Page 9 of House of Marionne

I slide into the back seat. The car juts into motion as the guard gestures for us to pull forward. I have nowhere else to go. I need to get through this gate. My grip on my bag tightens and I give my key chain a squeeze. A second later, it glows in response. Hurry, Mom, please. Guilt hooks in my stomach.

We slowly roll forward to the guard, whose appearance is as approachable as his body language. His lips tilt down in a scowl as if they’re just permanently that way. The high collar of his shirt is bound by a circular metal emblazoned with a single hooked claw much like a dragon talon. He plucks it from his neck, turning it in his hands like a coin. A coin.

“Is he a Dragun, too?” I mutter too loudly. I study the image on the coin again. Not a cracked column . . .

The driver’s brow bows in confusion in the rearview as he eases to a stop. My window comes down, and I press back into my seat. I feel the gate guard’s stare like a knife between my ribs. But it doesn’t flicker with recognition. The talon. He isn’t affiliated with the Dragun after me. He doesn’t know my secret.

“Your name?” The Dragun’s lips purse with irritation.

“Quell.”

“One moment.” His words slither from his lips. Beyond the gates, sweeping willow trees arc over the street, cloaking the already graying evening into deeper shades of gloom. I squint for a glimpse of a rooftop or building. But the road twists out of sight.

“I’m not seeing a Quell,” the guard says. “Who are you visiting, exactly?”

“I’m here to visit Mrs. . . . Mrs. Marionne.”

“Mrs. Marionne?” His eyes narrow, and I swear it’s squeezing my throat.

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Another moment, please.”

I try to sit up taller. I don’t know Grandmom’s first name. She’s always been Grandmom Marionne. The guard returns and gestures to the gate. I exhale as it folds in on itself.

“Do you happen to have the house number?” I ask. “Like, which house is it?”

“It’s the only house.”

“Right, thanks.” The car lurches into motion. The road winds through a tunnel of trees. I tighten my grip on the handle of the dagger Mom gave me, firmly, desperate for some sense of assurance. Some sense of control.

“Where do you want me to let you out?” the driver asks.

There’s still no sign of a rooftop or anything besides brooding foliage and foreboding sky. “Just beyond these trees?”

Hair rises on my neck. I shouldn’t be here. Memories play in my head on repeat, from times Mom and I have been in even more dire straits. My toushana is quiet at the moment, and I try to settle better in my seat. We may not have much, but we have each other, Mom says all the time. And it’s always true. Until now. I peer out the window at the trees rustling, waving.

Are they saying welcome?

Or run?

As we exit the tree tunnel, the darkness lifts like someone pulled back a curtain. The ashen clouds have rolled on, and the evening’s sky is a regal shade of pink. I press the button on the door, and wind whips inside the car. I inhale deeper and the knot in my chest eases.

The road curves around a sweeping cobblestone courtyard dotted with sculpted shrubs and statues like the garden of a fancy castle. Wispy grass sprouts between wide pavers and a stone fountain, which gushes water a whole story in the air, its droplets glinting in the evening sun. I stare, taking in the majesty of it all, and my grip slacks on the dagger’s hilt. A steeply pitched roof is a speck in the distance buried in lush green and tall woods.

“It must be that way,” I say, craning for a better view. The street snakes to a cul-de-sac, and that’s when I see it: another iron gate with an M on its front. “There.” I point. It’s all so grand, like something I’d see on a postcard, a picture in my history books. Not a real place I could set foot into. Something twinges in my chest. Something warm, intoxicating, a little foreign. Something that feels like hope.

The car pulls up to the gate, and for several moments nothing happens. There’s no guard tower or speaker box. The dark gable roof beyond it is no more than a break in the trees.

“Lady, I have to get going. I’m not getting paid enough to sit here all day.”

This is it. It has to be. “Okay, thanks.” I tip him and he peels off.

The gates loom over me like an altar waiting for an offering. Wind howls, turning my arms to gooseflesh. Cold seeps into my fingers, then creeps up into my hands. I clench my fists, then reach for my rice pack. My fingers snag on the zipper, seizing up. The ache morphs into a frigid chill, my toushana stirring. I wish I knew what provoked it. What wakes it up some moments and keeps it lying silent others.

“Hello?” I set my bag on the ground. They must have cameras. “Anyone here?”

Nothing.

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