Page 15 of House of Marionne

“And it cannot grow without the careful guidance of a Cultivator. That doesn’t entice you?”

“I think I’m just tired.”

Her stare deadens, and my throat goes dry.

“Of course. Forgive me.” She slaps the book closed, her lips thinned. “You’re probably exhausted.”

“Yes.”

“Very well, get some rest.” She holds out her hand. “But I will require your phone. They’re not allowed on the premises. This is a place of the utmost privacy and discretion.”

“I—”

“Your phone, or I am afraid you will not be permitted to stay, dear.” She straightens and I dig my phone out of my bag, thankful I at least have my key chain. I hand it over, and my heart skips a beat. It’s like breaking off a piece of myself and giving it away.

“I’ll have refreshment and fresh clothes sent to a room for you. We’ll take up this conversation tomorrow, how does that sound?”

My fingers graze the spots on my arm Abby’s magic healed, and a tightness unfurls in my chest at what real magic can do. I shove off the futile thoughts and meet Grandmom’s eyes.

“That sounds good. Thank you.”

By morning, I’ll be gone.

FIVE

Outside Grandmom’s door, I squeeze my key chain. It glows in response. I exhale and unfold the map Grandmom gave me. Room twelve of the Belles Wing, on the second floor, has a circle around it.

I hurry down the grand stairs and into a sconce-lit hall lined with glass display cabinets. In the first, a gold diadem speckled with radiant gems much more regal than Abby’s or Grandmom’s shines beneath spotlights. Headmistress Claudette Marionne, Inaugural Headmistress, House of Marionne, 1874, the plaque reads. Beside it, in another display case, is a satin sash with frayed edges coiled like a snake, embroidered with the same fleur and talon symbol I saw on the front of this building. Its plaque boasts of someone else with my name that I don’t recognize. Next to the sash is another. And another. The long hall is full of a dozen or more silver or gold diadems, some with tall spires, others with different shapes entirely, all encrusted with brilliant stones. Each as uniquely extraordinary as the one beside it.

I shove a fingernail between my teeth and wander deeper down the hallway, salivating at a world, a life, a history I should have known. The next case stills my steps. Unlike the other diadems in golds and silver, this one is blackened. I ball my hands into fists, reminded of the destructive secret coursing through my veins. Where the others are polished, their regality on display, the metal on this one is bent in several places and scuffed. The glass is cold against my skin as I squint at its plaque, where a sun is etched. The center of the sun is colored in.

This relic, valiantly retrieved by legendary Sunbringer Elopheus the Dawn, was won at the last known conquest against Darkbearers during the Second Age of Vultures. circa 1287 ce

“Won?”

“Yes,” a low voice says, so close that I startle.

“Jordan.” My heart hiccups, and the scent of him wraps around me as I turn to face him.

He’s changed clothes. The top two buttons of his tuxedo shirt are undone, and a bow tie hangs around his neck, dangling on his chest. He stuffs something small and colorful in his tux pocket.

“That diadem was torn from the skull of a Darkbearer. They say the ghosts of Elopheus’s victims still haunt the territories he razed.”

“Darkbearer?”

“Night Bleeders, Death Walkers, Sons of Darkness, Dysiians. The names have changed throughout history. But they’re all just another name for toushana-users who would pillage villages, torturing Unmarked. Elopheus once slew an entire hideout of Darkbearers in a single night. By himself.” He breathes a laugh. “Can you imagine?”

“No, I . . . I can’t imagine.”

“This was centuries ago.” His expression sparkles with awe. “They’re all gone, of course.”

“And the Sunbringers? The ones who . . . hunted these . . . toushana-users?” My nails dig into my palm.

“Dragun was a nickname at first. The burning. The stories say the stench of Sunbringers disposing of Darkbearers, to make sure the toushana in them was dead, could be smelled as far as the next village over. The name just caught on after a while. But no . . .” He fingers the talon symbol at his throat. “We’re still very much around.” His eyes narrow. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m . . .” I glance both ways. Then back at the map. “Um, a bit lost, is all.”

“Belles Wing is that way.” He points.

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