Page 27 of House of Marionne

She dips the brush in a gold-rimmed bowl, gently back and forth. The subtle disturbance unlooses a cloud of glowing dust, and a hushed gasp sweeps through the room. Grandmom’s hand stills until the dust has settled.

“Sun Dust is ground from the sun stones Sola Sfenti discovered in the ancient days, the source of all magic,” Jordan says. “Its slightest touch is sacred, its every grain powerful. It will sharpen, focus, and awaken your ability to reach magic.”

I suck in a breath as the brush touches my hair.

“The words,” Grandmom says, her blush robe shifting at her feet as she moves around us. “Are you ready?”

I nod.

“May I prove worthy,” Jordan prompts me to parrot him. “May I prove to be a proper steward.”

“May I prove worthy. May I prove to be a proper steward,” I say as the soft fibers glide across the dome of my head.

“Again, keep saying the prayer, over and over until you feel something.”

I mutter again and again as Grandmom continues dusting, eyeing me with brimming anticipation. My skin tingles everywhere, subtle at first, then all over, so prickly it hurts.

“I feel it.”

Grandmom’s tentative smile brightens as she returns the brush to the bowl. “Rise and face Sola Sfenti, daughter of Sun. Your time is now.”

I stand bearing the weight of the cloak, the House jewels slung across my chest, and face the sun. The audience claps. Grandmom embraces me, kissing each of my cheeks.

“You’ll emerge in no time.” She squeezes my shoulder, and sickness sloshes inside me. I’ve done it. I’ve stepped into this world we’ve spent our entire lives running from.

There’s no turning back now.

* * *

Shortly after the induction ceremony Grandmom handed me a schedule, plus several more dresses like the one she sent to my room last night, and urged me to get to my first session without delay.

“Magic circulates in the blood better wearing these,” she said. “This is your uniform, here on out.” The fine fabric still feels foreign on my skin. Since the ceremony, my dress has felt as if it’s a part of me, amplifying the warm hum of magic beneath my skin. I turn in the mirror above the dresser but there’s no sign of Dust residue in my hair.

“Emerging . . .” I mutter, grazing my scalp with tentative fingers, and cringe at what it must feel like to have a diadem poke through. I set the wooden circlet on my head before departing for session. People stare as I move through the halls. Several with shiny masks on their faces or studded metal arced above their hair. Grafting myself into the shadows at a new school is nothing new. But this . . . here . . . with my name invisibly plastered on my forehead makes my head swim. I decide to try smiling; sometimes that’s more disarming. To my relief, those watching me smile in return. I will blend in.

The hall opens up to the grand entryway, sunrays throbbing through endless windows. It takes every bit of my focus to not gape at the rotating sphere hung in the grand foyer like a blackened sun, matter undulating beneath its glass angrily, choppy waves on a stormy sea. The dots on its surface sparkle like a starlit night. I reach for one of the specks and my fingers pass through the illusion. Then it shifts, expanding into a web of what must be hundreds of names written in such small letters I can hardly make one out. I marvel at the numerous members’ names etched on the Sphere, before returning my attention to my map.

The map shows a way to Dexler’s session that doesn’t involve going through a hidden corridor. Dexler, as my assigned Cultivator, will be like a homeroom teacher or adviser, Grandmom had explained. Everyone gets two Seasons to work at their own pace, under the guidance of a Cultivator, and can apply for Third Rite when the time comes. For some it takes months, for others, like Abby, years. Many don’t make it at all.

Dexler’s room is past the foyer, down Sunrise Corridor deep in the North Wing. At least there’ll be one person in this room I sort of know.

The doors open, and a powdery residue on them sticks to my hand. I step through.

And somehow I’m outside.

The fresh air sings notes of gardenia, whipping by, the breeze soothing to my nerves. The estate hovers behind me like a watchful mother, and fog rests on the blanket of green in the distance. Landscape crews tend the gardens in the midday sun, trim the grass, shape the hedges with nothing more than the glide of their hands. I hurry toward the makeshift classroom in the middle of what appears to be a small garden closed off by walls of greenery, with stone pillars for desks, fallen trees for seats. Dexler weaves her magic around a bit of bark, and it shrinks smaller and smaller while everyone watches with wide eyes.

“Oh, good,” she says, waving me along faster. “I was worried the gateway would throw you. Come on, have a seat. We just got started.”

I slide into the seat next to the blonde with the pixie cut and exhale. The session is a mix of inductees in robes like mine and others in pants with loose tops. A quick inventory eases the tension between my shoulders. There are three others without diadems and at least one without a mask. Who knows how long they’ve been here, but at least I’m not the only one who needs to emerge.

“Where were we? Oh, yes.” Dexler cradles the bit of bark with both hands. It’s so small now, I have to squint to see it. She clasps her hands around it and lifts them toward the sun. Her ring, a deep blue-stoned one today, glitters in the sun. “From one living thing to another.” She opens her hands, and a baby bird takes off from her fingers.

The class gasps.

“Today’s refresher is about Natural Path of Change, a branch of Anatomer magic. And a reminder that all magic has a cost.” The hatchling flaps its wings in the air, and their span widens as it matures, aging from a baby bird to a full grown one right before my eyes.

“Part of your job is to weigh that cost.”

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