Page 32 of House of Marionne

The rest of class is six more courses with instructions on everything from how to bring food to my mouth, to how to fold salad around a fork, sip soup from the side of the spoon, and even how long to chew. Jordan, whose every movement is graceful and perfect, keeps an eye on me off and on without a word. My hands are achy, but not yet cold. At least my toushana is behaving.

Finally, a server takes dessert away, and my lower back throbs, but I hold myself still.

“And poached pears in a red wine reduction for our last.” Plume motions for the waitstaff to return.

A plate is set in front of me, but I can’t imagine eating another bite. Not because I’m full, because my gut is swimming with anxiety with Jordan looking at me every time I look up. No one else commands his attention as I do.

I detach my hand clamped tight on my chair and reach for the fruit, but a sharp twinge of chill stabs inside my fingers. I snatch them back. Please! Not here. By some gift of the universe, the cold actually flees.

Rose’s wrinkled stare unsettles me. I offer her a smile, and she seems to buy it. I’m almost tempted to slouch in relief. Almost.

“You’re not going to eat that with your fingers, are you?” Jordan asks.

“Of course not.” Um, yes . . . yes I was. With the chill gone I slide my fork down the side of my plate and find my audience is still eyeballing me. He won’t be sitting next to you forever. Just eat the damn pear and get out of here.

“Small slices, as you go.” Plume moves through the room, adjusting wrists, bolstering others’ ability to remain rigidly poised with his magic.

I grab my knife.

“Your wrist should hardly bend and be held gently, with your index along the top of the handle.”

I hover my wrist above my plate, bending it back and forth until it’s just so.

“Secundus, you should be helping your peers without them asking,” he says to one of the girls who came in late with Jordan. She’s in a conversation with another while Rose is holding her knife with both hands like a sword over her plate. I tighten my posture and glance at the door, then the clock, sweat slick on my neck as the ache returns, creeping from my arms into my hands.

I grab the knife with iron-willed determination, but my bones pinch with a stronger ache. I toss it back down. Clang. Heads turn my way. I smile timidly, and they return to their conversations. I’m making a fool of myself. I rub my hands vigorously to create some friction, some warmth, and the ache flees.

Again. I pick up the knife and Jordan watches intently. His knife is poised daintily in his grip, a finger resting on its spine as if it was a bird perched on his fingertip.

“Lower,” he says, indicating the angle of my knife. Though whether he wants to help or is just doing it because Plume suggested, I can’t tell. “Your wrist is bent too much.”

I relax my arm and press the tip of my knife to the pear and slice it in half when my fingers are suddenly languid and loose.

My toushana tricked me; it’s right there, a sudden, painful throb in my hands. I drop the knife before it has a chance to react with the metal. It hits the plate, and I swear it rings louder than someone slamming cymbals.

The room goes silent. My heart thuds, blood pooling in my ears.

My toushana burns colder.

I clench my hands.

Even the windows seem to glare in judgment. Plume clutches his chest, horrified.

“Miss Marionne,” he barks. “Absolutely not.”

Somewhere, someone snickers.

“I—I’m sorry, if you’ll excuse me.” I push back from the table and try to stand, but the tablecloth catches and the whole thing tugs. “Oh my god.” Glasses fall over, and the table swims in ice water and sweetened tea.

My glass rolls toward the edge of the table. I reach for it but quickly realize I can’t touch it or anything, not while my blood is running cold. I yank my fingers back, and it dives off the table edge, shattering on the floor. Jordan pops up from his seat but isn’t able to get out of the way in time. His lap is soaked and everyone, including Rose, gapes at me.

“My god,” Jordan huffs in exasperation, pulling out a sopping envelope from his pocket. He shakes it out, but judging by his smeared name on the front, it’s too late for that. “Could you be any more of a disaster? And to think . . .” He shakes his head, his expression still scrunched in horror.

The room spins in motion, everyone standing and inspecting their clothes. A few glares fly my way, but I couldn’t possibly feel any smaller. Voices and footsteps ricochet off the walls as people move around the wreckage. I back away, itching for some shadow to slink into. Some place to not be seen. How will I ever do this with this poison inside me? And Jordan breathing down my neck? This is impossible. I glare at my icy hands. I have to get a handle on this. Think. This isn’t exactly the first impossible thing I’ve dealt with.

Jordan scowls, water dripping from him all over before he storms off.

“Are you all right?” Cultivator Plume stands over me now, the tone of his frustration softened. “Your teeth are chattering.”