Page 42 of House of Marionne

He considers me a moment, his jaw ticks. “Do you have any idea how many would kill to be in your shoes? To be in mine?”

“What?” I step back in confusion, the word kill sticking like a lump in my throat.

“For every member the Order debuts we turn away a thousand who aren’t good enough. They don’t even get to set foot on the property. Let alone grow the magic. Have you even considered what that’s like for them? What it does to them?”

I think of Rose, the girl in etiquette who still hasn’t emerged. “I hadn’t considered that, no.”

“You think it’s all fine silks and glittering balls? There’re droves of families out there excluded from this life. Who don’t exactly approve of the way we do things.” He steps so close to me, there is no air. I breathe and it’s only him. “You think they all just swallow their frustrations and grumble about it over dinner? If you do, you’re naive.”

“Octos. You’re talking about Octos.”

“Of course I am. He knew hurting you would hurt the Order. He wanted revenge.” He spits the words, and I’m taken aback by the ferocity.

A thirst for revenge? I’d read it as something else entirely, that Octos and I share something in common. But the destroyed plant suggests maybe I was wrong. I’ve been grafted into this world. My gaze falls, painfully aware that I should be one of the rejected thousand, not the accepted few.

“I hadn’t thought—”

“I can see that. You haven’t thought about a whole lot. What do you think would happen if a Headmistress’s own flesh and blood was killed or even severely hurt? You have any idea?” He sighs, exasperated, and walks off. It makes sense that my last name would put a target on my back. Such irony, considering the drastic shift my life took just days ago.

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to—”

“Cheat.” His words are sandpaper.

“No.” I block his path again, making him look at me. “I’m not, I wasn’t going to—”

“Well, to me it looked like—”

“Well, if you listened half as much as you assumed, you would know!” I snap, and my tone silences him. “I considered it for maybe a second. But no . . . that’s not who I am.”

He studies me a moment, then gazes off into the distance, hands stuffed in his pockets.

I can’t tell if he believes me. But the knot of dread that usually cinches me in his presence loosens some. Duty fuels him, clearly.

“You’re innately so powerful, and yet have no idea what you’re loyal to.” A strangled laugh escapes him. “To think I was concerned you might have been a calculated threat.” He moves hair off my shoulder, and the suddenness of his feather-soft touch brushing my skin sends a shiver up my arms. “A missile strike and a deadly hurricane couldn’t be more different. Or more dangerous.”

“Jordan—”

“I’m saying I’ve misjudged you, Miss Marionne.”

A response escapes me, but the drum in my chest slows. Wind gusts between us, and the heat of the moment blows away with it. We stand there for several beats under the moonlight, silent. The park rings with a string of nuzzled laughter. Somewhere puddles splash. He sighs and it sinks his posture. His mask dissolves into his skin, and I can almost feel the weight of his worn expression. He is a storm brewing that I don’t quite understand. But like the night that surrounds us, even when I peer hard, I can’t make out his shadowed parts.

“All I’m trying to get you to understand is that you are the House. I am Perl. You, Marionne. You are what you represent. An ideal. A standard. Above reproach. You should be best in all your sessions.”

I swallow, pressure cracking the pieces of myself I’m barely holding together. As if every part of me wasn’t already full to the brim, ready to burst. It’s too much, and it’s me who walks away now, pacing.

“You should be untouchable, Quell.” He follows, his tone gentler.

Like him. The way his energy commands any room he’s in. The way people step out of his way without him asking. The way everything about him is calculated with precision, perfect. He moves with dominance, a confidence that’s entirely foreign. Always in control. I glare at my hands, fury rising up in me. That’s not me. But I can’t say that . . . I can’t let him see just how much these shoes I’m squeezing into don’t fit.

“If you’re reachable, then the Order is reachable.”

So that’s what it’s about then. Frustration swells in me. All this pressure, carrying the Marionne name out in the open. I turn, and he’s there right in front of me, not hovering in his usual ornery way. And for the second time tonight, I stare into eyes that are as heavy as a summer rain.

“Because I’m your mentor, your performance is a reflection of me. Our success is tied.”

“I am trying. I swear.”

“Try harder. Be smarter.”