Page 35 of House of Marionne

“Mister Wexton requested you, and I’m not in a position to refuse the request.”

“I don’t understand. You—”

“Relax, dear.” She sets a hand on my shoulder, but it doesn’t comfort. “I am so glad you told me. And if it were anything else, I might be able to. But this, we need to just leave. The relationship between the Houses is prickly at best. And hosting Wards is an effort to ease those tensions. A measure of accountability, so to speak, so each House has eyes in another House.”

“But—”

She holds up a hand. “Mister Wexton gave good reason for his request, and I know the boy well.” She crosses her legs, settling deeper into her seat. “Mentorship is no light matter. After you emerge, he must sign off on your readiness for Second and Third Rites before you can participate in them. And he holds himself to the highest standards. Someone like that is hard to please, but good to learn from.” She moves on as if the matter is settled. “He will be in etiquette with you through Cotillion, as your partner, but if you want him to pop into Dexler’s or any other sessions, be sure to ask.”

“Can’t you just say you changed your mind?”

Her posture stiffens, and the gentleness that smoothed her expression dissolves. “Taking it back could give the impression there are trust issues. And his aunt, Headmistress Perl, is the last person who needs any indication I do not trust her.”

I gape. “His aunt is a Headmistress?”

“You’ve much to learn, dear, about the inner machinations of an organization like ours.” Grandmom stands and puts distance between us, her body language somehow more rigid than usual. I stand, too, because it feels like I’m supposed to.

“This discussion has ended,” she says. “You will let this go.” She gestures for her maid. “Is Mrs. Cuthers still here?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her maid returns with a woman with silver hair swept back and pinned beneath a silver diadem with small white stones. She carries a stack of envelopes.

“Yes, Darragh?”

“Mrs. Cuthers, please, see to my granddaughter.” She turns to me. “She is my right-hand lady in this House. If there’s anything you need and I’m unavailable, she’ll see to it.”

“Miss Marionne,” Mrs. Cuthers says to me. “I can show you through to the dining room. I was headed that way.”

It’s not a question. I’m being asked to leave. I stand, swaying on my feet, unsure what to do with my hands. Something has shifted, again. The mountain or the whole earth I stand on. Grandmom turns without a goodbye embrace or anything, moving toward her bedroom door.

“And Quell, if you need to arrive early again, do send a note first. You’re a Marionne and really must begin behaving like it.” Her warmth is gone, as elusive as it came.

“Will I see you at dinner?” I say, my insecurity breaking through.

“Of course.” Grandmom’s lips flinch a smile before disappearing behind her door.

“Are you all right, Miss Marionne?” Mrs. Cuthers asks.

“I’m fine. Could I just have a minute, please? I’m sure I can get to dinner myself.”

“The dining room is the second door on your left off the main hall.”

I make my way out, trying to numb myself to the sting of Grandmom’s words, but halfway down her private corridor, my steps grow heavy. Too heavy to bear. I let the wall hold me up and hug my knees, smoothing the tears streaming down my face. It shouldn’t even matter.

“That’s not why I’m here,” I mutter, but the lump in my throat won’t go down. It takes a short while, but once my eyes dry, I gather myself and make my way to the dining room. I need to be focused on getting a handle on my toushana until I can be rid of it completely. Nothing else.

I bury the hurt of Grandmom’s rejection.

Deep down.

Somewhere dark.

* * *

After a painfully silent four-course dinner with Grandmom, I hurry to my room to avoid seeing anyone else. I step inside and immediately pinch my nose. Something reeks, sweaty and pungent.

“Oh my gosh, hey! How’d it go?” Abby beams from her bed, folded over a slice of pizza speckled with something I don’t recognize.

“Miserable,” I say a bit too honestly. I freeze, worried I’ve gone too far. Shown too much of myself. But Abby’s dark eyes are bright and wide, her expression entirely disarming. I sit on the edge of her bed. “I just hoped emerging would be easier.” Opening up feels like a jackhammer dancing inside. “And I made a fool of myself in etiquette. I’m not sure I can do this.” Abby’s expression softens in concern. Saying it aloud is freeing. Having someone care to listen, even more so. “Then I found out my mentor is Jordan.”