stoic as a statue. Heir.

The fruity-voiced Headmistress rises, her blond hair swishing, and extends her hand. “Litze Oralia.”

I greet her, followed by Headmistress Ambrose, whose heavy brow sags with derision.

“We should adjourn,” Grandmom says. “I’m late for dinner.”

“Pleasure meeting you, Quell,” Headmistress Oralia says. “Watch these old hags, they’ll get you all flustered for no reason if you let them.”

A chuckle stuffs its way up my throat, and despite my best effort to swallow it, it comes out as a smirk. She winks at me before exiting.

“May your intellect shine brighter than the rest of you, Miss Marionne.” Headmistress Ambrose follows Litze out.

Beaulah takes me in once more, up and down, and Grandmom’s lips twitch in delight. Jordan’s Headmistress rounds me, and my pulse quickens.

An achy warning pricks my bones, but I keep my expression soft and unflinching.

“I look forward to your honing exam,” Beaulah says. “I expect you will continue to impress.”

I curtsy once more. “I certainly hope so, Headmistress.” The door closes behind her, and I could collapse on the floor. I steady myself on an armchair instead. Grandmom circles me, beaming.

“You were magnificent.” She pinches my cheek.

I can’t do anything to ruin this portrait she’s painted of me. This granddaughter she believes I can be. In Grandmom’s shadow, I am safe. Here in her home, it seems Beaulah can’t touch me. Or won’t. Even if she does know my secret, once I’ve rid myself of this poison, once I am free, she won’t have a credible thing to hold against me.

Now, if I could actually pass my honing exam, that would be great.

“You know, I think this calls for something.” Grandmom pulls a velvet box off a high shelf and slides its top aside. Inside is a collection of stones in glittering hues. She selects a mint green one. “Longevity Enhancer.”

The stone gleams in different colors, depending on how the light hits it. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s as rare as it is beautiful. A Marionne family heirloom, given to me by my own grandmother.”

“You would give this to me?”

“Who else should have it but my granddaughter?”

She gestures toward the door and we make our way to the dining room, which is set with an elaborate table of gold-rimmed plates and fresh flowers. “I hear you’re sitting the exam Friday?”

“I am, yes.”

“Are you nervous?” She lowers herself into her seat, and I mimic her form, determined to keep whatever this is we have going and not ruin it this time.

“No,” I lie.

“Very good. Confidence is a débutante’s finest accessory.” She rings a bell, and servers stream into the room, platters in their hands. And I spend the rest of our time together careful to chew with my mouth closed and cup my glass properly, nodding in the right places, smiling when prompted, keeping my posture stiff as Grandmom goes on and on about Cotillion and everything to come.

Once I’m out of Grandmom’s presence I hurry to the Belles Wing. I halt when I spot the Sphere, its guts thrashing in the way my insides feel. Closer to its illusioned surface, the hairline crack is much larger than it appears from far away, the length of my arm, easily. I imagine my name soon to be chiseled on its slick surface, another sparkle among the thousands of others. My toushana tremors the longer I stare, and out of the corner of my eye I spot Jordan having a conversation with Headmistress Perl.

“Miss Marionne.” She smiles tightly as I pass, faster. Jordan and I meet eyes. His are stone. Once I reach my door, I stuff myself in my room and sag against the door in relief.

I have to hone my dagger.

Whatever it takes.

I pull off my shoes, and my bag gawks at me in judgment. I dump my things on my bed and run my fingers across Mom’s letter. The blue stone taunts me. I reach for it and my fingers flicker in warning. How am I going to do this?

Knock. Knock.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

My heart stutters.

“What do you want?”

The door handle jiggles before black fog seeps between its seam, and Jordan forms before me, rigid with annoyance. “Here.” He hands me a book. Discite Latina. I reach but pull my hand back. I don’t trust him. “It helps make everything simpler to memorize.”

I take the book and set it aside.

“Honing. How’s it going?” He glances over my shoulder.

“It’s harder than I thought it would be. I just need more time.”

“Time you do not have.” His insistence stokes me like kindling a fire.

“Breathing down my neck doesn’t help.” I ball my fists, as the culmination of the entire day boils over. Grandmom’s expectations, my toushana destroying the table, Beaulah. It’s too much.

He grabs my dagger from the bed, turning it in his hands. “Hold it up,” he says, his tone gentler. I begrudgingly raise the dagger.

“Higher.” He motions for me to raise my arm, but I let it fall when an idea lassos my heart into a tight squeeze.

I glance at the blue Purifier on my bed taunting me and gulp down a breath of foolish courage. “You think it’s so easy, huh?” I turn my back to him and grit my teeth to reach for the blue stone. I will have seconds once I touch it before my toushana betrays me. But if I can bear its sear against my skin for a sliver of a moment, I just might be able to get him to do what I want for a change.

My fist closes around the stone and the hum of my toushana awakens in a fury, swelling in my every crevice, frost scratching against my bones. I bite down until I taste copper, and almost toss the stone and dagger at him.

“You do it.”

I fold my arms, trying to resist the cold teasing its way through me.

“Fine. Watch closely this time.” He holds the blue stone over the dagger and the world teeters on the edge of a cliff. Please let this work. “It’s like a magnet, you have to set it on there just so or it’ll repel.” He moves the stone in a roundabout motion, pushing it lower, closer to the metal. “When it gets stubborn, hold firm. Let your magic know you’re sure about what you want. It will give in. The more enhancers you’ve folded into the blade, the harder it is to fold in another. But these are only your first several, so it shouldn’t be difficult for someone like you.” He glances at my diadem.

I swallow a retort because he’s doing exactly what I want him to. He eases the enhancer lower, and I realize I have a fist full of my skirt. The stone shimmers and finally snaps to the blade.

“Now you ease it in.” He glides the flat of his palm across them, and pressure hooks in my chest. The blue stone bubbles, contorts, then flattens until it fully dissolves, disappearing into the metal. He hands my dagger back at me, its blade rippling blue, then purple.

“It worked.” I clutch my chest.

“Of course it worked. One down, two to go.”

“I’ve actually already done the other two, Mister Observant.”

He suppresses a smile. “My apologies, then.”

I purse my lips. “Thanks.” I grab the last enhancer I have, the milky stone Casey gave me.

“Try it.”

“Now?”

He gestures for me to get going.

I hold up my dagger and ease the white stone onto it. My stomach rolls with nerves.

“You’re holding it wrong. Not so flat, angle the cutting edge of the dagger up, just a bit.”

I tilt my wrist.

“That’s too much.” He’s close, so close. Warmth slinks down my neck. His fingertips brush my skin. Then he curls them gently around my wrist. He bends it a fraction, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. “Like this.” His voice is a gentle breeze, and it snatches my next breath.

I push away from him. “I have it from here. Really.” He hesitates a moment but, to my relief, moves to the door.

“The next time I knock, answer.” The door shuts behind him, and I collapse against the shut door with my blade, holding it at the angle Jordan told me, and the stone’s milky surface darkens, stretching before disappearing into the dagger. I bite away the smile forming at my lips. I still have so much to cram in before I’m ready for my exam.

The door handle jiggles, and I snatch the door back open. “I told you—”

“Quell?” It’s Abby, arms full of fabrics.

“Sorry, I thought you were Jordan.”

“I saw him just leaving.” She grins wickedly.

“Don’t even. I can’t stand him.”

“It doesn’t look that way.” Her brows jump as she comes inside. “When you talk about him, that is.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t know if I can trust him.”

Her lips twists in confusion.

“Because . . .” He hunts people like me. “He’s hard to read. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Not truly. Sometimes he seems to like being around me. Other times, I feel like a job to him. None of this makes sense.” I scrub a palm down my face. “Ignore me.” I laugh.

“Boys are not complicated. They’re like puppies.”

I snort. “With Jordan, it feels like he sees me in a way no one else does. But when I don’t match this picture he has of me in his head, he’s frustrated with me.”

“Do you want to match the picture in his head?”

Part of me wants to believe this person he sees in me is actually there. I try to picture myself controlling magic the way he does, having a position in a great magical House, belonging somewhere. But the other part of me is terrified that my worst suspicions of him could be true. That he could be working with Beaulah. Or that his interest in seeing me debut well is a cover for something sinister.

“I don’t know, Abby.”

“Well, in my professional boy-expert opinion, he’s into you. You just need to figure out if you care. Don’t get too attached, but if you want to have fun, have fun.” She nudges me with her elbow before dumping her load on the bed. “Word on the street is Draguns don’t really get involved romantically with anyone anyway.”

“Really?”

“The running joke is if the Order wanted them to have a partner, it would issue them one.”

A feeling I can’t quite put words to nudges me.

“Help me with these, would you?” she asks, finally unloading the bags draped over her arms. Shoes tumble out. I take out an armful of bedazzled shoes from her bag only to find she has three more full bags.

“How many of these things do you have?”

“A lot. A few of those samples Mom custom ordered. I have to narrow these down tonight.”

“Geez!”

“I make a big deal, but it’s sort of nice. She’s usually drowning in work. Now I can’t get her off the phone. Did honing go all right?”

“I think so. Jordan’s making me take the exam Friday.”

“As in the end of this week? Quell, are you going to be ready? You don’t get a second chance, you know that?”

Wait, really? I join her on the bed.

“You can’t fail, Quell.”

Oh, I know.

“In fact.” She takes her shoes out of my hands. “I can do this.”

“No, I want to help. We’re friends, right?”

“Yes, silly. Go study. I have fittings all day Thursday, you can help me with that.”

I sigh. She’s making sense even if I don’t want to listen. “Only if you’re sure.”

“And try to talk to Jordan about sitting a different exam date.”

Grandmom knows, and she’s already told Council. There’s no way that’s changing. The expectation has been set . . . etched on my tombstone. “I’m not getting out of this exam this week, Abby.”

“Then be ready.”