Page 50 of House of Marionne

“I make it my business to know the kinds of people I get into deals with. Especially lately.”

“I’m the granddaughter of Darragh Marionne.” The strength of my words flattens my posture. “A cornerstone of the Order, a purveyor of influence.” I circle him, mimicking Grandmom’s air, squaring my shoulders, holding up my chin. My body rebels at the discomfort. But I hold myself there, my best impression of who I am to him, hoping he buys it. “I’m a powerful ally.”

He eyes the dagger, pursing his lips.

“So we have a deal?”

“I don’t even know what the task is yet.”

“Do you need to?” I pull back his sleeve. His arm is a colorful collage of a tri-tipped sun and tally marks, way more than I’d even imagined. “Don’t these represent the twisted things you’re capable of, your discoveries while in House Ambrose?”

He snatches his arm back. His lips tighten. “I can do whatever you need,” he says, pride loosening his tongue. “But my price is the dagger plus something else.”

“Name it.”

“I want a Location Enhancer. It’s a pale blue stone. The Cultivator supply room should have some on hand.”

Stealing one seems a small price to pay for my life. If it’s a common enough stone to be kept on hand in a supply room, it can’t be terribly hazardous.

“Deal.”

“Well . . .” He gestures at my scarf. “Show me how bad it is.”

I begin to untie my scarf but hesitate. I hope this isn’t a mistake. I remove the covering, and he sucks in a breath.

“You can change it to some other metal, can’t you?”

“Curses,” he says under his breath. “Sola Sfenti has not looked upon you with favor, has he? He would punish us both. Bring me the stone before sunrise. I’ll need to use the moon’s kor.”

* * *

I’m back on the grounds in no time, slipping down the stairs to the lowest floor, underground. Dexler had mentioned lugging supplies up from the storage room in the basement of the estate. The stairs creak no matter how gently I ease down them. I can’t believe I’m stealing. But the trepidation kneading my nerves doesn’t stop my descent. It’s steal once or be killed.

The stairs deposit me in a spiral hallway of doors. The supply room should be at the center of the spiral. But the end of the maze is a dead end. This hall is half as long as it should be. I push the wall, letting warmth curl in my fingers in case there’s some trick to getting through. But the stone doesn’t budge.

I count the doors again, then push the same spot on the wall harder this time, and the stone shifts a little. Warmth blusters around in me, a dust storm settling, feisty and hungry. Then it shifts—the warmth of my magic washed away by an ice storm. I clench my fists.

“That’s where it should be.” A voice ripples down the hallway, and my heart hiccups. I’m trapped with nowhere to go but toward whoever is down here or through this stone wall.

“Where it should be and where it is could be two completely different things,” Jordan says, puncturing my resolve, his steps growing louder. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My toushana could get me through the wall. But it would make a colossal mess. And I’m already strengthening the wrong—

It will work, my magic whispers, and I hear it as gooseflesh spreading across my skin.

“What do you want from me?” the person with Jordan huffs, exasperated. “I’ve told you what I know.”

Their voices are just around the corner. Hastily, I smooth my icy fingertips along the wall, praying my instincts are right and it won’t make a crumpled mess right here on the floor. A heap of ash like my very own bloody fingerprint.

The stone shudders, then splits in half like a curtain. Beyond it is the rest of the corridor with the missing doors. I twist the handle of one labeled Supply Room. Inside, crates of serveware and rows of hung linens are crowded into what smells like a laundry room. But there’s no sign of a washer or dryer. A sea of tarps hang like sloping waves over furniture as far as I can see. I ease the door closed with the slightest click and listen.

“Just show me,” Jordan says. The door handle twists, and I scramble for a place to hide.

“Get this over with,” the other person says as the door opens. I wedge myself between two lumps of furniture beneath a tarp and clamp a hand over my mouth.

“If Headmistress catches me down here . . .”

“Hush,” Jordan urges.

I don’t breathe.