Page 126 of House of Marionne

I hadn’t wanted to go back to the Secret Wood again so soon, to continue using my toushana, but I can’t risk having issues tonight. The air outside is thick and hot, hotter than it’s been, reminding me Season will be coming to an end in weeks. Jordan’s already outside the doors to the Chateau when I arrive. He’s in a tux with his House jacket, stitched with red threads and tiny suns along the lapel. His tux has never been more dapper. His gold House pins line his lapel. I threw on a gold sequined gown and pulled my hair up with a few tendrils hanging here and there.

“You’re breathtaking.” He hands me a rose and I thank him, looking for some hint of where we might be going but seeing none.

“We’re not cloaking to get there?” I ask when a car coated in a fine layer of familiar dust rolls up.

“Where we are going, there will be Unmarked. Tonight, we play the game of blending in.”

I glance at his pocket watch. July 10. “The Tidwell Ball is tonight!”

His lips curl in a clever grin as his driver opens the car door.

“The minute I’m over it, we’re leaving.”

“You have my word.” Jordan slides into the car behind me, and the door closes. Chateau Soleil is in the rear window when the world shifts and Grandmom’s neighborhood bleeds into glittering lights of towering buildings. The city throbs with life, people darting in and out of traffic, car horns blaring in the distance. I press my nose to the window. We’re not anywhere near Louisiana anymore. Jordan’s hand folds in mine. Tonight, I let it all go.

Tonight, I will be free.

* * *

The doors to the Q hotel part as we approach, and Jordan’s arm threads around mine. His House ring’s rubies glint in the lights from the line of photographers at the door. Several held back by velvet ropes shout our names to beckon us over.

“Ignore them,” he whispers to me, his lips brushing my ear.

“Mister Wexton,” the doorman says. “Should I have the penthouse prepared? Is your father with you tonight?”

“Just myself and Miss Marionne. No need.”

Inside, the hotel drips with elegance. Columns and oiled furniture, polished floors and sparkly dim lighting. Inscriptions along the crown of the ornamented ceiling remind me of Chateau Soleil.

Jordan sees me gawking and points at carved suns along the perimeter of a gilded mirror near a lounge area. Every other sun is darkened in the middle. “Dysiian influences, alongside Sfentian.”

“Wasn’t Dysiis that Order member who was barred from studying magic?”

“Dysiis believed to understand the full breadth of magic’s capacity to do good, we have to understand its darker parts. He studied toushana until he died. That’s where everything we know about it comes from.”

“Oh, he sounded like some sort of rebel.”

“He is. To some.” Sleek black elevator doors open, and we step inside.

Jordan squeezes my hand as the doors close. When they reopen, we follow a sign for the Yaäuper Rea Ballroom. It’s expansive and a burst of color. Sweeping fabrics, sparkling candelabras, silver trays, and a lavishly dressed crowd. I hold tighter to Jordan’s arm.

“Mister Wexton.” A curly-mustached fellow with a big barrel belly who looks oddly familiar grips Jordan by the shoulders. “I was just talking to Charlie and Sand about you.”

“Marcius Walsby, good to see you.”

“And this must be Miss Marionne.” He reaches for my hand, and I oblige, resisting the urge to grimace as his lips touch my skin.

“Pleasure to meet you.” I know his face.

“The pleasure is all mine. The picture in the paper did not do justice to your full regality, young lady.”

I snatch my hand away.

“Good to see you, as always,” Jordan says, pulling me away. “We should make rounds.”

“Is he in the Or—?”

“A member is the term we use away from home. And no, he’s not a member. Walsby is the governor.”

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