Page 15

“Cigar?” Mrs. Hargrove pulled a silver smoking case from somewhere in her giant bosom and offered Ellery one.

“Thank you, madam, but I am fine.”

She didn’t offer Nore one, which annoyed her even though she didn’t smoke.

“And while we’re at it…” Mrs. Hargrove gestured at a group of girls huddled around drinks, whispering giggles behind thin gloves. “Daphne, Regina, Sara Kate, get your sisters. Ellery is here!”

Nore squeezed her brother’s hand once more in consolation before he disappeared in a flock of grinning Hargroves. She spun on her heels, relieved to not be the center of conversation, and glimpsed the doorway again. No sign of her mother. Then she nearly slammed into someone.

“Nore Emilie Ambrose, is that really you?”

“Mrs. Efferton!” Nore’s heart ticked faster. She curtsied at the familiar face, muscle memory taking over. Nettie Efferton was an elbow-rubbing gossip from House Marionne. Someone you wanted to keep on your good side.

“Mrs. Efferton, how are you and Judge Efferton?” The polite greeting spilled from her lips effortlessly. “I regret I missed your Serenade this summer.” The woman responded, but Nore gazed past her, looking around the ballroom for her mother, just in case.

Mrs. Efferton checked her hair and sparkling red-and-silver diadem in a passing mirror before hooking her arm with Nore’s. She resisted, and Mrs. Efferton looked at her curiously. Nore took a small step, and the judge’s wife dragged her toward a table of members dripping in jewels, shellacked in pounds of makeup, and swallowed by rich fabrics. House sigils everywhere. Tiny fleurs barely noticeable on handkerchiefs, a cracked-column charm dangling from a bracelet, a scale with a darkened sun etched on a ring. Diadems in gold or silver arced over the members’ heads, their woven hairstyles equally ornate to complement their diadems’ shape and color.

Nore couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes briefly and thought of her wheat fields kissed by evening sun, the way her toes felt in the dirt, how time moved so slowly at her farm. Her heart thudded a little easier.

“You know, I almost took your absence personally,” Mrs. Efferton said. “But when you didn’t show up at the Chrysanthemum either, I asked around and heard you have been on sabbatical?”

“Yes,” she forced out, trying to calm her raging panic. Eyes everywhere stared at her. She could practically hear their thoughts: Nore, the heiress who no one’s ever seen do magic. Nore, the heiress her mother keeps hidden. Nore, the girl if they really knew, they’d hate. Nore, Nore. Nore!

“Did you hear me, dear?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I said I’m sure Isla is glad you’re back. A House needs a strong show of leadership, and the heir…” Mrs. Efferton pinched Nore’s cheek.

Her sloshing insides quieted and instead her jaw ticked. She wasn’t a child.

“Being visible is an inspiring nod to the future. And with the grave news about the Sphere, hope matters more than ever. Don’t you agree?”

Nore scowled. House Ambrose had survived hundreds of years without her. She didn’t care one bit if people saw or were inspired by seeing her. She wanted to find a place in the valley of a mountain to start another farm. She wanted to wake up to roosters crowing and eat cake for breakfast and swim in the lake for a bath if she felt like it. She wanted to live, instead of holding her breath in a world that felt like a corset tied too tight.

“You do agree, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Join me at my table for a drink, would you?” It wasn’t a real request. Nore was already being dragged that way. Mrs. Efferton would flaunt her to the judge’s friends as if to say, Look at me, I am friends with Headmistress blood. But this was the way the Order worked. Mrs. Efferton wasn’t the least bit interested in how Nore’s sabbatical was or why she needed a sabbatical in the first place. Nor were the Hargroves interested in anything more than marrying into the House bloodline in the hopes a granddaughter might fall in the line of succession one day. The Order was a bunch of peacocks flashing their tail feathers at each other. Nore wanted no part of it.

“What did you do during sabbatical?” an elderly woman asked as she sat at the table. “One hears things, you know.”

“Verna,” Mrs. Efferton chastised.

Verna shrugged and sipped from her drink.

Nore’s irritation thrummed. But her eyes were fixed on the doorman in the distance.

“You know, Nore,” said a girl who couldn’t be much older than her. The neckline of her red gown slashed across her chest and hooked over one shoulder. Rubies sparkled from her ears and a gold dot ornamented her nose. Her dark, sweeping eyelashes curled and seemed to wave. “Some blush on those cheeks and perhaps highlights in your hair would really be nice on you. You’re so beautiful, and gray is such a drab color.”

Nore took a fluted glass from a passing tray and gulped it down.

“Your dress would be simply unforgettable with a bit of brocade,” someone cut in. “You’d have all the eligible suitors looking your way.” The one who spoke wore teal feathers in her swept-back hair. Her face was ornately painted and sequined with jewels that matched her diadem. House of Oralia prided itself on freedom of expression in every way.

Nore surveyed the circle, and oddly found herself wishing someone from her House were there beside her to sit through this public interrogation.

“Blue would do so much for your eyes.”