Page 26 of Fortress of Ambrose (House of Marionne #3)

She wasn’t really a music person, but the notes of the song took her heart on an adventure, filling it with sharp, short, low sounds, which made her feel nervous.

Then the auditorium burst into a skitter of high notes.

She thought of a bird shoved out of a nest, bobbing in the air, then spreading its wings for the first time.

The tones were a melody that elicited a nostalgic ache.

Audior magic—and all art in general—was not considered distinguished at Dlaminaugh.

In their entire history, they’d only finished one Audior specialty.

Art was looked down upon, but painting sang a song to her soul.

So much so that she hid her brushes and colors in her stove.

Nore followed Yagrin along the back of the theater to get a better view.

She couldn’t look away. He appeared to be as captivated as she was, staring at the stage as he wove between the rear of the orchestra section.

He stopped suddenly, and she ran right into him.

For the second they touched, she felt her heart ram with life more than it had in a long time.

They resituated themselves as the music stole their attention.

This is good, Yagrin mouthed. He loved music—the cello, especially.

She of course couldn’t know that, so she just nodded back.

When the music finished, applause boomed, the theater coming to life with whistling and shouting cheers.

Flowers flew onstage as a petite blond woman with the strut of a Headmistress joined the Audior center stage.

“How about that for the future of magic!” Litze was every bit as colorful as Nore’d heard. She wore a chartreuse silk pantsuit with a turquoise riband across her middle. Her lips were painted in a hot shade of pink, and an equally bright colorful diadem set in silver shined above her head.

The applause roared louder and demanded an encore.

“We don’t want to wear them out, do we?” She hip-bumped the performer onstage and winked. Then she gestured for them to exit stage left before turning back to the crowd. “Pupils of top-tier marks, join us for refreshments in the reception area outside.”

The crowd rose, and the aisles swelled with people.

Two bodies swept between her and Yagrin, and when they passed, she lost sight of him.

She hurried toward the exit, the direction she thought they were heading, the same door where they came in.

But once she was in the rotunda, Yagrin was nowhere to be found.

Her palms sweat as a throng of débutants in boldly colored dresses and suits with masks and diadems to match swallowed her as they shuffled to the exits. The world around her pulsed with a vibrance that made it hard to breathe. By comparison, Dlaminaugh was a prison of drabness.

She spun, taking in the tapestry of people.

No one hurried with books in hand, but there was every instrument she could think of, and funky paintbrushes with spiraled handles wound around wrists like bracelets.

There were masks, full-face ones, like she’d never seen!

They were plain, patterned; some appeared to be hand-painted while others were ornamented with jewels or flecks of gold.

Emoters wore shimmery jewels on their bodies and faces.

Hairstyles existed in every color, pinned, pressed, or curled high in creative shapes.

Nore stared at her gray dress and her plain red hair hanging over her shoulder. She tucked her head down and wedged her way through the crowd, peering for Yagrin. But there was no sight of him. She’d never felt so out of place. And that was saying something.

She stared so hard at a girl made up beautifully in silver and shades of blue that the girl grabbed Nore by the wrist tightly. She tried to wriggle away but stilled when the girl’s palms shifted to purple.

“Are you lost?” the Emoter asked. “She’s terrified, poor thing,” she told a friend with her.

“I’m fine.” Nore hurried away. She’d never seen an Emoter in person or been touched by one, as emotion-magic training was only offered in House of Oralia.

Nore had read about it, fascinated, how there were Shifters so sensitive to emotion they could sense it in others.

Still, she wasn’t sure what all they could tell by touching her.

And she needed her secrets to stay buried.

Corporeal House emptied into a courtyard with a paved stone path across a hand-painted pond.

The crowd was ushered toward the reception.

Nore walked along, peering harder at the mural on the ground, and noticed the fish were flicking their tails, swimming in patterns, their scales shimmering, putting on a show for her as she passed.

The art was alive. Everything about Oralia was a performance—the displays of magic, the choice of wardrobe, hair, and make-up.

Even a simple stroll from the auditorium to the reception.

There was always something or someone to feast your eyes on.

As colorfully enthralling as it was, being on all the time had to be exhausting.

She bit the inside of her cheek. She had so many questions for them about their lives between these walls, but that wasn’t at all why they were there. She skimmed for Yagrin.

“Where are you?” she muttered. But there was still no sign of him. The stone path led to an outdoor area decorated with string lights and sweeping views of wine country. Refreshments sat atop tables, and music played.

She spotted Headmistress Litze Oralia. Maybe she could come right out with what she was looking for, like she had at the Chateau.

She worked her way through the people, searching.

And ran smack-dab into a broad-shouldered, slender frame.

Her arm stung. She felt it before she realized what had sliced her skin.

The cut burned. The person who nicked her pulled a glass vial from their corset and dropped the bloodied tip of the small blade inside.

“Hey!” Nore smacked her hand away, but she was too late. The attacker blew her an air-kiss, spinning on her heel before freezing, face-to-face with someone Nore knew.

Drew, heir to House of Oralia, snatched the vial out of her attacker’s hand, their simple black mask fading into their skin.

“I’ll take that,” Drew said. “Out of here, Shar.”

“Your aunt said—”

“Don’t care. You haven’t even earned enough marks to be at a social following a performance.

Leave.” Drew had changed their hair since the last time Nore saw them at Darragh’s tea.

Their dirty-blond braid cascaded over one shoulder.

They wore a lacy blazer and fitted leather pants.

Drew hardly wore make-up the last time Nore saw them.

Today their face was made up modestly, not in the typical gaudy Oralian style.

There were cat-eye swipes at the corner of their eyes and a new piercing above their lip. Nore almost didn’t recognize them.

Shar glared at Drew. Then her annoyance dissolved into a sugary grin. She bowed as if signaling the end of a performance.

“Shar Wright, second of my blood, Anatomer candidate, theatrics type. I have a thieving role coming up and thought I’d try out the raw emotion of it on you. Didn’t mean to alarm you.”

Shar left with a flail of her arms in the most dramatic twirl.

Nore would bet anything that girl was lying. She held her arm, feeling sick all over again over her brother. Word had spread to Begonia Terrace that there was a pretty price on Nore’s blood.

Drew offered Nore the vial. “I’m really sorry. Shar is a lot.”

Nore snatched the vial and shoved it in her pocket before hugging around herself.

“What brings you to Begonia Terrace? My aunt didn’t mention you were coming.”

Nore wasn’t sure what to say. Was Drew’s concern authentic or another performance? “Idaho is so bland this time of year.”

Drew cocked their head. “Come on, Ambrose. Why are you here really?”

Nore didn’t know Drew well enough to divulge the truth. She could put on a performance of her own. “I’ve told you.” She smiled, plastically. Where is Yagrin? They needed to get the Scroll and get out of there. Fast.