Page 116 of House of Marionne

“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.”

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