Page 26 of House of Marionne

“So you do know something.”

Rikken wiped the counter and poured another drink for a crowd rushing the bar. Inductees by the look of it. Bright eyed and eager, diadems and masks shining like they polished them each night. Yagrin sifted through the crowd, his collar up, careful to keep his face difficult to see. Slim chance the girl could enroll anywhere with the poison in her veins. Still, he scanned for freckles and soft brown eyes just in case.

The students tossed back their fizzed drinks, and he watched, sunken in the shadows on the farthest end of the bar. But he didn’t spot the girl. He checked his watch and tapped his foot. Mother would be hounding him for an update soon.

“Look, I’m just the no-name son of an Order dropout,” Rikken said, returning with a handful of drinks. “I don’t need any trouble. I try to stay out of it. I’m not one of you fancy folks anyway.”

“But you’ve heard—”

“I heard a while back, before you had hair on your chest, that one of the ’Mistresses had a hefty wager on finding that Sphere’s location. Now it’s all blackened. You tell me what that means.”

Yagrin sank into his seat, the insinuation tugging him down like an anchor. Rikken thought a Headmistress was behind the Sphere rotting? That made no sense. Their lives were tethered to the Sphere. How did the old saying go? If the Sphere broke, the Headmistresses croaked.

Yagrin finished the water, thanked Rikken, and backed away from the bar. He wasn’t interested in tinfoil hat theories. He wanted something he could sink his teeth into. His insides sloshed, sickened, like he imagined the Sphere, swirling with blackened bile.

Again he glanced at his watch, resituating his trench coat around himself. If he didn’t find the freckle-face girl or some whispers of her soon, he’d have to face his Headmistress empty-handed. He gulped. He couldn’t let her figure out that he was effectively a pretender. He imagined his father’s face twisting with contempt, learning Yagrin’s traitorous secret. Would he defend him or cast him off as a traitor, too? Yagrin tossed back the dregs in his glass, revelry bustling around him. It wasn’t a question. He knew the answer.

PART TWO

NINE

I plant my knees on the velvet bench, careful to keep my head bowed and Grandmom in my sights from the corner of my eye. I am entering induction, officially. Please don’t let this have been a mistake.

The auditorium is full to the brim of my soon-to-be peers, but not a breath can be heard over the hammering in my chest as Headmistress Marionne cloaks my shoulders in the ornate gold cloth of the House. Abby waves at me from the front row of the worship rotunda. The small prayer room on the east side of the estate is made of stone with wood accents. Sun-inspired detailing covers its walls, and above the altar, early morning light winks at us from colorful windows with images that seem to tell a story.

“Sit on your heels.” Grandmom presses my back. “The robe should cover all but your head.” Her lips thin in frustration. She sighs, and Jordan leaps from his seat and joins her side.

“May I assist, Headmistress?”

“No, I—”

“Oh goodness, yes, please.” Grandmom smooths the edges of her hair, warily eyeing the audience. Jordan joins my side and my breath hitches. Grandmom steps away, addressing the growing crowd.

“Put your hands in the pockets of the robe,” he says.

“I don’t need help, really.” I glare up at him, desperate to put as much space between me and him as possible before my toushana confirms his suspicions and his deadly magic is wrapped around my throat. “I mean it, I’m fine.”

“There’s no room for your pride in here. Humble yourself before Sola Sfenti’s altar and take your anointing with some dignity.”

“Pride?! You think—”

“Please, if you will quiet your voices,” Grandmom says into a microphone. “The ceremony is about to begin.” A bell chimes three times and low music croons from the distance.

“Pockets, now,” he says in a barked whisper, and I bite down, stuffing my hands into the velvety pockets of the House robe.

“On the twelfth chime,” he whispers so closely I feel it on my skin, “slip your hands out of your pockets, palms and eyes up in a show of submission to the Sun God.” He demonstrates. “When Headmistress signals, stand.” He moves backward to give me some space.

On the twelfth ting of the triangle I do as he says. Light throbs through the domed glass ceiling’s faceted angles, speckling on the marble altar beneath me. Grandmom approaches with a wood-handled brush.

“Now you must choose, mask or diadem,” Jordan whispers.

“Where will you take your anointing?” Grandmom asks.

“Um, uh, diadem, please.”

Jordan’s eyes widen and he mouths, ma’am.

“Ma’am.”

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