Page 12 of House of Marionne

“Almost,” Abby says, and I glance back at her work.

The slice of red flesh zips closed, and I inhale through my nose, swallowing the nausea back down.

Creases hug her eyes as she cleans up the blood staining my clothes and limbs. “There. Good as new. Could you put in a good word for me with Headmistress Marionne about how I’ve done?”

“Sure.”

She thanks me three times, before gathering her things and disappearing behind the double doors we came through. Just myself and my captor now. Feeling stronger, I rotate to face him. He stares into the roaring fireplace. I slip my hand into my bag and feel for my dagger, keeping my eyes on him and the door.

“How’d you do it?” He stuffs a hand in his pocket, his back still to me.

“Excuse me?” I tighten the grip on my dagger.

“Seeing me as I was cloaked. How?” He twists in my direction. His jaw clenches like the words are rot on his tongue. I scowl at the man who attacked me, then dragged me in here like a criminal. He shifts his posture and the light from the window cuts across his face. He isn’t affiliated with the Dragun after me and yet he dragged me in here as if . . .

“You thought I was trespassing?”

He tilts his head in agreement. Flecks of blue glint in his green eyes, and they remind me of a lake lapping a grassy shore. Heat rises on my neck.

“Well, I’m not.”

“That remains to be seen.” He turns his back to me dismissively. “The estate doesn’t receive unsolicited visitors when Season is in, as a security measure.” He is silent a moment. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

I rotate away in my chair, and to my great relief, the door to the Headmistress’s suite clicks open. A woman whose skin suggests she’s no older than twenty-five glides in.

“Grandmom?” I stand.

Her hair shines like polished silver, swooped backward and pinned in an updo, held together by a pearl comb. The diadem on her head is much taller than Abby’s, not unlike a crown. It’s encrusted with pearls and pink gems in a variety of sizes, all blindingly glitzy. Chunky stones are pressed to her ears, and matching ones hug her knuckles. The corset to her gown is shiny like silk, woven with a fleur-de-lis pattern. She is majestic.

“Quell.” Her voice is soft and warm. A smile is pressed into her velvety skin.

I stand, hands clasped, not quite sure what’s appropriate to do.

“Close your mouth, dear. You look like a trout.”

I snap it closed. She moves toward me, and I’d swear she’s gliding on air.

“Jordan,” she says, addressing my captor. “This isn’t how we welcome guests here.”

“It’s my understanding she wasn’t invited.”

Grandmother’s nostrils flare, but her tone comes out measured. “Yes, but this is my granddaughter.” She faces him fully, and his mouth parts in disbelief before he snaps it closed and it hardens.

“And,” Grandmom goes on, “I would have liked her greeted properly. You might have debuted from your House, but you are still a Ward of mine until the end of summer.”

His glare hits the ground.

I pull at my shirt. A Ward as in this isn’t his House. As in he could know Draguns outside of the ones here. The Dragun after me . . .

“ . . . you will abide by our way of doing things or find your duties overseeing security on these grounds revoked.”

His cavalier posture stiffens, arrogance rising off him like steam. “You would do that? You would—”

“Do I strike you as a liar, Mister Wexton?”

“I . . . No, Headmistress.”

“You might not be under my direct authority, but this is my House.” Her stern demeanor melts back into a smile when she turns to me. “After all, we wouldn’t want to give her a bad first impression, would we?”