Page 56 of House of Marionne

“I am more than pleased, dear. This showing will be in the Hall of Excellence one day, mark my word. It’s . . .” She turns me again and whispers, “Astounding.”

“Thank you. Any word on my mom?”

“Actually, yes.” She digs out my key chain from her pocket.

My heart skips a beat.

“I tried the key chain a few times with no luck. So I sent a few letters but those garnered no response either.” Her nostrils flare. “So I had the Dragunhead send a few of mine to look for her, discreetly, of course.”

“And?”

“And she was spotted about forty miles from here. I insisted my people not get near her so as not to alarm her. She didn’t appear to want to be bothered.”

Mom is staying close by. I reach for my key chain. She hands it over. A part of me unwinds, then tangles up again. “Then why wouldn’t she respond to your letters?”

Grandmom grimaces. “Who knows why Rhea does what she does? I just wanted you to know I took care of it, as promised.” She eyes the key chain, but I stuff it in my pocket.

“What’s my mother’s middle name?”

Grandmom’s lips thin. “I don’t see how that’s helpful.”

“I would really like to know.”

I pull harder at the thread of my dress until it comes out completely. I don’t want to upset her, but Mom might not respond because the letters are coming from her.

“Marie,” she says, begrudgingly. “If that’s all. You should be getting along to sessions.” She departs before I can respond, but I don’t miss the disappointment in her tone.

Unsure what to do to smooth things over with Grandmom, I scribble a quick letter to Mom updating her on things, telling her my plan, that I’ve emerged, and drop it in Mrs. Cuthers’s outbox before booking it to session.

* * *

Cultivator Plume is already there by the time we file in. Whispers accompany me as I move across the ballroom toward the small crowd of waiting students. Eyes follow me, but not gaping at my face or my clothes, my ratty shoes, the stains on my zip-up. The things I know how to walk past and ignore. These stares gawk at my diadem. My lie. My foot hesitates at my next step, the urge to run whispering to me like an old trusted friend.

“Oh, the rose gold and her eyes,” someone whispers, her tone sparkling with awe more than disdain. “Michelle, did you see?”

“What did you expect? She’s a Marionne.” Michelle, whoever that is, twists her mouth in contempt.

I watch my shoes the rest of the way across the glossed floors.

Until I spot Jordan.

He’s unfurling a microphone cord next to a speaker. It hits the floor when I pass. Our eyes meet and he sits there crouched and frozen. The air in the room buzzes, and the floor beneath my feet must vanish because I feel as if I’m standing on air. His lips part and I still, his attention a tether, holding me in place.

“Quell,” he says. The word falls from his lips as if unbidden. I search for something in his expression to ease my nerves and find none of the usual hard lines there. The curve of his lips tugs up, softening his jaw. His heavy brow, typically pinched and low, has widened, as if he’s seeing something new for the first time. His chest rises a bit faster than normal, and for some reason it makes my breath patter faster too.

Is he going to say something?

But his eyes trace me like a drawing he’s paying the utmost attention to, around every curve, careful at each dip so as not to make a mistake. So as not to taint the art. When he does finally meet my eyes again, the green in them has deepened. My breath catches. Look away. But my body doesn’t listen, my gaze as transfixed as my feet at the way Jordan Wexton is staring at me.

Say something.

But courage escapes me, and the moment seems to render us both speechless.

“Jordan,” I manage feebly, wondering if he can sense the weirdness in my tone. But his gaze doesn’t falter. Those green eyes hold on to me tighter than a grip, warmer than a hug.

“Very nice, Miss Marionne,” Plume says, inserting himself between us. He ogles at my diadem, then spins me around. “It’s simply regal. Headmistress must be beside herself at such a strong showing! How are you feeling?”

“Good. Different. It’s all so new.” Warmth rushes into every part of me that’s usually knotted with angst. “It just happened last night.”

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