Page 106 of House of Marionne

On my first trip back to the Secret Wood of the forest to satisfy my toushana, the bark feels brittle and unfamiliar as it deadens against my skin. I find a patch of thin branches, let my toushana rip through me, and hurry back inside. But I toss and turn all night wondering, if I could destroy more at a time, would the effect last longer?

On my third trip to the Secret Wood, I search for bigger trunks with deep roots and burn them all until I am breathless. Until they lie black and withered like a pile of singed leaves. It takes so long, my fingers are numb, chafed, and stinging. But I leave feeling . . . untethered in a way I’ve never been. And after it, my toushana lies quiet for three whole days.

But today, on my seventh trip into the forest, I could hardly get through the door because of my toushana burning with an itch, begging to be scratched. I run, tearing through the trees, trying to put as much distance between me and the estate as I can. Trying to bury my secrets far, far away. But the urge to press my skin to something, anything, and feel the soft, dead granules sift between my fingers sticks in my throat like a thirst. I have to drink. So I touch the first thing I see, and the next, and the next, leaving a trail of destruction like dead footprints.

Wind whistles, rustling the clawed branches, as I finally make it to the Secret Wood. As far as I can see are blackened branches, dead trees, some in heaps of ash, others withering as if they’ve been razed. It’s desolate and charred as if it barely survived being set on fire.

I glare at my hands, my knees pressed hard in the dirt. My toushana hums in me with a cadence of delight, a bloated contentment. It is satisfied.

I pull myself up as my labored breath bleeds through the fog of silence. I force my lips shut despite my raging heart. I’m always most nervous when I finish. What if my senses dull and I miss a crunch of leaves, or hushed breathing?

Ash sticks to my hands. I dust them off and start shifting the blackened trail, transfiguring it into piles of trodden leaves. Covering my tracks. Burying my secrets. Secrets that won’t matter in three weeks.

Grandmom’s domineering glare hovers in my memory as I work faster to cover the area. She’s been on my back so much about this event with the heirs tomorrow that between trips to the forest, the majority of my time has been spent being lectured by her. I’m running out of excuses for where to tell her I’ve been.

Magic streams from my fingers, controlled and immediate, my proper magic answering on command. My toushana hasn’t crept up in surprise all week. As sickening as it is, this is working.

The forest begins to resemble its former state and I make my way back to the door buried in the bushes. My knees are damp with earth. I try to clean them and smooth my hair, sure it’s a mess. It feels as if I’ve been out here for hours. My nose is chilled by the time I pull open the hidden door. Inside the passageway I pause to listen for footsteps before hurrying to my room.

I round the corner of my Wing and look for a familiar face lurking in the corridor, but the hall is sparsely dotted with a few Primus. Jordan hasn’t returned from his trip to help with the search for the Perl girls. Nor has there been so much as a whisper about them. I twist my doorknob and find Abby fast asleep inside. In what world do people go missing and life just goes on . . .

A chill skitters up my arm. That could have been me. I scrub down in a quick shower and tuck into bed with a social etiquette book from my stack. Tomorrow needs to go right. I roll in my covers, reading and rereading Emily’s chapter on conversation.

I have to be perfect.

THIRTY-TWO

The morning comes, and my feet are on the floor before my alarm sounds. The Tea is this afternoon, and after hours tossing and turning I gave up on sleep. First stop is House secretary, Mrs. Cuthers. Her desk is somehow already swallowed by students, and the sun is hardly awake. When her office clears, she gestures for me to come inside and close the door. Behind her is a corkboard with memories pinned to it, smiling faces of elegantly dressed debs, with You’re the best scribbled underneath. She grabs a stack of envelopes.

“We need a full name, Mister Blackshear,” she says to herself, tossing an envelope into the trash. “Miss Marionne.” She clicks her pen. “How can I help?”

“I wanted to give you these refusals if you wouldn’t mind mailing them.” I hand her the stack of envelopes in my hand. Coming up with that many “polite” reasons I couldn’t attend was no easy feat.

“Heavens.” She takes the stack. “Did you say yes to any of them?”

I smile tightly.

“Are you absolutely sure, dear? Not even just one? Society is dying to see you.”

“They can meet me after Cotillion.” When it’s safe.

“As you wish. What else?”

“I also wanted to ensure my mom is on the invitation list.”

Cuthers pulls off her glasses. “Little Rhea?” She presses her palms to her chest. “What a delight that would be to see her face around here again.” She pulls out the list. “She is not, actually. But I can see to it that she’s—”

“Actually, I want to prepare that invite myself.”

“I assure you—”

“Respectfully, Mrs. Cuthers, I am going to address it in my own hand with a personal note from me, to ensure my mother opens it.” I am going to do this one small thing my way.

The door shoves open without a knock, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Headmistress, so good to see you.”

“I was just popping my head in to see where we are with things with Quell’s Cotillion. Your dress is the most important part, dear, are you set up with Vestiser fittings?”

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