Page 119 of House of Marionne

“Nothing.”

We find our seats when music booms and the lights dim. The audience quiets as the doors part. I lean into Mynick, whispering, “So tell me about Nore Ambrose.”

He teeters off the edge of his seat, craning for a glimpse of the debs as they enter and stream right into their group dance. “What about her?”

Abby catches us looking, and we wave.

“Oh, you know . . . what is she like? Is she in any of your sessions?” Does she have toushana?

“You ask that like it’s someone I actually know.”

“So you don’t know her?”

“I know you more than I know her.” He laughs. “No one gets close to Nore. Headmistress would lose it.”

“So she’s sheltered?”

“To the extreme.”

Before I can get another question in, we stand with the whole room, applauding as the group dances finish and Abby takes the floor with her date. Mynick reclines in his seat and decides to butter his bread instead of watch.

“You were saying?” I lean forward.

“Why are you so interested in Nore anyway?”

Because she may be a mirror of survival in this world I haven’t conceived of. Because I’ve never even met someone who’s afflicted like I am. Because knowing there’s another heir out there, broken like me, makes my footsteps feel lighter. Makes the air a bit crisper. Makes me feel less broken.

“I have my reasons. Besides, you owe me.”

He grins. “No, but I never see her.”

“She’s inducting, she said. You don’t have sessions with her?”

“She doesn’t live inside the estate.”

“Wait. What?”

Pinched stares glare in my direction as Abby’s dance comes to a close.

“She hasn’t set a foot inside Dlaminaugh in years, I heard.”

The ballroom erupts in raucous applause, and a bell chimes. The crowd goes silent as Abby finishes her dance and approaches the stage to bind with her magic. A spotlight follows her to a small dais shrouded with floral arrangements.

“Abilene Grace Feldsher,” Grandmom bellows into the microphone, and Abby steps forward.

Nore hasn’t set a foot inside Dlaminaugh in years.

And yet she came to the Tea and acted like nothing was wrong.

I keep my eyes ahead, digging my nail into the fabric of the chair, trying to sort out what that means for me.

“It is my distinct honor,” Grandmom says, raising her volume, and I watch as Abby climbs the stage. But the rest of what she says blurs into a haze in my head, which is fully consumed with Nore. The dagger disappears into Abby’s chest with a crack; the lights flicker. I almost miss it.

“On behalf of House of Marionne, the Prestigious Order of Highest Mysteries formally welcomes you, Abilene Grace Feldsher, into our fold. Supra alios.” Grandmom curtsies to Abby.

“Supra alios,” the crowd says.

“Supra alios, Headmistress,” Abby mimics, and Grandmom embraces her.

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