The next morning, Thursday, a note slides under my door, and my heart skips a beat. But it’s only a note from Jordan telling me I looked nice last night. I rip it up and toss it into the trash can. Friday no mail comes, and I can’t take it anymore, so I send another letter to Nore Ambrose. This one much simpler.
Are you okay?
On Saturday morning a firm rap at the door nearly knocks me out of bed. I grab a robe and turn on a light, realizing it’s so early it’s still dark outside. I snatch open the door, hopeful it’s a response from Nore Ambrose.
“Morning, dear.”
“Grandmom?”
She pushes her way inside, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s not alone.
“It’s . . . six a.m.”
“Yes, and today’s the first day you’ll be consumed by the public. It must be done right.”
Consumed?
“Our annual Magnolia Merchant Festival is today. And the parent reception tonight.”
Oh, right. Vendors will line the courtyard offering their wares to débutants. Debs who won’t debut for years still travel here from all over to stock up on goods, collect business cards, and rub elbows on the Marionne estate. In addition to picking a dress, I made a whole checklist of all the things I still need to do. A beauty Shifter with Grandmom sets up a chair and lays out a stack of magazines.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask Grandmom, but she’s too busy flipping through my closet.
The Shifter pulls at my bonnet and gestures for me to sit in her chair.
Grandmom holds up two dresses I’d intentionally stuffed into the back of my closet. “What do you think?”
Her brow rises with a challenge. I don’t have fight in me this early in the morning. Not with Nore on my mind and Abby being gone. And other annoying people sending me notes I don’t want. I accept defeat and sit in the chair.
“Up or down?” the Shifter asks.
“Whatever’s fastest.” I slump down in the seat as much as I can. It takes an hour to finish my hair and makeup to Grandmom’s liking. Thankfully she at least listened to my color choices, and I don’t look like a clown. Grandmom’s been working at the desk in my room the entire time despite my telling her she’s welcome to go. If this is what she’s like at the top of the day, this is going to be a long day.
“Now, I’ll miss the first hour of the festival or so because I have a tea with the Daughters of Duncan. They think I’m their key to reinstatement, but they’re gravely mistaken. I’ll catch up with you mid-morning, and we can finish up whatever you have left.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
She smiles, interpreting that the opposite way I meant it.
“I’ll see you soon, though.”
The door shuts. An hour, she said? I grab my checklist. I’ll just have to make sure I’m done by then.
The courtyard is packed with people even at the top of the morning. Nore is the only thing on my mind. She has a private cottage on her estate. So does that mean Isla Ambrose knows about her toushana and is trying to help protect her? Or is Nore hiding her truth from her Headmistress like I am? Vendors line the front lawn, tent tops as far as I can see. Slow, soft music plays from a live band and delicious smells warm up my appetite. I’d thought getting here before breakfast would help me sift faster through things. But lines snake from each merchant table. Parents and family members have come from far and wide to peruse the festival’s finds. This isn’t going to be efficient or easy. I check my list again.
First a Vestiser. I also need shoes, cake stands, and some sort of party favor for all three hundred whatever of them. This is to be a circus, and I’m the star of the show.
I find the blue tent marked vestiser victor where a portly fellow in a tailored suit is handing out cards to everyone who passes.
“Monsieur Victor Laurent.” He kisses the back of my hand. “Vestiser at your service.” His stare lingers on my diadem. “You must be Quell Marionne.”
He rolls a rack of dresses in bags over to me and hands me a glass of champagne. I almost fumble it, Nore tumbling through my memory again. Last time she responded so quickly.
“Ma’am?”
“Sorry.” I gulp down my entire champagne. There is nothing I can do about Nore until she responds. “You were saying?”
“What sort of color or style are you looking for?” He rocks back and forth on his heels.
“I’m not sure.”
“We have a fine selection.” He rolls two more racks out and lingers eagerly.
“What would you suggest color-wise? Convince me and I might not need to keep my other appointments.”
“A green or blue would do wonders with your eyes.” He holds out an intricately beaded dress on his arm.
“Meh.”
“Or how about . . .” He unzips another dress bag and pulls out an ombré blush gown trimmed in sparkles. “I modeled the magic of the sparkles after actual constellations. I can pull it exclusively for you.”
I hold it up to myself, twisting in the floor mirror, and hardly recognize the girl staring back at me. “I don’t think I realized a dress could leave me speechless. I’ll take it. Wait. How much does this cost?”
He laughs. “It goes on the House account, Miss.”
Dress done. I finish up with Victor, and if they’re all that easy, I’ll definitely finish before Grandmom can harass me.
With centerpieces, party favors, and shoes done, nearly an hour has passed when I hustle to my final stop—flowers. The floral vendors are set up on the courtyard nearest the rose garden, and I smell them before I reach them. Tables lined with bouquets, corsages, boutonnieres, and sample centerpieces are covered in a swarm of debs and their families. I pull a familiar white flower from a barrel of loose blooms sold by the stem. Oleander.
“Oh, these are very special, madam,” says a gentleman in overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat. “You must be Quell Marionne.”
“Yes, I need . . .” I check my notes. “One boutonniere, a lot of centerpieces, and two arrangements for the stage.”
“Oh, then you must use the finest blooms.” He hands me a deep purple flower, and I cough at the price tag. “The black dahlia. Extremely difficult to craft. A lady of your stature should have something both as rare and as beautiful as she is.”
“Good morning, sir.” His attention shifts to someone behind me, and he tidies his clothes. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Jordan.
“I’ll take these and the oleanders,” I tell the flower guy. “You’ll have to get with Mrs. Cuthers, Headmistress’s secretary, on the exact number of centerpieces. But everything should be billed to the House.”
“A fine choice, madam.” He bows and I walk away, in the opposite direction of Jordan.
He follows.
“What do you have left?”
“A dagger polisher.”
“Use Rollins Shine. They’ve been in business a long time.”
I sigh and stop to face him. “Okay, thank you. Is that all?”
“Quell.”
“Jordan.” Walk away. But my feet don’t listen. I pull at a few dresses nearby just to avoid looking at him.
“Did you get my note?”
“I did. And I decorated my trash can with it.”
His jaw clenches, and I savor it. See how it feels to have your feelings toyed with.
“Jordan!” someone calls. “Jordan, is that you?”
“Oh god,” he mutters, and I turn to leave.
“Quell?” the same high-pitched voice says.
“Who is—” But one look at the woman answers my question. Jordan’s mother isn’t much taller than me. She struts toward us in a fancy checkered blazer and pointy heels. Her coiled hair is luscious and twisted out perfectly. Massive jewels hang from her ears.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Lena, Jordan’s mother. He’s told us much about this mentee of his. Though he didn’t say you were so beautiful.”
“You’re so kind, thank you.”
Behind Mrs. Wexton, with a phone pressed to his ear, is a ghostly pale version of Jordan. Mrs. Wexton tries to get his attention but is met with a finger from his hand.
“Work never stops.” She smiles.
“Why are you here, Mother?”
“You say that like you’re not happy to see me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I saw the piece in Page Six! Well done,” she says, ignoring him completely.
“And who is this?” Mr. Wexton joins the conversation and Jordan’s expression hardens.
“This is Darragh Marionne’s granddaughter and heir, Richard.”
He glances at me dismissively, then back at Jordan. “Is everything above board here, son?”
The condescension in his tone curdles my stomach.
“Richard! I apologize.” Mrs. Wexton squeezes my shoulder.
“If this mentor thing is getting out of hand, I’ll talk to Headmistress,” he goes on.
“I’m sorry, what are you presuming exactly?” I ask, crossing my arms.
Jordan touches my wrist. “You will talk to no one.” Jordan spits the words, meeting his father’s eyes for the first time. “Headmistress Perl is pleased with my work here.”
“As long as you’re sure.” He turns his snarl in my direction. “And as long as she understands her place.”
The shock of his crassness loosens my tongue. “Excuse me, sir, but I do believe we are standing on my family’s estate.”
Jordan groans.
His father glares so sharply I brace for his next words to cut. But his virulence isn’t fired at me.
“Jordan. The Dragunhead is eager to meet you next week to discuss placement. I hope I don’t have reason to hesitate when your name is brought forward.”
“You don’t. And you won’t.”
“Perhaps.” He meets his son’s glare with a challenge. Jordan’s jaw tenses, but he stays quiet.
“Lena, we’re leaving, and you”—Mr. Wexton points at me—“watch yourself, young lady.” He departs, and Mrs. Wexton follows with no more than an awkward glance between us.
“My son’s honor won’t be stained by the bastard child of some prodigal— ” he says to his wife as they storm off.
“Quell, I’m sorry. Ignore him. Ignore them both. I try my best to.”
I stuff down my rage the best I can as Jordan steps in front of my line of sight.
“Please.”
“What is he talking about anyway?” I fold my arms.
“Once I leave here, I’m being looked at to run the Dragun brotherhood under the Dragunhead himself, which is unheard of for someone of my age. But because of my skill and my taking on a mentee to demonstrate leadership, my chances look good. My father’s promised to endorse me as well.”
“So what’s he suggesting? He’s not going to support you anymore?”
“Getting involved with people is highly frowned upon for Draguns.” His words are measured with the calmness of a brewing storm.
“He would seriously take all that you’ve worked for away?”
“He’s warning me to not let us . . .” He looks off. “Get out of hand.”
His parents have disappeared in the crowd and he glances in their direction. “I have to go deal with this.”
“Do you?”
“I should.”
“You shouldn’t. He is entirely out of line.” I want to be angry, but the only emotion I can tap is pity. Mom and I might not have had much. She is far from perfect, but she’d never manipulate me like that. Hold things over me to control me. She gave up her entire life to protect me. I wish that for him. That kind of love.
“You wouldn’t understand, you don’t have—”
“Parents?! Is that what you were going to say?” I reach to shove him right in the chest. But he catches my wrist, and I realize I’ve missed his touch on my skin.
“I was going to say you don’t have to deal with Dragun politics.”
“Don’t go after him, Jordan. Don’t play his game.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” My pity morphs into frustration rekindling my annoyance with the way he’s been. “Jordan, for once in your life do something for yourself.” I snatch my arm away and leave.
Evening has wound down. Its golden pink glow dips below my bedroom window, and a yawn scratches my throat. With no response from Nore, and the irritation from earlier still stinging, I retreated to my room to bury myself in what matters: Cotillion studies.
An expected soft tap at my door stirs me from my covers. Grandmom never caught up with me; I was done with my entire list before she’d finished her tea brunch. There’s no way she was thrilled about that. I pull open the door and fold in a curtsy when I spot polished men’s shoes.
Jordan.
I shove the door to shut it, but he stops it with his hand.
“Why are you here?”
“To talk.”
“Jordan—”
“To apologize.”
“Shouldn’t you be running after your father? I assume he’s still here for the parent reception or whatever.”
“I didn’t talk to them. Instead, I thought long and hard about what you said.”
“And—”
“May I come in?” His brows pull up in pleading and it tugs at my heart.
“Please,” he says.
I should shut the door and never look back. But I part it wider instead. “Briefly.”
He steps in, and I retreat to my bed.
“I was wrong for not being more forthright with my father about how I feel about you.” His eyes trace me, and I can feel him searching for some hint that I accept his admission of fault. That I forgive him. But I’m not sure apologizing afterward is good enough. His gaze falls to my legs, curled over one another. The knot at his throat bobs, and I pull my covers over them.
“My father is a difficult man to please. But he wields a lot of control in the Order. I don’t give a damn what he thinks, not truly. But I need him to think I do.”
“But you do.”
“I don’t. It’s bigger than him.”
“So it’s the Order you care about? Not his opinion?”
“Quell, this is my life. For now, he’s the gatekeeper. You have to be able to see that.”
“So what are you saying? You wouldn’t have done anything differently?”
“No, I—”
“It sounds like that’s exactly what you’re saying. Coming in here like I’m your pet you can keep and appease with the right words.” I hop up and head toward my door. “Because if that’s what you’re here for—”
“Stop.” His fingers tug at my wrist, more in demand than request. He pulls me into him and there’s no air between us. “I don’t see you that way. I could never.” He sighs. “It’s because I respect you and know I can’t give you everything you may want that I keep a distance.” His heartbeat picks up, and I can feel it against my chest. “It’s that reason only that I stop myself from saying, doing stupid things.” His gaze falls to my lips.
“Jordan, I need to know that it’s not just me imagining whatever this is.”
The strap on my thin nightshirt slips off my shoulder, and he pulls it back into place, his touch soft as summer rain. His thumb finds my jaw, kindling a flame deep inside me, throbbing with a heat, a wanting, I’ve never felt.
“It’s not.”
His fingers trace down my neck as if they move to music, brushing my skin feather soft. Across my collarbone and over my bare shoulder as if he’s admiring a fine sculpture. His arm tightens around my waist, and his gaze glows like a drunken sunrise. Because I know him, I can see there are more words hanging on his lips.
“Say it. Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I can’t.”
I force his eyes to mine. “You can.”
He bites his lip. “I want you,” he breathes, and somehow we are closer. His breath is warm on my lips, and I hang on them, teetering on the edge of a cliff, daring him to jump with me.
“Let yourself go,” I tell him, as he once told me.
He hesitates, then gives in to the fire kindling in his eyes. His fingers curve around my hip with the knowing of how it must make me feel. I lean into his touch as his other hand runs through my hair, then down the back of my neck. “May I kiss you?”
I lean in, and his mouth meets mine, tender and warm. I shudder at the sweet taste of him, and the world melts away. He pulls at my lips, hungrily urging me to deepen their bond. I tremble all over with an ache deep inside, like a magic I’ve never felt. We meld as one and it’s like dancing with him all over again.
He breaks the kiss, hunger unfurled in his eyes.
But his appetite has bled into me and I lean back in for another moment where there is no world, no poison in my veins, no Cotillion, no Headmistresses. Only me and him. Our lips crash together again, a bit clumsy from eagerness, and I let it consume me.
Heat, passion, life rushes into the darkest, most desolate parts of me, suturing what was broken. I open my mouth wider, giving all of myself to this feeling, to this moment, and it touches me deeper than my magic has ever thrummed.
