Page 39 of House of Marionne

“Oh, sorry, this is—” Abby starts.

But he sticks out his hand before she can finish, and I can’t help but gape at a set of tally marks tattooed on his skin.

“It’s a ’Roser thing,” he says, noting my staring. “Shows how many masteries we’ve discovered.” He turns his wrists up. Two suns are tattooed on his veiny pale flesh. “Got these just for fun last week.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Mynick Luc Jarryn, Primus, Retentor candidate, House of Ambrose.”

I rub my hands on my pants to be extra sure they’re not chilly and shake his hand. “Quell.”

“Sixth of his blood,” Abby says to me. “And she’s a Marionne,” she says to him as if that fills in necessary blanks on the rest of our introductions.

His brows jump.

“Don’t be too impressed. I’m new to all this. I haven’t even emerged.” I gesture at the wooden circlet on my head and realize my tone was a bit more desperate than I like.

“Still. Honored to meet you, Quell. Headmistress will be eager to hear.”

“Isla?” I survey my surroundings but don’t note any strange movements or people watching me. When I meet Mynick’s eyes again, they’ve grown wide at the shock of my calling his Headmistress by her first name.

“Sorry, I mean Headmistress Ambrose. Yeah, yes.” I stumble over my words, suddenly aware of what he sees in me: our House—Grandmom. “I’ve heard great things about your House.”

Abby glances between us.

“Oh?”

Abby rubs my wrist on the sly.

“Sorry,” I sigh. “Social anxiety is a real thing. Cultivator Plume finished at your House, right?”

“Class of ’84. Repeated Primus phase twice by choice to finish with perfect marks. Great teacher. Cool to meet you, though. I can’t imagine Nore, our Headmistress’s heir, caught dead in a place like this.” He rambles on about House of Ambrose and Abby hangs on his every word, her lips doing this pucker thing like she’s so sweet on him she might burst, and I really can’t take it.

The bass shifts and stringy guitar notes prick the air.

“Our song!” Mynick pulls Abby toward the partitioned room with the stage.

She gestures for me to follow. “You and me next?” She twists her lips in a pout.

“Have fun.” I wave her away. She and Mynick push through the crowd, and in a small way, the bump of the music and hum of casual chatter corkscrews my envy. Here I am, a Marionne by blood, and yet a broken sconce on Grandmom’s paneled walls. A shadow even here.

I look for a spot to land, and a mass exodus from the bar catches my eye.

Music blares as I sift through the crowd, looking for anyone or anything suspicious. Some reason to tuck tail and run out of here. But the glittering diadems, and masks for those who are showing them, steal my entire attention. They’re all so different. Green gems set in silver arced over a braid of brown hair. Another girl’s is gold, peppered with iridescent stones, each shift in its hue setting off a different fleck of color in her gray eyes. And the masks, some are rimmed in tiny stones, others are carved with detailing. I even saw one deb with a mask of gold. I plop onto a barstool because it’s the only spot open that doesn’t require sitting next to anyone. I wonder what my diadem will look like. How big it will be. Will it sparkle with gems or be metal, like Abby’s?

The bartender glances at my circlet. “Ah, fresh meat. What can I get you—juice, soda, kizi?”

“I’m fine.” I can’t really spare the little money I have left for something so frivolous, even if it does sound delicious.

“It’s on the house for Electus. You sure?”

“Um, okay. Soda?”

He shuffles off and then a man climbs onto the stool beside me, brandishing his tattered coat. Muddy bits fling off it and land smack on the bar.

“Oh, sorry about that,” he says flatly. His dark hair hangs long and straight behind him. “It’s nasty out there.”

I get up, not in a mood for chatter.

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