Page 109 of House of Marionne

“What on earth happened?” she asks, eyeing the new setup.

“It’s all fine now.”

“What did you do before coming to the Chateau, Quell?” Drew asks, annoyingly persistent, before shoving an entire crustless sandwich in their mouth.

Grandmom’s stare lassos around my throat.

“There’s not much to share that would interest anyone here, I’m sure.”

“Try me.”

My grip on my glass tightens, and a touch of cold strokes my bones.

“I mean, unless you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t say that I don’t want to talk about it.” I twist my riband around my finger. Nore notices, and we share a glance.

“The next round of tea, should we?” Grandmom interjects, and servers swarm the tables. Drew’s question is lost in the confusion, and I try to sit back in my seat. Before anyone can fire off any more interrogating questions, I turn to Adola.

“You’re finishing this Season, I heard. What color dress are you going to wear?”

“Me?” Adola’s dainty fingers stroke her pearls with a lilt of arrogance that reminds me of her aunt Beaulah Perl. Grandmom sighs under her breath.

“Yes,” I say.

“In our House, it’s tradition to debut in black.”

“Right. I must have forgotten.”

Grandmom clears her throat. This is going sideways. Drew opens their mouth, but I’m faster.

“Nore, how is your tea?”

“It’s delicious.” She smiles but looks away, bored or irritated or something.

“Was your mother heir, too?” Adola asks, directing the conversation aggressively back to me.

“She wasn’t,” I say, fighting off a cold sweat.

“Wh—”

“How are things in your House, Adola?” I cut in, an octave too high. “I’ve been so worried since hearing the news.”

She straightens, her composure flinching, but her voice streams out as melodic and sweet as ever. “It’s been difficult. You and your mentor must talk often.”

“I didn’t hear from Jordan. It’s been all the talk . . .” In the Tavern, I don’t add because Grandmom doesn’t need to know I’ve been there.

“I just hope everyone can heal and move on.” Adola places another bite of scone with clotted cream into her mouth before crossing her utensils facedown on her plate. Her entire mood has shifted. I prodded a wound. It’s shut her up. A small victory, but I’ll take it.

Grandmom’s watchful eye patrols the table, and for the rest of the tea I’m careful to stick to what I know and avoid being the topic of discussion. The conversation leaves me behind, and perhaps it’s better that way. I try to pop in and out of it to at least appear engaged. By the time the final course of pastries comes around, my lower back aches, and all I’ve gleaned from this group is that the only reason Drew and Adola showed up was to pry.

“You’re awfully quiet, Nore,” Grandmom prods, as if trying to carefully stir a pot of soup.

“Yes, well, I’d hoped to have more to talk about, but alas, I’m not finding this tea party very inspiring,” she says. Adola’s gaze swells. Grandmom fiddles with her earring. Drew throws another macaroon in their mouth, apparently entertained.

“How long do you have left before Cotillion, Nore?” I ask, trying to salvage this sham of a party.

“I have just emerged, actually, working on Second Rite.”

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