Page 140 of House of Marionne

The audience expels a collective sigh of relief.

“As you can imagine, she’s been through a lot. So she will be on sabbatical for the foreseeable future.”

“Headmistress, might I ask a question about the Sphere?” an Electus asks.

“No questions about the Sphere at this time. I do have one more update. It has been a long week, but I’m happy to say our upcoming presentation for the Season is back on. Cotillion will proceed as planned. We’re not altering the date or time. So those debuting, please ensure everything is in order. I’m truly relieved on the heels of such a tragedy to bring you such refreshing news.” Grandmom exits the stage, ignoring a barrage of questions. I watch as she whispers something to Mrs. Cuthers. The dutiful secretary nods and departs.

“Grandmom.” I hurry to catch her.

“Quell.”

“Good to see you’re back.”

“Yes, did you hear?”

“That Nore is okay, yes! That’s wonderful.”

“That your Cotillion is back on. You have six days.”

“Oh, yes.” I search her expression for more than she lets on, some hint of what the last several days were like for her. But she doesn’t appear very relieved.

“Well, don’t dawdle,” she snaps.

I curtsy and she walks off. She doesn’t say a word to anyone else in the crowd. I head straight for Mrs. Cuthers. Since the ticking timeline leading up to debut is back, I need to be sure everything’s in place. Mrs. Cuthers’s door is cracked when I arrive, and she waves me in.

“I just wanted to check to see if anything has arrived for me.”

She checks her record of deliveries. “I’m showing three dozen cake stands.” She runs her finger down the page. “Shoes . . . gloves . . . no dress. I’ll check in with the Vestiser.”

“What about RSVPs?”

“You’re at . . .” She flips a few more pages, and I peek over her shoulder at name after name of every person who received an invitation and their response. “Two hundred seventy-four.”

“May I see that?”

“Sure.” She hands me the tablet, and I flip and flip for one name . . . the only one that I’d recognize—my mother’s. But it’s not there.

“Mrs. Cuthers, I don’t see Rhea Marionne on this list. I gave you an invite to send her.”

“Oh, that’s right you did.” She takes a closer look. “That’s so odd. Headmistress wanted to mail them herself. And that’s the final list she gave me.”

I see red. “I need to borrow this list.” I leave and head up the stairs to find Grandmom. She might be hiding things, but this she’s going to explain.

FORTY-THREE

There’s no one waiting to greet me at Grandmom’s door. I turn the knob, but it doesn’t give. It’s locked. I try turning it again, but its resistance only churns my irritation. She didn’t mail Mom’s invite. On purpose. I shake the handle in frustration, my fingers prickling with chill, and twist harder. The door clicks open.

“Grandmom, hello?” I step inside. A fire burns, a newspaper is parted on the chair. “It’s Quell.” But no one answers. She must be in here or will be back shortly, so I sit and wait. I fold and unfold the newspaper and flip through the books on her coffee table, my curiosity getting the best of me. An arrangement of black flowers ornaments her writing desk. I press my nose to them, reminding myself they have no scent, and a card slips out.

I’m sorry, I can’t.

It’s unsigned. I put the card down and back away from Grandmom’s personal things. The clock ticks on, still with no sign of her. I peek my head into the hallway, but it’s vacant. I try her bedroom with a gentle tap.

“Grandmom? It’s Quell. I came to have a word with you.” But my voice is answered with silence. I push open the door and peek into Grandmom’s bedroom. It’s just as it was before, her velvet sitting area framed by a view of the grounds through an arched window. Her bed is tidied perfection as if it belongs in a palace museum. I step inside, and my heart thuds in my ears. I shouldn’t be snooping in her room when she’s not here.

I pass her vanity, and my fingers trace her golden brush and hand mirror. I glance over my shoulder and pick them up, imagining myself in this room as a girl growing into Season here. What should have been my home, if I weren’t broken. I slip open a drawer of her dresser. It is velvet lined and filled with sparkling jewels and a tiny golden key. I hold a necklace to my chest, a stud to my ear, twisting in the mirror. The reflection stills me. Not because I’m surprised by what I see, but because I am not. The rise of my chin, the set of my shoulders—slightly back—the lush fabric decadent on my skin. I look like I belong here.

Did Mom ever feel like this? My attention moves to the shelf of albums Grandmom showed me. She has so many. Her entire sitting room is lined with them, her bedroom, too. I replace Grandmom’s jewels and cosmetics and trace a row of spines on one of her towering shelves before taking one with a leather cover. In it are pictures, like before. I flip quickly through, trying to glean some indication of the dates. But the only photos are of Grandmom when she was much younger. I need something more recent. I put the book back and grab another, breezing through the pages. Still too long ago.