Page 11 of House of Marionne

We go up one grand staircase, then another. Next, a long hall. Sweeping windows gaze out to a speckled sky hung over a sea of grass and sculpted plants. My wet shoes squeak, skidding on the polished floor. He urges us along faster, my mouth gaping, head swiveling at it all. How could a place so dangerous be so beautiful?

“Wait here,” he says as we approach a pair of guarded double doors. He speaks briefly to a guard who also wears a talon-marked coin at his throat. The guard eyes my injuries with disinterest before letting us inside.

On the other side of the doors is a sitting room where fire crackles in a fireplace next to more tall windows swathed in fine fabric. I ball my hands into fists and exhale, grateful my fingers are warm, my toushana quiet.

A chandelier hangs from ornamental molding, giving everything a warm glow. The ceiling is so high, I have to tilt my head all the way back to see it. My mother grew up here. The wedge of guilt that’s burrowed a hole in my heart widens. I took her from all this.

“Headmistress Marionne will be out in a minute,” the Dragun guarding her door says. I squeeze my key chain, noting the tick of a pendulum clock on the wall. My captor puts the entire room between us without a word to me, irritation set in his jaw as his mask retreats back into his skin. Indoors, with better lighting, I can make him out fully. He perches in a corner of the sitting room like a Roman statue, broad-shouldered, looming like a god, perfect and poised. Pretty, even. Sculpted cheekbones and long lashes set off his deep green eyes. His nose curves ever so slightly upward above a pair of full lips that appear permanently puckered. He’d look as if he was pouting if it weren’t for his cutting, broody glare. It’s sickening how gorgeous he is. I smooth my threadbare shirt and finger the holes in my jeans that aren’t supposed to be there, which only makes them worse.

He catches me staring and his edges sharpen. Something’s under his skin. And that something, I suspect, is me. A knock at the door makes my back straighten. A girl with a petite frame and face enters, carrying a tin case. Dark hair curtains her warm expression. She wears a simple dress in a breathy fabric, and on top of her head is a thin silver tiara: coils of metal and stringy bits of silver stacked on top of a headband. It shines radiantly as her head moves, the silver bits catching the sconced candlelight. It’s dainty and elegant, much like her.

She gestures at my arm, slick with red. “May I?”

I nod and set down my bag. For several moments, she works sharply focused over my wounds, smoothing her fingers over the cuts along my arm until they are new again. I glare at my hands. I really am broken.

My side cramps in pain as she finishes up with my arm. I wince, leaning on my other elbow, which is dug into a chair cushion that looks fancier than anything I’ve ever seen, let alone owned. The girl pulls her hair back into a bun. When she leans over my wound fully, I can see that her tiara is not sitting on her head—it’s coming out of her head. I swallow my shock.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Me?” Her brows touch.

“Yes, I mean the—” I gesture at her tiara.

Her cheeks dent with tiny craters. “Oh, you’re serious? No, of course not.” She works her magic around my wound as if she were pulling apart delicately small invisible threads until the skin on my arm is all healed. “This must all be so new to you. You can only see diadems”—she indicates the thing I called a tiara—“and masks if you have magic in your blood.” She smiles. “Still, I can hide it at will, if I choose.” Her diadem disappears.

“Whoa.”

“It takes a little bit of control to learn how to do that.”

I gaze up again at the show of magic arced above her head. “Wow!”

She blushes. “Was there anywhere else you were hurt?”

I lift the edge of my shirt.

“Okay, this one might sting a little.” She cuts a glance at my captor, the Dragun, who picks dirt from his nails, his expression still rigid with annoyance. He could be a piece of furniture in this ostentatious sitting room with its silk lined walls and paneled wood. His mask, the one he shed outside, sits on his nose again, glistening in the sconce light.

My skin tugs and I brace for the pain.

“Hey,” the girl says, pressing my shoulder down. “Try to relax. Here.” She sticks out a hand. “I’m Abby, Primus, second of my blood, Shifter candidate, healer type.” She dips her chin.

“Quell, uh . . .”

“You’re a Marionne, yes?” she asks, tossing a glance at the guarded double doors. “I heard.”

I nod stiffly.

My captor purses his mouth in disbelief.

“There have been five Headmistresses since this House’s inception,” she says, not seeming to notice. “Which means magic can be traced back that long in your bloodline. So you’d say sixth of your blood.”

“Right.”

She grins and for some reason, I do, too.

“Nice to meet you. I should have you all fixed up in a few.” My shirt has worked its way back down, and she moves it out of the way. “Try to breathe normally, okay? The magic works better when you’re relaxed.”

“Thanks.” I force an exhale and set my eyes on anything across the room other than my skin being put back together. Books line the far wall secured in glass cabinets, affixed with a fleur-shaped padlock. I search for meaning along their spines. But other than a talon or fleur here or there, none of the terms or symbols are familiar.