House of Marionne

It started raining around curfew, so Jordan and I stayed in the conservatory swapping stories. He told me of a time when he’d gotten lost in the forest near his parents’ property. And after a long while of searching for the way back, he just decided he’d brave it and live with the wolves. By the time the search party found him, he was so determined to prove he could actually do it, he only spoke in wolf howls for a week. I laughed until my ribs ached and shared morsel-sized snippets of life with Mom with him. Crumbled pieces of who I am. Who I was.

By the time we made our way back to our rooms, we were shoeless, breathless, with feet caked in mud. I fell into bed right before dawn fully aware I would miss morning sessions. But my alarm has coaxed me out of bed with just enough time to get ready for a check-in with Grandmom.

I dash up the stairs, picturing little Jordan growling at his parents as I slip into the dining room.

“You’re certainly radiant this evening.”

I curtsy. “Headmistress.”

Her maid sets a tray with tea on the coffee table between us and adds a log to the fire.

“I was worried you weren’t coming. Busy day?”

“Quite busy. I’m on top of things though, I promise.”

“Mrs. Cuthers seems to think so, too. Do you have your internship list?”

I pull out the list on the Marionne stationery Grandmom had made for me, still not sold completely on this heir business. I can’t pretend it’s not enticing. I can’t pretend making that list wasn’t thrilling. But all I could think about was Where does that leave Mom? My thoughts drift back to Nore, wondering what she will think of my letter. If I’m right, I wonder how she makes it all work. Her family isn’t in pieces. Hopefully, today I can broach the topic with Jordan.

Grandmom eyes over my paper, then snaps at the air, and her maid puts a pen in her hand.

She writes on my wish list, crossing something out several times, and I groan under my breath. I’d picked each place carefully, all near the beach.

“There, now that’s a good start. I’ll go over it with the Council. It should be no trouble, but we all vote on heir assignments. So I like to be methodical.” She hands the paper back to me, and she’s written in “In-House internship” in the number one spot and shuffled the places at the bottom to put those in closest proximity to Chateau Soleil higher up.

“I don’t understand. I thought . . .” It was up to me.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.” I take a sip from my cup. It won’t matter. Once I finish, Mom and I are leaving.

“Invitations, where are we with those? I sent over a recommended guest list, did you get it?”

Yes, three hundred fifty people I’ve never heard of in my life. “I did, thank you. I noticed that my mom wasn’t on there. I added her. I hope that’s all right?”

Her teacup stops just before her lips. “Yes, yes, of course. That must have been an oversight. She should absolutely have been on the list. Forgive me.”

Good. I set my cup on the saucer so that it doesn’t make a sound, nodding with a smile. I don’t entirely know that she’s being honest about her excitement. But at least she knows what I expect. That I’m paying attention. I can’t wait to see Mom again once it’s safe to.

The check-in wraps without much more interrogation.

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, trying to infuse some excitement in my voice. I did enjoy these meetups at first. But as they’ve morphed into her browbeating me into planning her vision of my future, I look forward to them less and less.

“Before you go.” She hands me an envelope. “This came for you today.” Silver letters shine against a bright blue paper, closed by three leaves intertwined pressed into its wax seal. “It’s from Nore Ambrose, I presume.”

My stomach twists.

“It’s good to see you making friends with others of your stature, Quell. Keep it up.”

I tell Grandmom goodbye and hurry out into the hall, where a familiar blond-haired, blue-eyed Secundus is sitting.

“Shelby, hey.”

She crosses and uncrosses her legs.

“Is everything okay?”

“What’s it to you?”

She goes back to her notebook, ignoring me completely. I leave her there. I’ve got ten thousand other things to worry about. Once I’m alone, I pull at the seal.

Meet me where the trees are dead.

At midnight.

I read the words again and again. The sun’s glow is dipping below the trees outside the nearest window. My thoughts spin, winding me up. I descend the stairs, rereading the note, when I crash into Jordan.

He catches me around the waist, pulling me into his orbit. “You’re in a rush.”

“Oh, hey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you more about the Tea I had with the heirs.”

“Then come to my room tonight.”

“I didn’t realize girls are allowed in the Gents Wing.”

“I’m on duty tonight.”

“Jordan Wexton, are you bending the rules?”

He holds up two fingers barely apart.

“Okay. But I, uh, have to get out of there before midnight to study.” I hold tight to the note from Nore at my back until he’s out of sight.

Jordan’s room is a corner suite on its own hall between the Gents and Cultivator Wings. He ushers me inside, and I’m greeted by the scent of garlic. There’s a separate bedroom and a bathroom. All prim and tidy. He doesn’t appear to have a roommate, which isn’t a shock.

I sit at the table, which he has set properly with all the settings and a tiny flower on the plate next to a card with my name. He fills my glass with sparkling cider and pulls something out of the oven.

“I really didn’t take you for a chef.”

“I’m not.” He dangles a recipe. “This is the one dish I can make pretty well. I learned it from my grandmother’s mother. My parents would leave me with her—”

“For summers, I remember.” He told me the other night all about his stern great-grandmother with her penchant for extreme punishments. He slides a pan of flaky golden bread rounds onto a trivet on the table, and it smells heavenly.

“What is it?”

“Popovers. Or Yorkshire puddings, as Gran called it.”

“I didn’t realize you were close with her.”

“I wasn’t, but I watched her closely enough.” He doesn’t say any more, and I don’t push.

“So the Tea was interesting.” I dive right in, Nore’s note needling me. “What do you know about the heirs of the other Houses?”

He slips a bite into his mouth. “I know Adola fairly well, obviously. Never met Drew. But I’ve heard they’re sharp. And I don’t deal with Ambrosers if I can help it.”

“But do you know anything about the Ambrose heir?” I hold in a breath.

“Nore Emilie Ambrose. Born of Paul and Isla Ambrose. She lives in Idaho at Dlaminaugh Estate, the training grounds of House Ambrose. She’s set to debut in one of the upcoming two Seasons. She’s a fair Shifter and a decent Retentor, I heard. She’s of course going to be a Cultivator, so none of that matters.”

Wow. “I figured you didn’t know them well. She must be someone you and your Dragun friends have discussed . . .”

“It’s my job to know things and not mention them.”

His tone sends a chill up my arm. A chill I haven’t felt around him in a long time. “So why would they discuss her? Any reason in particular?”

“They haven’t.” His brows dent as he holds out a cheese tray. “Did something happen at the Tea?”

“No,” I say a bit too quickly. I clear my throat and take a bite of food. “Any leads on who harmed the girls from your House?” His next bite of food halts at his mouth as I grab a few olives and some cheese.

He sighs, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I didn’t invite you here to talk about my work.” He stands. “How about some music?”

“I’m just asking because—”

“No more, all right?”

“Fine.” I join his side at a vintage record player and pick up a black-and-white record cover. He puts the vinyl on when I notice a polished box beside it engraved with a cracked column. I flip open the top. Inside are six golden lapel pins, each with a different word inscribed on them.

He takes the box out of my hands before I can read them. “Please.”

“What are they?”

“A tradition we have in my House. I had to earn each one.” He cups an angry scar on his elbow before closing the box and setting it on a high shelf.

“So a gramophone?” I pivot, realizing I’ve poked a wound.

“I got it from our home in Ascot the last time we visited. It was my great-grandfather’s.” He grabs the arm of the player and sets it carefully on the black disc. “The Ink Spots, heard of them?”

“No.” Tunes bellow from the horn speaker.

“What about William Congreve?”

“That sounds familiar, but I couldn’t say from where.”

“ ‘Music has charms to sooth a savage breast.’ The Mourning Bride. He was a seventeenth-century English playwright.” Jordan works his magic toward the ceiling. “You know how I feel about the classics, but they were of course required reading.” The white above us bleeds black, the ceiling shifting into a night sky full of stars. “Will you dance with me?”

I want to ask him more about Nore. “My food is going to get cold.”

He reaches for me, and I give in, fitting my hand into his. “You need to practice.”

“It’s okay to like me, you know?”

“No, it’s not.”

I pull away.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

“Or did it come out right?” I scoff, irritation triggered by his insistence on locking away the things he doesn’t want to talk about. First his magic, then his work, the girls from his House, and, of course, his feelings.

“What do you want me to say, Quell?”

“I want you to tell me what you really want.”

“I want to have a nice meal. I want to dance.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.” I put more distance between us. “What do you want, Jordan?” I look at him, deep in his eyes, and dare him to look away.

“Quell, you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you wouldn’t ask it!”

“This isn’t only hard for you, Jordan.” I eye the time and snatch my sweater from the chair.

He keeps pulling me in, but he won’t acknowledge that he feels something. Letting me in but keeping me at arm’s length. As if he wants to have me without having me. And I’m sick of it.

“It almost felt different with you. Almost.”

“Quell, please.”

I grab the knob. “I don’t understand how you’re content living with so much of yourself in shadows.”

He rushes at me in a blur of black. “I am the shadow, Quell.”

“Well, I’ve lived a life in the shadows.” I pull open his door. “And I don’t recommend it.”

I shove away the frustration of Jordan and hurry to the foyer, then broom closet, and race down the corridor with minutes to midnight. Humid air welcomes me as I dash through the forest until the trees close in around me and the Chateau is a memory in the distance. My toushana curls in my bones, stretching itself awake, eager to be fed. Not now, I tell it.

I still, listening. But hear only wind.

“Nore?”

The Secret Wood is bleak, as still as a graveyard.

“Nore?” I say once more.

But she doesn’t answer.

No one does.