Page 97 of House of Marionne

Tiny letters at the bottom indicate that it’s a map of New York City. Similar to the one Grandmom had the cartographer redo; landmarks, buildings, and streets are all twisted and intersecting. “Does Manhattan really have streets underneath buildings?” I peer closer.

“These . . .” He taps four spots on the map labeled tablinum, including a block of buildings that appear to have an ice-skating rink between them. “ . . . are places members can meet securely in the city.” He stretches another map, this one of Los Angeles. “It’s the city, but with our world grafted underneath.”

“Do I have to memorize all this?”

“Yes.” He unrolls more maps. “You have to know where’s safe when you travel. You won’t be hidden behind the walls of this estate forever.”

I search his eyes for knowing.

“And here I thought you came to my room to celebrate with me,” I mutter. I let the map curl in on itself. “It’s been a long few days. Could we, just for tonight, not talk about exams or daggers or any of that stuff? Be really good friends hanging out instead of mentor and mentee?”

“We can.” His lips thin.

“Oh, come on, today was a victory for you as a mentor, too.”

“I suppose,” he says, agreeing, but with hollow enthusiasm. “Well, let’s get going, then.” He reaches for the doorknob.

“I can’t go like this!”

I grab a pair of jeans out of my closet and a shirt with satin buttons down the back. “I have to change.”

“Right, I’ll wait outsi—”

Laughter flits outside the door, whoever’s in the hall very much still there.

“Just turn around.”

He turns, and I wrestle with my unruly dress straps, trying to slip out of my clothes. Jordan shifts on his feet. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.” He pulls at his pocket. “About my being an orphan.”

I still.

“There’s some truth to that. It got me pondering maybe home is not a place you can touch and feel but a . . . perspective that defines you. A way of seeing the world. Robert Jordan warred with it when he arrived in Spain.”

I’ve lived in more places than I can recall. But for some reason here at Grandmom’s—where I have to keep so many secrets from everyone—feels more like home than I’ve felt anywhere. And I’m not sure that it’s the walls and sparkly chandeliers. The having a place to sleep and being safe from Beaulah. It’s something else.

“Do you know what I mean?” he asks.

“I do. More than you know.” My stubborn strap finally gives, and my dress slips from my fingers, puddling at my feet on the floor. The space between us shifts, and for the first time it’s like we are the same song.

He exhales, his shoulders slanting down.

“Hemingway. You consider that reading?” I ask, shoving a leg into my jeans.

“And you say I’m the snob,” he says, mirth between his words.

“All book people are snobs in our own way.”

He chortles. “Actually, I’m not a huge fan. My parents never liked my take on some of the classics.”

“My mother was so consumed with”—surviving—“other things, she never even talked to me about school. It was always just, ‘don’t get in trouble.’ ” I stand there, staring, hugging around my bare skin, realizing I’ve never been this open with anyone.

His chin tugs over his shoulder as he waits for me to say more.

“I’m still—”

“Sorry.”

“Almost done. No peeking.”

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