Page 18 of House of Marionne

Blood spills onto the floor, dripping from the rim.

I shiver, pleading.

He licks his lips in a vile smirk, a coin glinting at his throat.

The glass, now upright, refills with a black substance.

With it filled to the brim, he squeezes and squeezes until the glass shatters.

I sit up, gasping. Cold sweat sticks to me. Abby’s bed is empty and sun winks at me from the window. Mom. I feel through my covers for my key chain. It’s over the edge of the bed on the floor. I snatch it up and squeeze. Squeeze back, Mom. Let me know you’re okay. That you’re still coming. I blow out a breath, hands shaking, cold, from my dream, I’m pretty sure.

Outside is green as far as I can see, the estate rimmed in morning fog. Right below Abby’s window is a garden wrapped in shrubbery. Several pupils wearing diadems or masks in varying sizes and shapes gossip and gab over breakfast. It reminds me of a high school cafeteria where everyone’s plugged into the drama for the day. Except here, no one’s sitting alone.

Think.

Sharp aches bluster to and fro through my bones in warning, like winds before a winter storm, my toushana threatening to rise up. Mom hasn’t come yet. I can’t stay here. I slip on the plain scoop neck dress that Grandmom gave me so I at least blend in. It’s a simple straight cut, embroidered with fleurs on its capped sleeves. My body tingles all over as the dress seems to tighten itself in places. The prickle of cold stabbing me sharpens. I can feel my toushana more clearly or something. When I grab my bag and dash past the mirror, I catch a glimpse of myself and still. The soft, fine linen is dusty pink, the color of the sky before nightfall. It fits as if it was made especially for me. I peel myself away from the mirror, ease the door open, and book it down the hall.

Down the stairs, I halt at a rush of people with no exits in sight. My toushana’s ache deepens, pressing into me like a scrape of a knife on the underside of my skin. I knead my hands to try to warm them before it’s too late. The hall is a cloud of conversations, and for a moment the world stops spinning. I’m surrounded by gleaming masks and radiant diadems, mindless titters and chatter behind gloved hands. Heads swim around me, and I’m pinned in the center of it all like a thorn in a bunch of handpicked roses. My feet won’t move. My heart won’t slow.

“Excuse me,” says a girl with a sharp chin and coiled hair down her back. The diadem on her head is angular and rimmed with small purple stones.

“Sorry.” I step aside, out of her way, gaping at the showing of magic growing out of her head.

She and a friend hurry past, both in beautiful gowns much more ornate than the simple one I and mostly everyone wear. I crane for a view of where they might be going dressed so fancily.

“Is that her?” someone behind me whispers, and I realize my staring has garnered attention.

“Headmistress’s granddaughter returned from the dead,” another snickers. My heart stumbles and I scan desperately for an exit.

“I heard she was back because Headmistress is sick and she wants all her money.” I resist the urge to plug my ears, and I take off in the direction that looks most familiar. It was so dark when I arrived, everything looks so different now. Grandmom’s a fixture in the busy corridor, ushering people to their sessions. She’s the last person I want to see. I hurry, trying to blend into the blur of the rush to morning sessions as I look for the foyer we came through last night, the hovering sphere, something to orient me in this maze of a place.

The crowd moves down an expansive corridor of what appear to be classrooms: tall carved doors beneath arched thresholds with engraved inscriptions in a language that’s unfamiliar to me.

Chill settles on my bones like a layer of morning frost, my toushana fully awake.

“Quell?” a familiar voice calls. Jordan.

Oh god, not now.

“Don’t make this hard,” he says, following me.

I pick up the pace to a light run, my heart racing my feet, knowing what the Order does to people like me. He can’t see me, not like this . . . not while my toushana’s this inflamed. I round another corner, and it’s a dead end where an intricately sculpted sheet of stone eclipses most of the wall. It looks like a scene plucked out of a history book. The sound of panting is on my heels, but I don’t see Jordan. Yet.

I wedge myself into the small space between the statue and the wall. The time between his footsteps lengthens as he rounds the corner. I rest on my heels, waiting, hoping he doesn’t realize I’m hiding here. The wall is firm against my back.

Then it’s not.

I fall backward, rolling right through the paneled wall, and hit my head on the hard ground. “Ow!” Darkness surrounds me. The only ray of light shines from a peephole in the wall. My hands rove the hard floor as I gape at the sturdy wall in front of me. The wall? I just went through a wall? Using the peephole, I spot Jordan, staring at the stone display with hardened frustration. But after a moment he turns to go back the way he came.

I dust myself off and look for some indication of where the corridor goes. Judging by the well-scuffed floor, it’s a commonly used one. After several minutes, my pulse slows, my toushana retreats, and the rubbing of my hands finally warms them. I push against the wall that I fell through with my elbow to avoid using my fingers, just in case, and it gives like a trapdoor. I could go back that way. But if there’s a way out of here that doesn’t involve potentially running into people, Grandmom, for example, I prefer that.

Clack.

“Hello?” I tighten my grip on my bag, running my hands along the wall, feeling for some sort of alternative exit. I ease out my next breath to calm the anxiety pulling at me. The walls are all smooth. No archways, handles, or doors. I follow it until the peephole is so far behind me, my hand is invisible in front of my face.

Laughter flits through the air, dotted by footsteps. Several footsteps.

I follow the sounds, my feet much braver than my conscience, when a faint melody plays. High, strained notes. The music cries higher, and I press my ear to the part of the wall where I hear it loudest. There’s no proper door, but there’s something behind here. My fingers trace every divot on the wall, pushing, leaning into it. It shifts, and a door appears. I gasp.

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