The grand foyer broom closet has a trick back wall. Abby pushes it in several places while I swat at a mop that keeps falling over, slapping the floor and scaring me half to death. She finds the spot quickly enough before we go through.
“Are you sure this is the right way?”
“No, I’m leading you to your doom. Of course this is the right way.”
“Couldn’t both those things be true?”
She laughs. The dimness lifts the deeper we go. A bitter tang hangs in the hazy air lit by the glow of lamplight. Much like the corridor that took me to Dexler’s the first time, the passageway is dark and long, and if it weren’t for Abby reaching back, I wouldn’t know where to put my next step.
“A little farther.”
“Where are we?”
“There are only so many places we can really hang. Lucky for us one of them is not too far from the Chateau.”
“We’re leaving the estate?” The thought of being away, on the outside again, sends a prickle up my arms. With every step I doubt more and more that sneaking out to some prohibited place, likely prohibited for good reason, is a good idea for anyone. But especially for me. The Dragun hunting me is still out there. I can still vividly picture the cracked Roman-style column minted on the coin at his throat. I should go back, but if she’s right and I’m stressing myself out of emerging, I have to at least try to unwind.
She cracks a latched door open slowly, pressing her ear to it. Then she pushes the door open wider and night sky fractures the darkness, crisp outside air sweeping into the corridor. I step through, my feet seeking purchase on the supple ground. Rogue branches strewn across the doorway tangle in my arms and tear at my skin. I manage to free myself from them with only a few scratches. A forest?
The cool, early summer night air reeks of wood and smoke. I peer around, expecting to see burning or some source of the scent. But the forest is no more than clusters of twisted trees scattered like broken limbs. How far did we walk? I turn. Between the nest of trees, far in the distance, sits Chateau Soleil, a sentry in the darkness.
“Where are we exactly?”
“Just off Headmistress’s territory.” Abby points toward lights and stone pillars in the distance. “It’s a bit of a walk, just past the forest’s edge on the other side of those memorials.” She starts in that direction, but my feet stick in place.
“We’ll leave as soon as I’m ready, promise me,” I say.
“Promise.”
The cobblestone path circles an old war memorial, then halts at a stretch of perfectly manicured grass. Abby eyes the path, where the stones grow smaller before fading into lawn, as if she’s looking for something.
“Right about . . .” She moves her heel across the uneven ground until she finds what she’s looking for. “Here.” She glances around before hammering the rock with the heel of her shoe. The ground opens wide, stairs cutting into the rocks.
We descend the narrow stair, easing past several people coming up, leaving. One with a long coat has a staring problem. The nosy onlooker pauses a beat too long, and a chill sweeps through me. I swallow, and he doesn’t move, his stare flickering with something I can’t place. My heart stutters as I glimpse for his face, fearing the worst, but the collar of his trench coat and the shadowed stair makes him too hard to make out. I pull at Abby.
“Ow!” She rubs her fingers across the half-moons I’ve accidentally dug into her arm.
“I’m sorry, I just—” I glance back at him, but the man ties his trench coat and disappears on the spot. “Never mind. I thought I saw something.”
“Remember, relax.”
I nod. Inside, the Tavern is packed, alive with people hanging over tables, cash crushed in their fists. Some are more subtle with their dealings, briefcases parked next to their card tables, shades covering their eyes. But things, money, stuff is definitely changing hands. Diadems and masks sway through the hazy air. Most are dressed in plain clothes, but there are a few who look like they are here skipping out on some formal dance. The bar is sectioned off into rooms, one for lounging, another for gambling, and one in the back where a girl’s squawking onstage into a microphone. A waitress passes through the crowd with purple rolled leaves on silver trays.
“Peckle?” she asks.
“No.” I move along faster. Stares burn my skin, from every direction. My stomach flips and it has nothing to do with my toushana. This is so not my scene. If I could shrink smaller, I would.
Abby waves at someone as we push through the throng of people. A few smile, others stare. But I set my focus on the back of Abby’s head like it’s a target and let the rest move past in a blur. I hate this. I swallow my nerves and force myself to find a few friendly expressions in the crowd.
“So everyone here’s an Order member?” I ask, making a conscious note to unclench my hands.
“Yep, our own little Misa.”
My brows cinch. But before Abby can say more, she throws her arms and lips around someone. Holey jeans and a baggy shirt hang off his slender frame. He wears his hair long and it looks like he’s in need of a shave, but I think that’s on purpose. Beneath dark bangs a plain mask of sleek gray seeps into his skin as he kisses her back. Now I understand why she was itching to get here.
“Oh, sorry, this is—” Abby starts.
But he sticks out his hand before she can finish, and I can’t help but gape at a set of tally marks tattooed on his skin.
“It’s a ’Roser thing,” he says, noting my staring. “Shows how many masteries we’ve discovered.” He turns his wrists up. Two suns are tattooed on his veiny pale flesh. “Got these just for fun last week.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Mynick Luc Jarryn, Primus, Retentor candidate, House of Ambrose.”
I rub my hands on my pants to be extra sure they’re not chilly and shake his hand. “Quell.”
“Sixth of his blood,” Abby says to me. “And she’s a Marionne,” she says to him as if that fills in necessary blanks on the rest of our introductions.
His brows jump.
“Don’t be too impressed. I’m new to all this. I haven’t even emerged.” I gesture at the wooden circlet on my head and realize my tone was a bit more desperate than I like.
“Still. Honored to meet you, Quell. Headmistress will be eager to hear.”
“Isla?” I survey my surroundings but don’t note any strange movements or people watching me. When I meet Mynick’s eyes again, they’ve grown wide at the shock of my calling his Headmistress by her first name.
“Sorry, I mean Headmistress Ambrose. Yeah, yes.” I stumble over my words, suddenly aware of what he sees in me: our House—Grandmom. “I’ve heard great things about your House.”
Abby glances between us.
“Oh?”
Abby rubs my wrist on the sly.
“Sorry,” I sigh. “Social anxiety is a real thing. Cultivator Plume finished at your House, right?”
“Class of ’84. Repeated Primus phase twice by choice to finish with perfect marks. Great teacher. Cool to meet you, though. I can’t imagine Nore, our Headmistress’s heir, caught dead in a place like this.” He rambles on about House of Ambrose and Abby hangs on his every word, her lips doing this pucker thing like she’s so sweet on him she might burst, and I really can’t take it.
The bass shifts and stringy guitar notes prick the air.
“Our song!” Mynick pulls Abby toward the partitioned room with the stage.
She gestures for me to follow. “You and me next?” She twists her lips in a pout.
“Have fun.” I wave her away. She and Mynick push through the crowd, and in a small way, the bump of the music and hum of casual chatter corkscrews my envy. Here I am, a Marionne by blood, and yet a broken sconce on Grandmom’s paneled walls. A shadow even here.
I look for a spot to land, and a mass exodus from the bar catches my eye.
Music blares as I sift through the crowd, looking for anyone or anything suspicious. Some reason to tuck tail and run out of here. But the glittering diadems, and masks for those who are showing them, steal my entire attention. They’re all so different. Green gems set in silver arced over a braid of brown hair. Another girl’s is gold, peppered with iridescent stones, each shift in its hue setting off a different fleck of color in her gray eyes. And the masks, some are rimmed in tiny stones, others are carved with detailing. I even saw one deb with a mask of gold. I plop onto a barstool because it’s the only spot open that doesn’t require sitting next to anyone. I wonder what my diadem will look like. How big it will be. Will it sparkle with gems or be metal, like Abby’s?
The bartender glances at my circlet. “Ah, fresh meat. What can I get you—juice, soda, kizi?”
“I’m fine.” I can’t really spare the little money I have left for something so frivolous, even if it does sound delicious.
“It’s on the house for Electus. You sure?”
“Um, okay. Soda?”
He shuffles off and then a man climbs onto the stool beside me, brandishing his tattered coat. Muddy bits fling off it and land smack on the bar.
“Oh, sorry about that,” he says flatly. His dark hair hangs long and straight behind him. “It’s nasty out there.”
I get up, not in a mood for chatter.
“You want to emerge?” he mutters, not quite looking my way.
“Excuse me?”
“Sit.” He touches my chair with blackened-bluish fingertips but retracts them quickly when he notices me staring.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“I have something,” he says, gazing over his shoulder, “that could help.” He doesn’t wear a mask, and he definitely doesn’t look like a Cultivator. His coat sleeves are rolled to hide its improper fit. Tally marks, like Mynick’s, cover his arms and disappear up his sleeves. I meet his watery eyes. They are an ocean of drowned secrets. But desperation or something equally potent tethers me to my seat.
“You drink this.” He slips a vial of a thick translucent substance from his pocket. “And you’ll emerge in hours.” His rotten fingernails wrap around the bottle, and every rational thought in my head screams, Get up and run.
“Who are you?”
“Who isn’t really your concern, is it? Why, perhaps. But not who.”
“Fine. Why are you offering me this? And don’t say money. There are people here who practically smell like money. And yet you’re talking to me.”
His mouth twitches a smile. “You sure you’re a Marionne? Not Ambrose, eh?” He rotates in his seat to face me fully. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I overheard you and your friends.”
“Eavesdropping isn’t helping your case that you’re just trying to help me.”
He pulls the hair back from his face, revealing his thirsty skin. “The name’s Octos. Trader. My ancestors ran Misa’s shipping yard.” He widens his posture, and I realize I’m supposed to be impressed. “Through the war,” he clarifies, reading my expression.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I keep my mouth shut because I don’t want to come across as a clueless idiot. Had enough of that today.
He chuckles at my apparent confusion. “Misa was our region. A place where magic was in the open, before the Houses,” he continues, sensing my intrigue. “But the Order was worried that because the world was obsessed with expansion, our little private piece of the globe would be discovered. It was safer to learn to blend in. Well, not everyone liked that idea, and a big war broke out. In a week’s time, Misa was gone.” He snaps. “Erased, just like that. My family’s business sank with it.”
I try to picture an entire city like Chateau Soleil, with magic everywhere, out in the open, but the pieces don’t come together. “So what did your family do since the family business wasn’t an option?”
“Well, the Houses were the new way.” He rambles on in that way people do when they like to talk because they don’t often get the opportunity to. “Before, my great-grandfather took a test and boom.” He slaps the bar and I jump. “You’re official: complex Shifter, Cultivator, Retentor, whatever, as long as you pass. But the war changed all that. So when it was my time, I enrolled in a House.” He toys with a napkin, trickling a tendril of magic on its edges.
“Ambrose, I gather.” I eye his decorated arms.
He twists his magic, and the napkin shifts into a white rose. “Aye. But they didn’t appreciate my skills, I don’t think. Wasn’t pious enough. Or maybe I picked the wrong House.” He broods, tugging at his worn coat. “They kicked me out of there as Primus. Couldn’t quite hack the dagger honing. Tricky little devil.” His fingers trace the slopes of his face. “I finished First Rite, so I didn’t lose all my Dust. Though I lost my ability to summon my mask years ago.” A flicker of something burns through his stare. I recognize the sentiment; I know it well. I lived it my entire life. Longing bleeding into desperation. I gaze around. Maybe I’m still living it. It’s written in the lines of his face. The way he boasts of who his family was, trying to impress me. He pretends he’s okay with being the outcast. But he’s not.
This isn’t about money. Whatever he wants from me has to do with my last name.
“But the drink works. I got it from an old ’Roser buddy myself.”
“And you would just give it to me? For nothing?” I narrow my eyes.
“In return, all I ask is that you spare a little change to get me a drink. Rikken’s tired of my freeloading.” The hunger in his posture, the way his nails are dug into the lip of the bar says he’s holding back.
“And?” I press.
“And . . . one day, if it ever comes down to it, you remember my name—Octos. That I did you a favor when you needed it.”
Because I’m a Marionne. He reads me like I read him. I’m not sure I like that. He holds the vial out to me when the bartender slides a soda my way.
“Octos, schmoozing the fresh meat already, are you?”
“Just making her acquaintance. Letting the nice lady know if she ever needs a favor, I’m her guy.”
“Give him a soda, too, please.” I pay Rikken, and a moment later he slides Octos a drink, with much hanging on his lips that he doesn’t say. Octos gulps it down and sympathy nudges me. I’m not sure many here would even give him the time of day. I sip my soda, eyeing the vial.
“So we have a deal?” He pushes it toward me, mistaking my silence for agreement.
I spot Abby across the room. Her and Mynick’s duet has ended, and she’s in his lap gabbing with a bunch of other Secundus. She catches me looking and waves.
“Give it a smell, see.” He unstoppers the glass, wafting it under my nose.
If I take it and it works, I’d pass First Rite. But that’s cheating. My fingers twitch. But I ball them into a fist. His offer is tempting. But I can’t. It’s not right. I belong here, and emerging the right way proves it. I won’t be any stronger or have any more control over my magic if I cheat on this first one. I reach for the vial to stopper it back up and refuse him, and then several things happen at once.
An explosion of black fog blinds me.
The vial is snatched from my grip.
Someone grunts.
I stumble off the stool, startled, blinking through the clearing haze. Jordan towers over Octos. The roistering in the Tavern stills, everyone watching.
“Jordan? What are you—”
He stalks to a nearby potted plant and cuts me a sharp glance before tipping the clotty liquid into the soil. Its droplets burn through the plant’s leaves like acid, then through the pot. I try to swallow, to move, to say something, but only a sputter comes out. Jordan meets my eyes, his jaw hardens.
“That could have . . .” Hurt me. I step forward, reaching for the plant in disbelief. But Jordan’s arm stops me, stiff against my torso.
“The off-gassing can even be toxic.” His words are rigid like the lines dug into his face. But his arm across me suggests maybe he’s more than just steel on the outside.
I glare at Octos, who’s gaping at the plant, shaking his head in disbelief, pale as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Rikken, some help with this mess.” Jordan’s mask hardens on his face as he rotates his wrist, calling on his magic. He grazes the stem of the plant with his fingertips delicately. Though his arms tremble as if fighting off some invisible force. He bites down, straining, and thrusts once more. Darkness unfurls from his hands, and the clay pot shudders, then collapses into a pile of charred dust. He exhales, breathless.
I stumble backward, gaping at the mess on the floor, then at my own hands and back at the pile that’s reminiscent of my own dark secret. The bartender shoulders through the crowd with a broom and mop to sweep up the decayed mess. Jordan lifts Octos by the collar, and the room parts to let them through. The doors creak open, and I lose sight of them.
“You all right?” It’s Abby.
Blood pools behind my ears as I stare, unmoving.
“Quell?”
Abby says something else, but I’m halfway out the door on Jordan’s heels.
