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Twenty-Nine

Jordan

The minute I reach the doors of the cigar lounge, I smell dirt.

Dirt in the air. Dirt all over my clothes. Dirt on the framed portraits and on the rows of diadems and masks in glass cases. I steady myself against a wall, fending off curious gazes of guests entering the lounge as I clip my last cuff link in place.

There is no dirt in here. There is no dirt anywhere.

The last time I listened to my instincts—as the Dragunhead advised—and relied and trusted on what I knew, I left here as Ward four years ago, and I never regretted it. But I never made a stand. Even now, Beaulah doesn’t know what I think about her. Sometimes the truth feels safer as a secret. I blow out a long breath before checking my phone for messages, but there are none. The final warning horn for Trials blew ten minutes ago. My hands are slick when I grab the door handle. I exhale sharply once more before stepping inside.

Heads turn in my direction, a few at a time, until the entire room stands, applauding me. My gut twists. I am proud of all I’ve accomplished but embarrassed it had anything to do with this place. My thoughts drift to the raid two nights ago. Beaulah parts the crowd. She halts, taking all of me in, then opens her arms for me to come to her. My feet are leaden. And there is that dirt smell again. I approach her, one begrudging step at a time.

“You look well, dear nephew.” She holds up my arm to the crowd, and the applause roars louder. “My nephew! The Dragunheart.”

My skin burns from all the stares. Beaulah bares a cheek for me to kiss. I oblige even though it sickens me. I’m just one of her prize show dogs and it sets my teeth on edge. She touches the heart pendant against my chest, tracing its engraving.

“It’s simply mesmerizing.”

I move my shoulder, taking the lavaliere away from her touch.

She startles. I’ve never upset her on purpose. I’ve never done anything but avoid her. The one time I did disobey her, I was thirteen, and she made me sleep in the hunting ground for three nights without contact with anyone.

“I was just admiring. I’d love to hold it in my hands. That’s only fitting, given I trained you, don’t you agree?” She strokes the virtue pins shining on my coat and I’m reminded of my conversation with my brother.

I glare at her, the truth hanging on my lips. Beaulah resolutely meets my stare and reaches for the red pendant again. I move away. Her mouth bows, but no creases reach her eyes. This gesture is about power. A game she’s used to winning.

“I just want to touch it, Jordan.”

I can’t risk angering her too much. I need to be here for Adola.

“It’s never supposed to be in anyone’s possession other than the Dragunheart. I hope you understand.”

“You’ve always been one for the rules.” She links her hands, radiating annoyance. “It is good to see you back home. Don’t stay gone so long.” She tidies my coat, and for Adola’s sake I don’t pull away. “You don’t want to forget who you are. Oh, and your room is occupied. We’ve found ourselves overrun with guests for Trials. Brisby can find you another one.”

“I can’t stay the night, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but we have the band here until midnight. And then there’s—” She sighs. “You’re busy, I know.” Her lips purse with pride. “You’re all grown up now. Shall we?” She offers her arm; I take it. “There are many here I’d like you to say hello to. And while I have you, I was thinking we should talk about reinstating you to the House’s family name. Jordan Richard Perl. There’s no reason your father’s punishment should still be yours.”

I slip my arm from hers. “I am going to try to find Adola and wish her luck.”

“Evening, Mother.” Charlie approaches with wide-open arms, and I almost don’t recognize him. His skin hangs from his bones, as if he’s aged a decade in days. His eyes have all but disappeared into their sockets. What the hell is wrong with him? I want to ask. But Charlie’s never wanted a brother in me: he wanted a son. He walks with a limp, falling into Beaulah’s hug. She helps steady him before dusting him off. He kisses her cheek.

“Jordan,” he says.

“Charlie.”

“I have updates on that list of places you had me check out. I’ll get it to you. Been busy. I’m sure you understand.” He turns back to Beaulah.

“Did you sleep well after dinner last night?” she asks, roping herself onto his arm. “And that tea I told you about should help—”

I leave them, moving through the crowd toward the glass windows that look out on the grounds below.

“It’s him,” someone whispers to their companion, pointing as I pass. Both are dark-haired, with the same round, wide noses—sisters, judging by their resemblance. The back of my neck heats at how my very presence here is an endorsement I’m loath to give. But Adola. My precocious little cousin, who is gifted at everything but the things our aunt wants her to be proficient in. She wears her mask well, carrying the burden of heir, but she won’t face Trials alone.

I check my watch, then my phone. A few more hours of this and I’m out of here.

I circle the room, minding my business as best I can, but the clinking of glasses, cheerful laughter, and overall revelry makes me want to claw at my skin. Dancing on graves and all that…I rush out onto the balcony, which is mostly empty of people. A few are immersed in conversation, tittering behind gloved hands, nibbling from plates of hors d’oeuvres. The fresh air hits me and my breath comes a bit easier. Below are three raised platforms where candidates are being prepared. My cousin’s long hair is roped into a braid and twisted into a bun behind her head. She’s wearing fitted pants and a long-sleeved top. I swallow a dry breath and grip the balcony railing.