Page 89 of House of Marionne

“I told you she was ill.”

“So we make an exception?” Isla Ambrose says, countenance deadened with contempt.

“Isn’t that what we do, when our own blood is on the line?” Grandmom’s steel glare meets Isla’s gaze, then Beaulah’s. Headmistress Ambrose sits back in her chair.

“You’re ready, I presume?” Grandmom approaches, her sequined dress dangling to the floor.

I nod, and she glances at Jordan, a statue on the wall.

“The Council doesn’t look happy about this,” I say.

“Never mind them. I’ve kept worse secrets of theirs.” Her nose rises. “Let’s knock their socks off, show them an heir worthy of the title has indeed returned.”

Heir. There is that word again.

She pats my cheek before crossing the room to her judge’s seat, and I picture last night, my pushing magic into my blade over and over again.

Beaulah rises. “I’ll be proctoring today, just to be sure everything’s in order.”

“For inspection.” Jordan hands Headmistress Perl my blade and for a moment I don’t breathe. She twists it and makes it glow, then measures it at every angle. Headmistress Oralia crosses her legs and shields a yawn.

“No abnormalities found,” Beaulah Perl says over her shoulder to Isla, who scribbles down a note in a record book. She hands me my dagger, handle first.

“Thank you,” I say, but she doesn’t let go. I tug harder but she holds the dagger so tight I expect to see blood. Her lip flinches and cold flutters through me. I swallow.

“If you’ll let go, I’d be happy to demonstrate that I’m quite capable of pushing magic into my blade.” My toushana quiets like a melted snowflake. I almost regret my tone, its lilt of arrogance, until Beaulah’s mouth twists at the challenge.

“Is that so?”

“Quite so.” I curtsy to soften the sting.

“I guess we’ll see then, won’t we?” She shuffles her fur around her shoulders.

Jordan watches, his knuckles grating against his jawline.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I can do this. I did the magic last night. He helped with posture and form. But I did it. Me.

My belly burns with warmth and I don’t even have to call on my proper magic. It is there, ready and willing. I grip the blade tightly and order magic into my hands. Heat curls through me, stretching itself awake. I bite down, holding still, urging the temp to rev up more. Hotter until my skin feels like fire. Until I blink and expect to see flames. An inferno answers, coursing up through my core, shoving through my arms and into my hands.

“Now into the blade,” I command, and I’ve never felt more sure of anything in my entire life. Searing magic pools in my fingertips like tiny needles pushing against my skin. Gentle at first, then more insistent until the sharp pricks break through.

The leather handle of the blade throbs bright and red. Magic churning through me tugs like a chain. There’s no me or it anymore. I am the blade. Magic erupts from the dagger tip in an explosion of light. I jump at the suddenness, and blood spreads on my tongue. But it tastes like freedom. The room beams as if the sun itself is between my fingers.

A swarm of gasps and thundering applause surround me as I call my magic back into me and the brightness retreats, siphoning back into the blade. Grandmom gapes. Jordan and all the Headmistresses stand.

“Well?” Grandmom shakes off her shock and addresses the Council. Beaulah gestures in agreement.

“Passage of Second Rite, granted.”

A sash is slung over my head, and creases hug Grandmom’s eyes. “Get Popper from the library this minute.” She rings for her maid, then rolls her wrist doing the House gesture, nudging me to do it with her. “Oh! And tell Mrs. Cuthers to let the servers know to move forward with the reception.”

I did it? I really did it!

Second Rite down, one to go.

Tears sting my eyes, my pulse still racing, not in panic but in unbridled joy. In minutes refreshment is brought in on platters.

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