House of Marionne

The door to the Headmistresses’ suite shuts, and the walls seem to close in around me. I gulp down the lump forming in my throat. Each Headmistress sits around Grandmom’s fire, their eyes glued to my every step. Jordan escorts me, tugging me forward, but my feet stick to the ground.

“You’ve done this practically a thousand times, you have nothing to worry about,” he says, but I hardly hear him.

“Over here, near the window, dear.” Grandmom beckons for me.

“She attempts to cheat with kor,” Beaulah retorts.

“As if we need to cheat,” Grandmom spits.

“Isn’t that what this is? Giving her more time than the others.”

“I told you she was ill.”

“So we make an exception?” Isla Ambrose says, countenance deadened with contempt.

“Isn’t that what we do, when our own blood is on the line?” Grandmom’s steel glare meets Isla’s gaze, then Beaulah’s. Headmistress Ambrose sits back in her chair.

“You’re ready, I presume?” Grandmom approaches, her sequined dress dangling to the floor.

I nod, and she glances at Jordan, a statue on the wall.

“The Council doesn’t look happy about this,” I say.

“Never mind them. I’ve kept worse secrets of theirs.” Her nose rises. “Let’s knock their socks off, show them an heir worthy of the title has indeed returned.”

Heir. There is that word again.

She pats my cheek before crossing the room to her judge’s seat, and I picture last night, my pushing magic into my blade over and over again.

Beaulah rises. “I’ll be proctoring today, just to be sure everything’s in order.”

“For inspection.” Jordan hands Headmistress Perl my blade and for a moment I don’t breathe. She twists it and makes it glow, then measures it at every angle. Headmistress Oralia crosses her legs and shields a yawn.

“No abnormalities found,” Beaulah Perl says over her shoulder to Isla, who scribbles down a note in a record book. She hands me my dagger, handle first.

“Thank you,” I say, but she doesn’t let go. I tug harder but she holds the dagger so tight I expect to see blood. Her lip flinches and cold flutters through me. I swallow.

“If you’ll let go, I’d be happy to demonstrate that I’m quite capable of pushing magic into my blade.” My toushana quiets like a melted snowflake. I almost regret my tone, its lilt of arrogance, until Beaulah’s mouth twists at the challenge.

“Is that so?”

“Quite so.” I curtsy to soften the sting.

“I guess we’ll see then, won’t we?” She shuffles her fur around her shoulders.

Jordan watches, his knuckles grating against his jawline.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I can do this. I did the magic last night. He helped with posture and form. But I did it. Me.

My belly burns with warmth and I don’t even have to call on my proper magic. It is there, ready and willing. I grip the blade tightly and order magic into my hands. Heat curls through me, stretching itself awake. I bite down, holding still, urging the temp to rev up more. Hotter until my skin feels like fire. Until I blink and expect to see flames. An inferno answers, coursing up through my core, shoving through my arms and into my hands.

“Now into the blade,” I command, and I’ve never felt more sure of anything in my entire life. Searing magic pools in my fingertips like tiny needles pushing against my skin. Gentle at first, then more insistent until the sharp pricks break through.

The leather handle of the blade throbs bright and red. Magic churning through me tugs like a chain. There’s no me or it anymore. I am the blade. Magic erupts from the dagger tip in an explosion of light. I jump at the suddenness, and blood spreads on my tongue. But it tastes like freedom. The room beams as if the sun itself is between my fingers.

A swarm of gasps and thundering applause surround me as I call my magic back into me and the brightness retreats, siphoning back into the blade. Grandmom gapes. Jordan and all the Headmistresses stand.

“Well?” Grandmom shakes off her shock and addresses the Council. Beaulah gestures in agreement.

“Passage of Second Rite, granted.”

A sash is slung over my head, and creases hug Grandmom’s eyes. “Get Popper from the library this minute.” She rings for her maid, then rolls her wrist doing the House gesture, nudging me to do it with her. “Oh! And tell Mrs. Cuthers to let the servers know to move forward with the reception.”

I did it? I really did it!

Second Rite down, one to go.

Tears sting my eyes, my pulse still racing, not in panic but in unbridled joy. In minutes refreshment is brought in on platters.

“I don’t understand, I thought you didn’t want anyone to know I got a redo,” I say to Grandmom.

“You sorely underestimate my cunning, dear granddaughter. After the exam yesterday, everyone wanted to know how you’d done. Where you were. And I told them you did fine but needed to rest. The celebration would be tomorrow morning.” She winks.

I shake my head. “But how did you know I’d pass?”

“Because getting kicked out of your new home, with all this at your fingertips, isn’t something you were going to risk.”

My mouth opens, then snaps closed.

“Now go on and grab some refreshment. Popper will be up in a minute.”

I almost ask who that is, when I spot Jordan perched against the fireplace mantel, a pride tilting his lips that he couldn’t wipe away if he tried. His eyes say more than his words ever have. I grin, rushing over to him, and his hands hook around my waist. He lifts me into a squeezing hug, and for a moment everyone and everything else disappears. Gold glints in his eyes and his mouth curves in delight.

He sets me down, clearing his throat. But the tingle of his touch still dances on my skin.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Quell, he’s actually here now.” Grandmom pulls at my arm. “If you’ll excuse me, Jordan, my granddaughter is needed for pictures.”

“Of course,” he says, but I don’t look away from him until the curtain of a crowd closes between us.

Grandmom parades me in front of the room, her grip tight on my arm as more and more file in, asking me if I’m feeling better, offering their congratulations.

“Smile now.” She points toward one camera, then another. “A little more teeth.”

I do.

“Too much.” Her hand presses my back. “And watch your posture.”

“What’s all this for?” I manage to ask after the millionth camera flash in my face.

“When an heir passes Second Rite, news goes out immediately.”

“It’ll be on Page Six along with our internal post, Debs Daily.” Popper hands me a card. Rudy Popper, Audior, Debs Daily. “Don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Thanks for rescheduling on such short notice, Popper.”

“Happy to.” He tugs at his royal blue bow tie. “The Order could use some good news with all the rumors about the Sphere going around.” He flips open a notepad and holds his fingers in the air mid-snap. “And how do I spell Quell?”

“Q-U-E-L-L.” His fingers are pressed tightly together, as his magic transfigures the sounds to written letters on his paper. “But it’s short for Raquell. Use her full name. So, R-A—”

“My name’s Quell. Not Raquell.”

Popper opens his fingers, which stops the writing in his journal.

Grandmom pinches me. “It’s as I’ve said. She was named after my mother, Raquell Janae.”

I was?

“Got it.” He flips his pad closed. “That name, young lady, will be at the top of every exclusive social event invite list before you can blink. You’ve made this House quite proud.” He turns back to Grandmom. “And the dates are set for Cotillion, I saw. I’m showing about a month out.”

She nods. I pinch myself on accident from the excitement.

“Can we get a quote for the piece?” Popper’s notebook is back open as he stares expectantly.

Grandmom’s eyes meet mine, and they are a sea of many things, desperation, fear, hope, and, somewhere underneath all of that, joy. This is a moment for which she’s hungered for so long. Her enthusiasm digs deeper into my arm.

“Quell, I—” she starts.

“I got it.” I set my hand on hers.

She nods, her teeth pulling at her lip with worry. As if everything she’s worked for amounts to this moment.

“I’m overcome with so many feelings. If I had to sum them up, I’d say I’m eager to make this Season unforgettable for myself, my House, but especially for Headmistress, my dear grandmother, who has worked tirelessly to prepare me for this day.”

Grandmom’s lips part and she digs in her bag suddenly, flicking away something at her eye. If I’ve embarrassed this House before, I’ve certainly made up for it now. Popper’s magic jots that down, and he wishes me luck before departing.

Shelby hovers in the doorway. She waves before tossing back a whole flute of champagne.

Grandmom clears her throat. “You have a whole host of people to talk to, but let’s meet this afternoon. I have something for you.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

Grandmom departs, bidding the other Council members who haven’t left goodbye just as Dexler hugs me and hands me a wrapped box. “Fratis fortunam.”

“A fortuna. Thank you, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s tradition. Open it whenever. No rush.” Dexler departs, and I spot a familiar diadem atop long dark hair and a kind face.

“Abby—”

“Quell—”

We say at the same time.

“This is for you, congratulations.” She hands me a small box similar to Dexler’s.

“Thanks, Abby. And I’m sorry.” The apology expels like a much-needed release. “I should have stayed. A friend would have stayed.”

“When you left, it honestly felt like you didn’t care that it was a moment about me. But when I thought about what it must have been like for you . . .” She sighs and I grab her hand. “What I’m trying to say is, I noticed you don’t ever talk about your mom or your life before here. But I can tell you miss her. Thinking back on it that day, it was written all over your face how uncomfortable you were. I feel bad that I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve never done this before, so I’m sorry, too. If I was insensitive or selfish. I felt bad leaving, really. It just was a lot at once.”

She squeezes my hand back. “Fortunately, perfection isn’t on the list of requirements for being my friend.”

I snort. “Friends?”

“Friends.” She slings an arm around my shoulder.

A fire burns in Grandmom’s sitting room, and evening glows outside the windows as a gentleman with sooty fingers hoists a large frame onto her wall. I’ve settled in a chair beside it when her bedroom doors open.

“Oh Jerry, it’s brilliant,” she says, gliding in. “Quell, Jerry is our senior cartographer.”

“Class of ’79, simple Shifter.” He tips his hat. “Pleasure is all mine.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“I’ve just had the French Quarter redone,” she says, indicating the frame. “What do you think?”

I take a closer look and realize it is a map of central New Orleans, but there are streets where structures should be and entrances on the wrong sides of buildings. The lines are drawn with the utmost precision and each place is scaled precisely like the building beside it. My fingers trail the outline of a round structure at the back of what should be the French Market and I tense, realizing I know that place. That’s where I saw those Draguns kill that man when the walls changed. Grandmom watches me as if I should say something.

“It’s, uh, very impressive.”

“Isn’t it? Jerry, see my secretary, she’ll make sure you’re all squared away. And let’s do the others in the hall, why don’t we? I really like the gold fillet.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Jerry departs, and Grandmom turns to me. “Now, to you!”

I warm all over.

“You will be the talk of the entire Season!” Her words are spun sugar. She hands me a silver wrapped gift box. “Just a little something. You can open it later.”

“Thank you. I was proud to do a good job for the House.” I’d be lying if I said doing a good job, seeing my Housemates shouting in revelry, Jordan’s smile, Grandmom’s pride creased around her eyes meant nothing. This place has become a part of me in more ways than I may have fully acknowledged. I’m not sure about staying here, being her heir, but I’d like to reflect my House well.

“Your riband is all a mess. Here, let me.” Grandmom resituates my sash around me, which I hadn’t even taken a moment to notice.

“Over the right shoulder, to the left hip. And you wear the House sigil here, on the heart. You’re going to be circulating in society now; more people than ever will be watching. Think about what conclusions you want them to draw about you, your House.”

I nod, dusting off my clothes and checking myself in the mirror. I can’t risk a single tilted stare, not just from Grandmom, from anyone, getting in the way of Third Rite. If they see through my veneer, they’ll begin to question my past. Cotillion is in four weeks. I tidy my posture and check myself again, this time in the full-length mirror.

“You look perfect, dear.”

“Good.”

“Let’s take a walk in the rose garden. Sunset is simply exquisite from there.”

It takes until we’re all the way downstairs and outside before I get the courage to ask, “Is that really my name?” I keep my head straight ahead at the aisles of roses, red, yellow, peach, and . . . black? How curious.

“Your mother really didn’t tell you much, did she?”

I’m not sure what to say to that. I’m not going to speak poorly of Mom, so I just keep my mouth shut. I run my fingers across the sigil embroidered on my riband, a gold fleur-de-lis wreathed in shimmery stones.

“I apologize for springing it on you right then. I just wanted to ensure things are done properly.”

She stops at a coil of thorny roses and plucks a black one, lifting it to her nose. “I need to apologize for something else. I behaved poorly with you after you didn’t pass the exam the first time. Quell, you matter a great deal to me. I’d never want you to feel any different.”

That doesn’t excuse how threatening and downright terrifying she was. It reminded me of Mom some of those times we were on the run. Desperation does scary things to a person. She’s opened the conversation to honesty. It’s time I share my own.

“I wanted to tell you.” I pull at the hem of my dress. “You’ve mentioned my being your heir, and I’m not sure I’m cut out for it.”

“I thought you might feel that way.” She hands me the rose. “Smell.”

I take it, careful of its thorns, and press it to my nose but don’t smell anything. My brows crease as I sniff again.

“It smells like . . . nothing.”

“A rose is still, and always will be, a rose.” She smiles. “That’s probably too old of a song for you.”

It’s then I notice that most of Grandmom’s garden has been taken over by the black roses. “You have so many of them, and they don’t even smell pleasant.”

“It didn’t start that way.” She rolls the stem of another between her fingers. “Their stems are twice as thick as those of other roses.” She strokes its petals. “They bloom twice as long. And they’re fiercely strong, fighters, taking over their weaker counterparts.” She gestures at the garden. “It lacks a sweet scent but makes up for it in every other way. It’s still a rose. So when you tell me you’re not cut out for this, I understand it’s all very new to you. But you’re more than cut out for it. You were born for it. You’re still a Marionne. You have more than proved it.”

I shift on my feet and hand her back the rose.

“What exactly is it you intend to do otherwise?”

I have no idea. I think back on my lessons in Dexler’s and which type of magic I felt better at. “I’m pretty good at Shifting.”

“A Shifter.” She titters. “You don’t get it, do you?” She pulls another several roses, gathering them together in a bunch, and we keep walking. “Nothing is the same for you.”

“I’d like it to be.” She would have me be an outcast here, too.

“You think that. But do you know what being my heir offers you?”

A home. Security. A place where I’d never have to run again. A history. A lineage. But Mom would never come here. And I’m not even sure Grandmom would want her to.

“Just as I thought,” Grandmom says. “You don’t really know. You will select Cultivator as your specialty just like I did and every Headmistress of House Marionne before me. Understand? Augmenting magic in others will be your specialty.”

“You’re not listening to me. I’m trying to say—”

“I hear you perfectly well, but you are not hearing me.” She gestures for us to make our way back to the garden gate. “I can show you better than I can tell you. Come along.” Grandmom takes me back inside, upstairs, and, for the first time, inside her bedroom. I’ve never seen anything more exquisite.

A bed buried in silky linens is framed by a tall, molded headboard with the House sigil carved into the wood. On either side of her bed are sweeping views of the estate, an ornate writing desk, and a velvet sitting area. Rows upon rows of books frame the sitting area. She runs her finger along the train of spines and plucks a honey-colored one.

“Here.” She holds it in front of me, and I flip through pages upon pages of Grandmom in pictures with a flock of debs at her side in tuxedos, regal gowns, and riband sashes. “And here.”

I turn the page, and in each Grandmom looks younger and younger. Could Mom be pictured in some of these? I flip until I reach the end, but Grandmom has another few waiting. I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually I’m in a chair with a stack of books I’ve looked through at my feet when Cuthers taps the door.

“Ma’am, Miss Shelby Duncan is waiting to see you.”

Grandmom exhales sharply. “What does she need? I’m with my granddaughter.”

“Something about an invitation she was expecting to come in. The Tidwell, perhaps?”

Grandmom waves Mrs. Cuthers away. I flip faster for some glimpse of Mom at Chateau Soleil.

“For what it’s worth, it’s time I start figuring out a replacement,” she says, tugging at the lace of her blouse.

I meet her eyes. “Are you okay?”

She strokes my hands. “Things catch up with you after a while, that’s all. Tell me, what do you want, Quell?”

To be free of this curse. To make sure Mom is okay. A beach, salty air, sand. “I’d like to travel.”

She pulls a trio of leather-bound books. Inside, Grandmom’s on a sleek boat of some sort surrounded by blue water that sparkles brighter than a dream. “Where is this?”

“That one must have been on our summer trip one year. We’ve traveled so much over the years, I don’t remember.” She flips the picture on the back. “Yes, I was traveling to see one of my débutantes off for her excavating internship. Now she mines enhancers in the caves of Aronya, among other places. And this one.” She points to a picture of herself and the other Headmistresses, dressed to the nines with ribands around them in their House colors at some sort of ceremony. “That’s the Council and I being officiated as the leaders of the Order.”

“You were all made Headmistresses at the same time?” Somehow, I hadn’t imagined it that way.

“When the Upper Cabinet were killed in that terrible natural disaster, there was really no other choice.” She strokes her pearls. “There were only us four in charge of the Houses and the Dragunhead left. Ruling by Council seemed the easiest solution.”

“The Dragunhead. I’ve heard about them but never met them.”

“And you wouldn’t. You’re not a Dragun.”

I stare at the picture again. She and Beaulah are on opposite ends. But Grandmom looks rather chummy with the others. I flip and lose myself once again in pictures from places, a life my mother lived, at least adjacently, that looks like a fairy tale.

“Did your mother tell you we celebrated her sixteenth birthday in the South of France? She’s obsessed with the beach. She liked to stay up late and listen to the sound of—”

“The tide coming in.”

“So she’s told you.”

No, she didn’t. Only that one day she’d take me to the beach. That’s when our jar of savings was born. That’s when we penned our plan for the future. Mom only gave me a peep through a crack. Her reasons for that feel less sufficient each time I think of it. There’s no harm in me knowing something about where I come from.

“We have thirteen homes, Quell. All of which you would inherit. Two in France, one in London, a penthouse in New York, should I go on?”

I can’t even fathom—

“Turning out Season after Season of débutants,” she goes on, apparently convinced she’s winning me over. “While dealing with the politics of the Council is nothing short of an all-star juggling act, I’d endeavor to teach it to you to the best of my ability.”

The places she’s traveled, the glitz, the glamour. Passing that exam in there today was nerve-wracking. But it also felt like being a part of something big. A family. The Order has given me more than just a place to lay my head. But I’ve been solely focused on surviving.

“Your schedule’s already been set up with core classes for Cultivators.”

“So that’s why my schedule changed.”

She pats my hands. “So Cultivator it is? You have to formally sign off on it. It goes in the Book of Names.”

I wish I had time to think about a decision this big. She wouldn’t understand that, so for now I say what she wants to hear instead.

“Cultivator, it is.”

“That’s my girl. Make sure Jordan gets the paperwork turned in. Everything you need to prepare for Third Rite will be in your room by evening. Stay on top of your mail as well; all rejected invitations should be refused with a prompt, tasteful note and convincing excuse.” She hands me a fresh pack of newly minted stationery. My name glitters in gold at the top, between two fleurs. “We wouldn’t want to snub anyone. Maintaining relationships is paramount.”

“Thank you.”

“And remember, Quell, it’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You weren’t raised in this House or around the heirs of the other Houses, so of course you have no idea what’s expected of someone in your station. I’m hard on you sometimes because I forget that. But I don’t blame you. That’s on your mother’s shoulders.”

I flinch at the second dig at Mom. I hadn’t thought about the other House’s heirs, what they must be like. What it would have been like being raised around them. How helpful knowing that could be as I try to hide myself in this world. I wouldn’t be such an obvious disaster if I knew what being a Headmistress’s heir looked like. Grandmom is more right than she knows.

“How about we invite the heirs here for an evening of fun? I can host it and consult with Dexler and Plume on all the details so it’s done just perfectly.”

Grandmom sits taller. “Now you sound like my granddaughter.”