Page 38 of House of Marionne

I groan. “This better be worth it, or I’m leaving,” I say, following Abby out the door.

TWELVE

The grand foyer broom closet has a trick back wall. Abby pushes it in several places while I swat at a mop that keeps falling over, slapping the floor and scaring me half to death. She finds the spot quickly enough before we go through.

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

“No, I’m leading you to your doom. Of course this is the right way.”

“Couldn’t both those things be true?”

She laughs. The dimness lifts the deeper we go. A bitter tang hangs in the hazy air lit by the glow of lamplight. Much like the corridor that took me to Dexler’s the first time, the passageway is dark and long, and if it weren’t for Abby reaching back, I wouldn’t know where to put my next step.

“A little farther.”

“Where are we?”

“There are only so many places we can really hang. Lucky for us one of them is not too far from the Chateau.”

“We’re leaving the estate?” The thought of being away, on the outside again, sends a prickle up my arms. With every step I doubt more and more that sneaking out to some prohibited place, likely prohibited for good reason, is a good idea for anyone. But especially for me. The Dragun hunting me is still out there. I can still vividly picture the cracked Roman-style column minted on the coin at his throat. I should go back, but if she’s right and I’m stressing myself out of emerging, I have to at least try to unwind.

She cracks a latched door open slowly, pressing her ear to it. Then she pushes the door open wider and night sky fractures the darkness, crisp outside air sweeping into the corridor. I step through, my feet seeking purchase on the supple ground. Rogue branches strewn across the doorway tangle in my arms and tear at my skin. I manage to free myself from them with only a few scratches. A forest?

The cool, early summer night air reeks of wood and smoke. I peer around, expecting to see burning or some source of the scent. But the forest is no more than clusters of twisted trees scattered like broken limbs. How far did we walk? I turn. Between the nest of trees, far in the distance, sits Chateau Soleil, a sentry in the darkness.

“Where are we exactly?”

“Just off Headmistress’s territory.” Abby points toward lights and stone pillars in the distance. “It’s a bit of a walk, just past the forest’s edge on the other side of those memorials.” She starts in that direction, but my feet stick in place.

“We’ll leave as soon as I’m ready, promise me,” I say.

“Promise.”

The cobblestone path circles an old war memorial, then halts at a stretch of perfectly manicured grass. Abby eyes the path, where the stones grow smaller before fading into lawn, as if she’s looking for something.

“Right about . . .” She moves her heel across the uneven ground until she finds what she’s looking for. “Here.” She glances around before hammering the rock with the heel of her shoe. The ground opens wide, stairs cutting into the rocks.

We descend the narrow stair, easing past several people coming up, leaving. One with a long coat has a staring problem. The nosy onlooker pauses a beat too long, and a chill sweeps through me. I swallow, and he doesn’t move, his stare flickering with something I can’t place. My heart stutters as I glimpse for his face, fearing the worst, but the collar of his trench coat and the shadowed stair makes him too hard to make out. I pull at Abby.

“Ow!” She rubs her fingers across the half-moons I’ve accidentally dug into her arm.

“I’m sorry, I just—” I glance back at him, but the man ties his trench coat and disappears on the spot. “Never mind. I thought I saw something.”

“Remember, relax.”

I nod. Inside, the Tavern is packed, alive with people hanging over tables, cash crushed in their fists. Some are more subtle with their dealings, briefcases parked next to their card tables, shades covering their eyes. But things, money, stuff is definitely changing hands. Diadems and masks sway through the hazy air. Most are dressed in plain clothes, but there are a few who look like they are here skipping out on some formal dance. The bar is sectioned off into rooms, one for lounging, another for gambling, and one in the back where a girl’s squawking onstage into a microphone. A waitress passes through the crowd with purple rolled leaves on silver trays.

“Peckle?” she asks.

“No.” I move along faster. Stares burn my skin, from every direction. My stomach flips and it has nothing to do with my toushana. This is so not my scene. If I could shrink smaller, I would.

Abby waves at someone as we push through the throng of people. A few smile, others stare. But I set my focus on the back of Abby’s head like it’s a target and let the rest move past in a blur. I hate this. I swallow my nerves and force myself to find a few friendly expressions in the crowd.

“So everyone here’s an Order member?” I ask, making a conscious note to unclench my hands.

“Yep, our own little Misa.”

My brows cinch. But before Abby can say more, she throws her arms and lips around someone. Holey jeans and a baggy shirt hang off his slender frame. He wears his hair long and it looks like he’s in need of a shave, but I think that’s on purpose. Beneath dark bangs a plain mask of sleek gray seeps into his skin as he kisses her back. Now I understand why she was itching to get here.