Page 31 of House of Marionne

“We have a few Electus with us today, I see. So I’ll do a quick refresher. You’ll need to work hard to keep up.” He eyes me and Rose, who’s across the table. Her brows jump at Plume addressing us directly. She’s a ball of nerves, too, and even though it’s for a different reason entirely, it’s comforting to know I’m not the only nervous wreck here.

“Look at the person to your right,” Plume orders us newbies. Rose stares at someone who came in with Jordan. “If you have questions,” he goes on, “they will help you keep up.”

Seeing Jordan for the second time, I allow myself to really look. His eyes are darker today than usual, more blue than green. It’s what I imagine gazing out at the sea would be like on an overcast day. He watches me as I watch him, lowering his gaze at first, then raising it above my head where I was anointed. He meets my eyes. The urge to look away bites at me, but I hold my head still as Cultivator Plume’s instructed. I can’t afford to mess anything up.

Jordan looks at me as if he could look through me, our gazes dance around each other, and my insides do weird things. Please let this be almost over. But Plume goes on about how surviving debut is not an individual activity. How we will need help and must ask.

“Your nose does this thing when you get flustered,” Jordan says, enjoying the apparent discomfort staring at him brings me. “It crinkles.”

Plume weaves through the room, stopping from time to time to adjust a fork or slightly shift a plate.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m . . . observant.”

“My discomfort intrigues you.” I scowl.

“Your dishonesty, more so.” He rears back in his seat knowingly, and bile bubbles up my throat. I put as much space between us as I can.

Plume pauses beside us. “Your place at my table,” he says to the session, “like your position in this House, is earned.” Plume circles the table and grips the back of Rose’s chair, and her eyes about pop out of her head. I would try to mouth some consolation, but I’m dealing with my own crisis over here.

“As my mother used to say,” Plume goes on, “if you can’t stand the heat, get out of my kitchen. The standards do not lower, you meet them or you leave. Some of you will dismiss etiquette as if magic is the only thing that requires practice. And you will be sent home. Those who recite place settings and meal courses until they haunt you in your sleep, who use correct posture so consistently that lying down at night makes your back ache, who dance until their feet are full of sores . . . will have the privilege of staying.” He cocks his head, chin tilted up. “It’s not my job to keep you here.”

The room explodes in conversation, and chairs scrape the floor, pulling to the table as Plume’s reminder sinks in.

“He’s weeding people out,” I mutter, hugging around myself as best I can in these stilted chairs. Jordan is quiet for once.

“Headmistress entrusts me to prepare you to be fit to dine with kings. To move like royalty. You will not embarrass this House. And you will not embarrass me!” Plume glances at me, then at Rose. The table is a tapestry of expressions, from humdrum to terrified. “With that, let’s get today underway.” Plume claps. “Servers. Knives.”

We have at least two per person on the table already. And another tiny one too dull to really slice anything. We need more?

Butler doors sweep open on the far side of the room, and an army of serving staff marches toward us. Most balance hors d’oeuvre trays on their hands, but a few hold a bouquet of thin, short scalpel-like blades. I glance at Jordan, my helper for the day, and open my mouth to speak. But think better of it.

“You have a question.” He shifts, careful to keep his posture erect.

“Nothing, I mean, no.”

After Plume grabs his napkin, Jordan moves his own to his lap in one smooth motion, a swan on ice, controlled and elegant. He raises his brow in challenge.

“You think I’m not up to it.” I bite my tongue too late. The last thing I need is more heat from him. Head down. Mouth closed. That was the plan.

He leans across the space between us. “If you’re here for the reason you say you are,” he says low enough so only I can hear, “then what I think doesn’t matter.” His words hang in the air over me like a guillotine. I close my eyes to soothe my angst. But all I can picture is his pointed stare. The way he tries to see through me.

“Others use powdery concoctions, but cloaking is imperceptible. Do you have an explanation for how you saw through my cloak?” he asks, breaking the silence as he pricks his toasted hors d’oeuvre with his fork.

I can’t ignore him outright and make him more suspicious.

“No, I don’t.”

His jaw clenches. But before he can open his mouth, a server with a knife nudges me to lean forward.

“What are you—” I watch in utter shock as he affixes a blade to my chair, pointed at my back. Jordan watches, pensive.

“There we are, Miss.” The server moves on to the next chair, skipping over Jordan.

I sit back a bit too much, and a sharp point digs into my spine. I huff in frustration, my chest rising and falling, telling a secret I’d like to keep private: I’m terrified of doing this wrong. And Jordan knows it.

I straighten and ease forward in my chair. The blade is there, but just barely, and as long as I don’t slouch, it won’t nick me. Which I realize is the point. I set my focus straight ahead, ignoring Jordan’s brooding. I think of Mom, delayed for some reason in meeting me here. When Grandmom reaches her, I will have good news to share about my performance here. I will not fail. Too much is on the line.