Page 42 of Shadows of Perl

She huffs.

“Let me help you.” I cross my arms, waiting for her to fold.

“I would never accept help from someone like you.” She tosses the room key at me. I’ve never seen someone look at me with such disgust. “I’ll meet you here after breakfast to go to the guesthouse.”

She rushes out.

Abby was so nice to me when we met. I lied to her, kept secrets from her. And I still do. My only friend who hasn’t betrayed me. And now I’m blackmailing Adola. Ugh. Maybe I am a terrible person. My toushana rolls around in my chest. I flip a switch, and sconces flicker to life alongside a fire that is already burning. The room is huge, trimmed in dark colors with red and black accents. An oversized four-poster bed is painted with faux cracks. There is a sitting area, a vanity, and several wardrobes. Moonlight streams through wide windows over an antique tub in a connecting bathroom.

Cologne sits beside the sink. It smells of sandalwood and vanilla, and the hair on my skin rises. Thoughts of Jordan come to me in a rush and I drop the bottle. It shatters on the floor, filling the whole room with the scent of him. Without my thinking of it, toushana pours out of me, and I smooth shadows across the glossed floor until the mess is gone and all that’s left are a few scorch marks on the marble. No, there’s no way. I back out of there and close the bathroom doors, searching the rest of the room for proof that I’m wrong.

But a photograph in a tiny frame on the fireplace mantel crushes my hopes. It’s Jordan, riband slung across his chest, arms roped around others beside him. This is his room. Adola did this on purpose. There is no way I’m sleeping in that bed, even if Jordan hasn’t slept in it for years. It’s the principle of the matter. I consider sleeping in the armchair beside the roaring fire; my limbs yearn for a night of proper rest. Too cramped.

So I peel back the covers begrudgingly. His sheets are the softest silk linen. And the bed makes me think of him in ways I wished it didn’t. I climb inside, unable to resist. Nothing about this place or the people here is completely as it seems. I need to remember that with Beaulah. And Adola, too. I should have learned that lesson with Jordan already.

I toss and turn, but despite my exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come. Every square inch of this room is like staring into a nightmare. I close my eyes but see him, so I keep them open until my eyelids become heavy. By the middle of the night, I can’t stand it and I get up. Somehow the scrap of Debs Daily announcing Jordan’s promotion finds its way into my hands. I hold it up to the framed portrait on the mantel. A younger, smiling Jordan poses in front of an old historic building. Deep creases hug his bright green eyes and a smile. Joy, frozen in time.

Something fractures inside me, and it feels like there’s a gaping hole in my chest. A hole I’d thought my toushana had filled.

That Jordan…I miss him.

The framed picture is a sharp contrast to the one of Jordan in the newspaper where, even in black and white, shadows wrap around his eyes. There is no happiness in his expression, only anger. Which, because I know him, is caused by pain. How did we end up here? I never let myself cry over him after everything went down. Yagrin and I left right away. Then there was the safe house, a million things to busy my mind. But here…his scent is still faintly here. It breaks me.

It was never supposed to be this way.

I can hardly breathe between sobs. I blink quickly, hoping to push the tears away, but it doesn’t help. I miss the boy I glimpsed behind the mask. When we snuck through the kitchens and stole cake. The care he took when he transfigured an entire beach just so I could study. When he looked at me and saw something that only my mom ever has: worthiness. It felt so real. He felt so real. So safe.

I sit and let the wall hold me up, hugging my knees until my chest aches. Then I curl up right there on the floor and cry until my eyes are dry and sleep finally takes me.

* * *

I’m disturbed by rapid knocking at my door. I unfurl myself from my covers on the floor. Morning sun shines through the windows. I smooth my puffy, swollen eyes in a mirror before unlatching the door. Adola hurries inside wearing a dark, breathy frock, diadem shining as if it’s been freshly polished.

“Are you ready?”

“This is your idea of a joke, putting me in Jordan’s bedroom?” I manage, voice heavy from the night before and such little sleep.

Adola flashes a surly grin.

“If you want to keep me on your good side, you won’t mention him. Ever.” I throw the key at her. “And get me a different room.” I retreat to the bathroom to scrub the pain of Jordan Wexton and me off my face for good.

* * *

The grounds of Hartsboro are alive. Off Season for the Order runs from fall through late spring, when everyone is usually back at home, attending regular school. But the halls of House of Perl are full of débutants and maezres hurrying in every direction, dressed for lessons in simple black dresses or pants, robust diadems arced over their heads and masks sloped across the top halves of their faces. I even spot a few Electus who haven’t emerged.

“The off Season is busy at Hartsboro,” I say to Adola. I hadn’t imagined so many eyes around. That will make sneaking to the guesthouse trickier than I expected.

“It’s Trials week. And we’re a close-knit House.”

“Are there classes in session?”

“Trials are at night. So maezres offer a few enrichment sessions to busy guests during daylight hours.”

“I’ll get a copy of the schedule from Beaulah.” And assuage any concerns she might have about my being here and give myself an idea of when the halls will be empty. House of Perl has its fidelity on display, with more tapestries, House crests, Latin inscriptions, and plaques filled with original writings from people whose names I don’t recognize. Somewhere I hear a chorus of recitations of House history.

“We’ll cut through the Instruction Wing,” she says, taking a sharp right at the hall ahead. We pass beneath a banner boasting the House slogan: Memento sumptus. Remember the cost. “The guesthouse is behind the main house.”

I stuff my hands in the pockets of my dress, remembering the gaping nothingness I saw in the wall of trees behind the estate last night. Adola leads me down a long corridor of classrooms; one has a heavily bolted door.

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