Page 134 of House of Marionne

“Brooke and Alison, the girls from my House, were killed by someone on suspicion of having it. And they didn’t, Quell. There have been so many like them over the years.”

“So many . . . ?”

“Hundreds of members, maybe more, who’ve been killed over decades with no explanation. The assumption is that it’s members who fashion themselves Sunbringers come again taking matters into their own hands against those they suspect of having toushana. Instead of letting us do our work, which has a due process of how to handle it.”

Is that what Beaulah thinks she’s doing, helping . . .

“But I’m not sure if I buy that. Brooke and Alison were innocent. There was no whiff of forbidden magic.” He screws his lips, ruminating on his words like two pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit together. He laughs, and my heart stumbles over the suddenness.

“What?”

“Do you know what my brothers would do to me if they knew I was telling you all this?” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I swear I don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I’d share all I am with you if I could, Quell.” He exhales, and it’s like the weight of the world rides the wave of his breath. “You know, I finish at the end of summer. And the position I’m taking means I’ll have more freedom than most. From what I’ve heard, the Sphere will be my main focus. It has to be located so we can figure out how it’s been cracked.” He bites into his knuckle and something in his eyes takes him far away.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about any of that anymore.” I fold my hand into his.

“Part of me wishes I was already out there, you know?”

“But then, how could you be here?”

“Exactly.” His eyes drift off, and he’s gone again.

“I want cake.” I stand, willing him to come back to me, desperate to hold us in this moment.

“I’m fairly sure the kitchens are closed, but—”

“Come on.” I pull him up and take the stairs.

“Quell, we shouldn’t make a scene, really . . .” He has to hustle to keep up with me as I fly down the stairs. He reaches for me, but I twist through the stairwell door and spill into the lobby.

“Mister Wexton,” says someone behind the reception desk. “Is there something you need?”

“No—”

“Could you tell me where the kitchens are?” I blurt out.

“What are you doing?” Jordan whispers, but the concierge points and I pull Jordan in that direction, down an aisle of rooms, through another small lobby, and into a dining room with a few late patrons. The kitchen is through an open doorway behind the bar, and I hurry that way, cutting a corner too close, bumping into something.

“Oh!” A waiter dashes out of my way, tray wobbling on his hand.

“Sorry,” I yell as I stumble into an empty kitchen. “Now, cake.” I pull open fridge door after fridge door until I spot a brown round layer cake coated in creamy chocolate.

“Are you going to—”

I fold my fingers around the messy chocolate, sticky between my fingers, and bite into it. “Mmmm, oh my goodness. It’s heaven.”

Jordan’s eyes double in size.

I hold a piece at his lips.

“Qu—”

I tip the cake into his talking mouth and frosting smears on his lips. I snort, laughing as he chews.

“That’s really . . . good actually.” He tries to clean his mouth but only smears the frosting more. “I feel like I have something on my face.”

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