Page 82 of House of Marionne

“You’re quiet.”

“Sorry.” My bag weighs a ton and I eye the note cards. “I actually should go, if that’s okay.” The words feel like sandpaper on my tongue. She isn’t even halfway done picking out her things. Abby deserves better.

“All right, I guess,” she says, her jaw working.

“Please tell your mother it was nice meeting her.”

Abby nods, her shoulders slumped in disappointment. I apologize again and hurry out the door.

TWENTY-SIX

I rush through the halls, ignoring every look and word tossed my way, trying to forget—for at least a moment—the way it felt being in there. And the way Abby looked at me as I left. The feeling trails me like a ghost, pushing one hurried step in front of the other, past the corridor that leads to my room, past the library and yoga studio.

Through the dining hall and into the courtyard. So many people. So many eyes. I keep going, farther, until the estate is small behind me. Until I can finally breathe. I traipse toward the gardens, where I spot the towering glass walls of the conservatory. I tug on the handle. Closed. I knew it would be. I peer through the windows for some glimpse of a familiar Dragun with keys.

No luck. I opt for the rose garden beside it instead. I settle on a bench inside and let the cool morning air soothe my nerves. I imagine myself blowing as it does, directed by its own wiles, free. And the tangle in my chest unwinds. I’m doing this for her. For both of us. But I can’t pretend it wouldn’t be nice to fit into this place and have her by my side. Abby’s slumped shoulders tug at me, but I uncoil the guilt from around my throat. If she knew Mom’s and my story, if she knew what I was fighting for, she’d want me to get out of there and practice, too. She’s that kind of friend.

I pull my bag to my lap and slide out my dagger. Grandmom might see my passing Second Rite as a ticket to furthering her legacy. But it’s my ticket to a life that’s my own. Failing isn’t an option.

“Now, we’re going to try this again.” My pulse ticks, even and calm, and my toushana is quiet. I clear my throat and dig for magic. A tendril of warmth coils in me, and I hold it there, letting it grow hotter. With a double fisted grip on on the dagger’s handle I imagine the heat in my limbs siphoning into my hands. The curl of magic tightens like a cord pulled taut, and I am tingly all over. “Now, into the blade.” I squeeze my hands. The demonstration is supposed to show that I can focus my magic enough to push it into something at will. But my magic quivers, its fire dimming. “No, no, come on.” I resituate my grip. “Into the blade.”

“That’s not going to work,” a voice says, sending my heart racing.

Jordan.

“I heard someone talking, so I came here to check it out. You’re doing that wr—”

“Wrong, of course.”

“Quell.” My name from his lips pulls at me like a song, the other night playing on repeat. He sets a hand on the garden gate. Past the garden’s shrubbery, through the glass walls, I can see the fountain we sat beside just days ago.

“I only want to help you,” he says.

I’m not sure if it’s the lilt of his tone, the kindness webbed around his eyes, or that I’m parched to believe someone, anyone, would be on my side in all this. But I actually believe him. “It’s not that simple.”

“It actually is.”

I should say something, send him away, but deep down I’m not sure I want to. I’m still not certain how close he and Beaulah are. And with my toushana flaring at will, distance from Jordan is wise. But my feet betray me. Because somewhere deep down, I want him here. I lift the garden latch, and he steps inside, and my heart leaps in my chest.

He moves behind me, so close I can feel the thrum of his heart against my back. “Hold it here, even with your hips.” He tucks my elbows tight to my side, drawing a line with his hand from my elbow down to my waist. “Angle it toward the nearest kor to help conduct your magic.”

I raise the dagger’s point toward the sun.

“Now, from your diaphragm.” His fingers start at my waist and follow my ribs to where they meet, just below my breasts. He presses there, but I feel his touch all over my skin. “Now call to your magic, and when you feel it, direct it using all the muscles in your body to tell it where to go.”

I do and lean into the rush of heat that answers. It swarms inside me violently, and I let it whip around freely, exploring every part of me. Into my blade. Magic thickens, growing heavier, moving slower, trudging through me as if each grain of the Sun Dust has magnified in size and weight. I cinch my ribs with my elbows and my magic tugs sharply into my arms in one smooth motion. I stagger and Jordan holds me closer.

He moves my hair to one shoulder and whispers, “Focus.”

My breath hitches, and I tighten every muscle in my arm. Magic tugs harder, as if pulled by a hook, through my wrists. I tighten my grip until it burns, magic streaming into my hands. The blade throbs with light.

“I did it.”

“Look at that,” he says, still holding on to me when my fingers suddenly prickle, like cold droplets of rain on a raging fire.

I shove myself away from him, my toushana unfurling, and search his eyes for knowing.

“What’s wrong?” He reaches for me.

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