Page 127 of House of Marionne

“I knew I’d seen him somewhere before. He’s—”

“A witless jerk, corrupt, and disgusting. So naturally he’s quite popular and powerful.”

“Does he know about . . . us?”

“He knows we are an exclusive group with extensive means. And to a politician that’s all he needs to know to care.”

When a server with bubbling flutes on a tray passes, I grab a glass, still rocked with disbelief. This whole world, the wealth, the access, the power—it all exists because the Order wants it to.

“And what about him?” I point at a neatly shaven fellow in a dark suit with silver streaks in his hair, my curiosity piqued at stepping into the other side of the world I used to live in.

“Emerson Tidwell, himself. Member. House Oralia.” Jordan’s words brush my ear, his body pressed hard against my back. The music shifts to a slightly slower tune, and he hugs around me, swaying.

“You know him?”

He turns my chin in the direction of Emerson, who is using his teal handkerchief to clean his glasses.

“Look closely.”

We dance in Emerson’s direction, and I spot the embroidered sigil of House Oralia on his handkerchief.

“What about her?” I point at another, a girl about my age with a swanlike gait as she glides from one conversation to the next.

“House Marionne.”

“Her fleur earrings?”

Jordan smiles.

“And him?”

“You tell me.”

I stare as inauspiciously as I can for several minutes but come up empty. “I can’t tell.”

“Okay, that was unfair. He’s Unmarked.” Jordan snickers and I elbow him playfully.

“She’s House Perl, am I right?” I indicate a girl with radiant copper skin and dark eyes that sparkle like gems. Her dress is black sequin with a gather of red fabric on one shoulder. He glances at her, then promptly turns me in his grip, and we dance, facing one another.

“You know her well, I assume.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He shifts uncomfortably in my arms.

“There are no swans; Abby will be so relieved she didn’t miss them,” I say to lighten the mood. But his gaze is darting in every direction.

“Jordan, I don’t care about some girl you—”

We stop dancing and he leads me to a shadowed corner near a table with an ice sculpture. “Are you comfortable? Do you want to leave?” he says, looking everywhere but at me.

“Do you? What’s going on?”

He skims the crowd with a harried expression.

“You have to tell me things. That’s how this works.”