The morning comes, and my feet are on the floor before my alarm sounds. The Tea is this afternoon, and after hours tossing and turning I gave up on sleep. First stop is House secretary, Mrs. Cuthers. Her desk is somehow already swallowed by students, and the sun is hardly awake. When her office clears, she gestures for me to come inside and close the door. Behind her is a corkboard with memories pinned to it, smiling faces of elegantly dressed debs, with You’re the best scribbled underneath. She grabs a stack of envelopes.
“We need a full name, Mister Blackshear,” she says to herself, tossing an envelope into the trash. “Miss Marionne.” She clicks her pen. “How can I help?”
“I wanted to give you these refusals if you wouldn’t mind mailing them.” I hand her the stack of envelopes in my hand. Coming up with that many “polite” reasons I couldn’t attend was no easy feat.
“Heavens.” She takes the stack. “Did you say yes to any of them?”
I smile tightly.
“Are you absolutely sure, dear? Not even just one? Society is dying to see you.”
“They can meet me after Cotillion.” When it’s safe.
“As you wish. What else?”
“I also wanted to ensure my mom is on the invitation list.”
Cuthers pulls off her glasses. “Little Rhea?” She presses her palms to her chest. “What a delight that would be to see her face around here again.” She pulls out the list. “She is not, actually. But I can see to it that she’s—”
“Actually, I want to prepare that invite myself.”
“I assure you—”
“Respectfully, Mrs. Cuthers, I am going to address it in my own hand with a personal note from me, to ensure my mother opens it.” I am going to do this one small thing my way.
The door shoves open without a knock, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it is.
“Headmistress, so good to see you.”
“I was just popping my head in to see where we are with things with Quell’s Cotillion. Your dress is the most important part, dear, are you set up with Vestiser fittings?”
“I was actually going to suggest the upcoming merchant festival might be the most efficient route to go,” Mrs. Cuthers cuts in.
“Efficient isn’t the priority.” Grandmom turns to me. “This is what you want? To pick your designer at a merchant festival when everyone else does? From the selection everyone else does?”
I don’t care what my dress looks like. I just want to bind with my magic as soon as possible. “I would hate to delay things for any reason.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to Jordan later today about security for the event just to be sure it’s extra tight.”
Wait. “He’s back?”
“He returned a few days ago.”
A hook tugs in my stomach. He didn’t reach out to me.
“Was his trip successful?”
“So he told you.” She tsks. “The girls were found, but that isn’t your concern. Are you ready for the Tea today? It’s nearly noon.”
“Everything’s in order.”
“It better be.” When the door clicks shut behind her, I try to exhale but can’t.
It’s ten until noon when I rush to the front lawn in my flowery patterned dress, my House riband across my chest. To the backdrop of Grandmom’s luscious gardens, the tea party is being set up.
“There you are!” Plume beckons and leads me over to the reception area. A decadent table arrangement is set for six, landscaped in House colors, with flowers and finger foods on fine plates.
“What do we think?”
“It’s breathtaking!” I recheck the measurements of everything on the table. The plates, cutlery, and napkins should be one point five inches away from the table edge, no more. In the distance, Grandmom exits the estate with a girl about my age on her arm. I have to lock my knees to still my nervous energy as they cross the lawn to meet me. Be. Perfect.
Her heart-shaped face is framed by slicked-back auburn hair with a simple silver diadem arced over her head. Her dull charcoal dress is a sharp contrast to the rest of her. She strides confidently, shoulders back, making small talk with Grandmom. The bright blue riband slung across her is embroidered with three intersecting leaves, and matching gloves cover most of her arms. With gloves that long, no question what they’re hiding. She must be the heir to House of Ambrose.
“Nore, this is my granddaughter, Quell.”
She sticks out a hand. “Nore Emilie Ambrose. Good to meet you.” Her handshake is firm.
“You as well. Please, feel free to explore the gardens while we wait for the rest of the party. Drinks are being passed.”
Nore helps herself to the table.
“Heir Drew of Ho—”
“Really, there’s no need for all that,” the entering guest in a slick pantsuit says, slapping the waitstaff on the belly.
“Hi, Drew, I’m Quell.” I offer my hand, trying to make out the sigil on their teal sash, but it’s blocked by a long braid hanging over their sharp shoulders.
“You’re cute.” Drew taps my nose and leaves my hand. “What time do we eat? I’m starving.”
Grandmom smooths her hair, groaning under her breath. “Oralia’s people have arrived, I see,” she mutters. “Don’t expect any manners out of that one. Oralia doesn’t intend to have any children. So the estate will pass to her sibling, Drew.”
I make a mental note not to refer to Headmistress Oralia as Drew’s mother. The last guest for the afternoon, also the one I’m most curious about, isn’t far behind. Beaulah Perl’s heir. Her shiny hair is swept up behind her, curled and cascading, ornamented with jewels. Her warm brown skin is barely dusted with makeup, illuminating her natural beauty. Her ruby dress shimmers in the high sun. Gems on top of her diadem shine radiantly, outdone only by her dark eyes hung like jewels beneath long eyelashes. She is perfection. A black riband is slung across her, and my gaze snags at its cracked column embroidery.
“You must be Quell.” She folds into a curtsy that would put mine to shame. “I’m Adola Yve Perl. I was delighted by the invitation. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you from my aunt.”
“Your aunt?”
“My mother was quite surprised, too.” She laughs behind a gloved hand. “But the first girl in the entire family! Aunt Beaulah was delighted. She took me under her wing right away and raised me as her own. You and I appear to have some things in common, I see.” She eyes Grandmom with a polite smile.
“Sounds like it.” This isn’t what I was expecting of the niece of the woman who tried to have me killed. Grandmom glances between us, urging me to say something. To not be outdone. “I’ve only heard the loveliest things about your aunt from my mentor.”
“Cousin Jordan.” Her smile doesn’t meet her eyes.
A bell chimes, signaling the start of tea service. Nore and Adola sit on either side of me. Drew, across.
“I’ll be just a minute. Please, don’t wait,” Grandmom says, heading back toward the estate.
“Thank you all so much for coming,” I start, gesturing for the servers to begin, trying to remember the proper order of things. Drew slides the sugar over to me.
“Thank you.” I scoop the acceptable amount of sweetener into my cup and offer it to Adola.
“No, thank you.” She sips from her cup as is. Nore is quiet, eased back in her chair. Her tea sits untouched. And every few moments her gaze falls to Grandmom’s seat.
“Is everything all right? I can move your place if you’d like.”
“I’m fine,” she says, cavalier, finally sipping from her cup. But I don’t miss the way it tremors just so before it touches her lips.
I sip from my own cup, and salty hot liquid rushes into my mouth. I spit, spewing the disgusting drink everywhere.
Drew and Adola burst out laughing.
“Salt.” I shove the sugar bowl away. “You all tricked me!”
“Oh, come on, be a sport. You’re the newbie.” Drew cocks an arm back on their chair. “We have to make sure you feel welcomed.”
Adola grins mischievously. “She’s mad.”
“She’ll be all right,” Drew says. “You have a sense of humor, don’t you, Marionne?”
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” But in truth, I burn with embarrassment all over as the servers reset the table linens and all the things. It takes every bit of talking myself down to not let the stress of this reset frazzle me.
“It was all Drew’s idea anyway,” Adola says, as she, Drew, and I stroll through the roses while the beautiful table Plume arranged is redone.
“Lies!” Drew protests, but a smirk hides behind their denial.
“A sense of humor is better than the best fashion sense, I heard once,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. It was all in good fun.”
Nore strolls on her own as we wait, and I swear I see her eyes roll. But when I look over at her, she’s admiring a bush of black roses.
“When did you arrive to Chateau Soleil?” Drew asks.
My heart thumps. Nore tugs at her gloves, pulling at the same threads of her shawl, over and over.
“Is she always to herself like that?” I ask, pretending I didn’t hear their question.
“No idea,” Adola says. “This is my first time meeting her. Will you be at the Tidwell?”
“I had a conflict. Unfortunately,” I add, hoping it’s convincing.
“I did too, sadly,” Adola says. “I hate to miss it. It’s the best one.” Her eyes narrow. “Have you ever been to a ball before?”
“No, actually.”
“Why not?” Drew asks. Adola watches for my answer as the final utensil is put in place and we’re ushered back to a freshly set table.
“These look delicious.” I sit back down and tear off a piece of sandwich and stuff it in my mouth so I don’t have to answer.
Grandmom finally returns to the courtyard, taking her place at the table.
“What on earth happened?” she asks, eyeing the new setup.
“It’s all fine now.”
“What did you do before coming to the Chateau, Quell?” Drew asks, annoyingly persistent, before shoving an entire crustless sandwich in their mouth.
Grandmom’s stare lassos around my throat.
“There’s not much to share that would interest anyone here, I’m sure.”
“Try me.”
My grip on my glass tightens, and a touch of cold strokes my bones.
“I mean, unless you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I didn’t say that I don’t want to talk about it.” I twist my riband around my finger. Nore notices, and we share a glance.
“The next round of tea, should we?” Grandmom interjects, and servers swarm the tables. Drew’s question is lost in the confusion, and I try to sit back in my seat. Before anyone can fire off any more interrogating questions, I turn to Adola.
“You’re finishing this Season, I heard. What color dress are you going to wear?”
“Me?” Adola’s dainty fingers stroke her pearls with a lilt of arrogance that reminds me of her aunt Beaulah Perl. Grandmom sighs under her breath.
“Yes,” I say.
“In our House, it’s tradition to debut in black.”
“Right. I must have forgotten.”
Grandmom clears her throat. This is going sideways. Drew opens their mouth, but I’m faster.
“Nore, how is your tea?”
“It’s delicious.” She smiles but looks away, bored or irritated or something.
“Was your mother heir, too?” Adola asks, directing the conversation aggressively back to me.
“She wasn’t,” I say, fighting off a cold sweat.
“Wh—”
“How are things in your House, Adola?” I cut in, an octave too high. “I’ve been so worried since hearing the news.”
She straightens, her composure flinching, but her voice streams out as melodic and sweet as ever. “It’s been difficult. You and your mentor must talk often.”
“I didn’t hear from Jordan. It’s been all the talk . . .” In the Tavern, I don’t add because Grandmom doesn’t need to know I’ve been there.
“I just hope everyone can heal and move on.” Adola places another bite of scone with clotted cream into her mouth before crossing her utensils facedown on her plate. Her entire mood has shifted. I prodded a wound. It’s shut her up. A small victory, but I’ll take it.
Grandmom’s watchful eye patrols the table, and for the rest of the tea I’m careful to stick to what I know and avoid being the topic of discussion. The conversation leaves me behind, and perhaps it’s better that way. I try to pop in and out of it to at least appear engaged. By the time the final course of pastries comes around, my lower back aches, and all I’ve gleaned from this group is that the only reason Drew and Adola showed up was to pry.
“You’re awfully quiet, Nore,” Grandmom prods, as if trying to carefully stir a pot of soup.
“Yes, well, I’d hoped to have more to talk about, but alas, I’m not finding this tea party very inspiring,” she says. Adola’s gaze swells. Grandmom fiddles with her earring. Drew throws another macaroon in their mouth, apparently entertained.
“How long do you have left before Cotillion, Nore?” I ask, trying to salvage this sham of a party.
“I have just emerged, actually, working on Second Rite.”
“And how’s that going?” Adola asks.
“Not well.” She quickly sips her tea again as if she regrets being so honest.
“Second Rite is a doozy,” I say. “Get yourself really organized and chip away at it every day. Good luck.”
She thanks me with a half smile, then suddenly her face drains of color.
“Nore?”
“If you’ll excuse me,” she says. “Which way is the ladies’ room?”
“Just to the right as you enter from the courtyard,” Grandmom says. Nore pushes up from the table without using her hands and almost knocks into a server. She rushes off in a panic.
Grandmom’s brow deepens. She must be wondering the same thing I am.
“If you’ll excuse me.” I follow Nore inside, but as fast as I’m walking, she is faster. I wait on a scroll-armed chair outside the powder room. Water runs, a toilet flushes, but between them I hear swearing.
“Nore?” I knock.
“Just a minute.” Several moments later the door opens, and she’s all smiles. Her gloves are gone, and where I expect to see tallies on her arms is bare.
“Sorry, I couldn’t figure out how to turn the sink on.” She brushes past me, and her arm is bone-chilling cold.
Far colder than is normal.
I swallow my gasp. She stops, and the fear of death burns in her eyes. She puts some distance between us.
“Nore . . . are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your gloves, have you forgotten them?” I watch for some inclination that I’m wrong. Her chest is out, shoulders back, perfectly poised. But ever so slightly she flinches.
“I tore them, by accident. There was a snag, and I should have mended it a long time ago. So I tossed them.”
She’s lying! The height of her tone says she’s desperate to end my questions.
“I was going to thank you for the advice with honing,” she says. “Would you like some advice on surviving this place?”
“Sure.”
“Choose the people you let into your circle wisely.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing.
“I should be getting back.” Nore walks off, and her words are choked by the shock of what I think I know. I hurry into the bathroom and make a beeline for the wastebasket. Empty. I search for some remnant of ash, some whispered footprint of telltale destruction. Tears well in my eyes for reasons I don’t have words for. But the bathroom is clean. There’s nothing here other than proof she lied about throwing away her gloves. I know what I felt. I know that look in her eyes. It’s haunted me my entire life.
She said she’s struggling with Second Rite, and I bet I know why.
