Page 104 of House of Marionne

“Because he’s rigid. He has zero ability to loosen up. He does everything perfectly. He even has perfect lips. His cheeks slope flawlessly to them. Have you looked at him?”

“No, I don’t look at Jordan’s lips. But the admission that you do says a lot.”

I roll my eyes. “He is wrong for me in every way.” In more ways than I can say. “And yet . . . he is all I find myself thinking about. I—”

“Hate him, clearly.”

I collapse on her bed beside her. “I’m hopeless.”

“Quell, he’s a Dragun. Every girl wants to—”

“Abilene Grace Feldsher, I swear if you finish that sentence.” I hold up her invitation and a pair of scissors.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I wouldn’t risk it if I were you.”

She snatches the scissors. “Fine, I’ll drop it, but that’s how I know you really like him. My advice? It’s your life, and you should live it like you want. If you want Jordan, go get him.”

“My feelings for Jordan don’t matter. Not that I have feelings for him! I like him a little bit, yes, but that doesn’t mean— Let’s just get these done.”

She winks at me, and I pretend to dry gag to show her I mean it. We work, tying ribbons onto her invites, and I tie the first few too tight, distracted entirely by how I wish I knew what Abby really thought. But that would require me to tell her the full truth. That Jordan would kill me if he knew what I was hiding. The thought tugs at my insecurity and I feel the toushana in my body shift.

By the time I finish, Abby is collapsed on her bed in a pile of plum velvet, snoring again. My hands are stiff from all the tying, and I barely have any energy to clear off my bed so I can sleep. I tug Abby’s covers over her and switch off her lamp. The quivering chill beneath my skin reminds me it’s still there. Reminding me I will need to return to the forest. And soon. Just the thought of using my toushana on purpose makes my insides swim. Memories of Jordan in the forest feeding his toushana loom over me as I drag myself to my covers and pull open my checklist, flipping to the first page.

My plan to use my toushana in order to control it better work.

* * *

Dexler’s session begins with a bang, and I press my hands, still throbbing in frigid warning, between my knees. With as much as they hurt, I was tempted to stay in my room all day until it’s dark enough to visit the forest. But I desperately needed to talk to Dexler and Plume about the heir event at the end of the week.

Invitations went out as soon as Grandmom and I figured out a catchy name and description: Summer Blooms Tea, an afternoon of roses and refreshment. And the heirs have each already RSVP’d. Hiding the truth from Grandmom is one thing. She sees what she wants to see. But these heirs are the crème de la crème of the Order, the future Darragh Marionnes and Beaulah Perls. I ball my hands into fists.

I have days to prepare to put on the best performance of my life.

Dexler’s is sparsely filled, with people working at their tables independently.

“All magic, as we know from our studies of Sola Sfenti, comes from . . .” she prods.

“Sun Dust.”

“Anciently it was ingested, injected, grafted, and even sewn into the skin. But now—” She gestures for me to finish.

“Magic is in the blood.”

Shelby glances my way. I smile, but she goes back to her book.

“Precisely. And discovered when—”

“During the Forty Days of Darkness.”

“As a Cultivator, you can sense Sun Dust in people or things and draw it out. But first you’ll need to reach your inner kor.”

I shake my head, and Dexler presses her glasses firmer to her nose before sitting beside me. “Picture the Dust moving through you.”

I close my eyes and imagine my magic burning in me properly. The achiness lurking under my skin shudders. Please, not now.

“Draw it to your center. Really feel it. Yours should be strong enough now.” She taps my diaphragm where my warm magic hums, and I try to forget about my toushana poking me in warning. Dexler quiets a few noisy students when the dull ache in my bones twinges. I eye the clock. I ignore it, tightening from my center, and warmth pools through me, grain by grain, before it zips through my chest in a sharp, searing gust.

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