Page 57 of House of Marionne

“Sounds like you had a better night than the rest of us.”

The Sphere, he means.

“Yes.” I pull harder at the hem of my sleeve. “I guess so.”

“Well, go on, with the others.”

I hurry to blend into the crowd, waiting for my insides to twist tighter. But I’m halfway across the Grand Ballroom floor and none of it comes. The urge to look down pulls at me, but Jordan’s stare plays on repeat in my head. By some miracle, my chin holds parallel to the floor, and the others pointing at the gems on my diadem, commenting on their size and type, the rarity of the metal, are easier to ignore. I set my shoulders back and tuck my stomach in for proper posture. I move nearer to the front and ready myself for instructions. My days of blending in are over. I’m one foot into this world of magic, and there’s no going back.

Jordan finishes his business with the speaker cord and joins the rest of us. I risk a look his way, for some foolish reason, and he’s still staring. Maybe he’ll back off some now.

“Posture is what we’re working on today, and proper movement,” Plume says, sashaying front and center. There’s no table set up today, instead the floor is marked with taped lines. He points a toe and glides sideways. “You are an art form at your debut.” He slides a foot back and bends at the knee. “Curtsy, keep your head up, float down.” He holds the curtsy position. “Now bow your head, eyes to the ground.” He lowers his chin. “Now come up, finish on the back foot.” He moves in one even motion. “Slide, cross, slide, again.”

Music hums from the speaker in a melody with an even cadence. He assigns each of us a line on the floor. Jordan is a fixture at my side, his energy entirely different than usual. He’s quiet, for starters. The music drums on and I mimic Plume’s moves. The knee bending and balance proves to be the trickiest part.

“Now slide, cross,” Plume chimes from the front. My feet tangle, and I trip over them, stumbling into Jordan’s arms. He catches me. A beat passes as we gaze at each other before I pull away from him.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat and looks away.

“It’s fine.”

“Imagine an invisible string pulled up from your head,” Jordan says. “The motion is silk. You slide . . .” He demonstrates, and he’s shockingly graceful. “Like you’re being pulled, not like you chose to.”

I throw a foot out and try it. “Like this?” I hope my body is doing it, but I feel like an octopus trying to imitate a gazelle.

His lips tilt up ever so slightly.

“I’m trying, hard.”

“Here, let me.” He moves behind me, careful to keep distance between us. His scent wraps around me, notes of smoky vanilla and cedar tickling each one of my senses. He pinches his fingers above my head. “Now picture the string.”

I bend into a curtsy, following his lead.

“Good, now bow your head, in one even motion. Don’t stop, float on the movement.”

I let his instructions seep in. He lowers the string, and I dip with it. Then up again, and he slides to my left. I follow, imagining I’m a feather on the wind, fettered to his will. He shifts and I move, the space between our bodies almost nonexistent.

“Now cross.”

I slide my foot over, his hand stroking the air. I emulate the motion, imagining his hands in control of my body’s every flinch.

“And one more slide.”

I finish breathless. Pride tightens around his lips, and it does something to me, inside.

“You’re a good teacher.”

He folds at the waist. Plume claps us to attention.

“Jordan, if you could,” he says. “Quell’s doing nicely. Hallie is sick today, and poor Evelyn needs some help. Could you?”

He departs quickly, without a word of goodbye. The flutter of the moment burns me with shame at how foolish I’m being. I give Plume my undivided attention. For the remainder of the lesson, we curtsy and cross and slide until my thighs ache from holding the stances so long.

When it wraps, I’m actually sweaty. I look for Jordan but he’s still helping someone else. I’m shouldering my bag when my name is called. As some of the class departs, a bunch head in my direction. People who haven’t given me more than a side-eye are eyeing me up and down. Mostly up. At my diadem. Breathe.

“Congrats on First Rite,” one says. Lavender stones set in silver metal arc above her head.

“Thanks, I—”

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