Page 70 of House of Marionne

The wood in my hand turns to dust and the rest of the table collapses in on itself, shattering my hope with it.

I stumble to the floor, knocking into a chair. It grazes my chilled hands and blackens with rot. My dagger skids across the room, my hold on things spiraling out of control. The world drains of color. Sickness swims in me. My brain throbs as if it’s splitting in two. I tighten my grip on the stone and try to picture a weathered door with waves lapping outside its windows, but it’s buried beneath blinding pain. It hurts too much.

I drop the stone.

And curl into a ball on the ground, hugging my knees. Breathe. I inhale deeply, and the air fills me up like tight arms wrapped around me, a pat on the head. A reward for folding to my dark magic’s will.

I exhale and take another sharp breath in, my fingers warming. I flex them and rub my eyes as the world’s haze clears. I can’t survive my toushana, let alone fight it off. My stomach churns and a rush pushes up my throat. I’m on my knees, acid burning up and out of my mouth. I sob, a mix of tears and bile dripping from my lips. I can’t do this. I’m just not strong enough.

The handle to the door jiggles. “Weird,” says a muffled voice beyond it.

I try to pull myself up, but my arms are unsteady.

“Hello?” The handle jiggles again and I freeze. “Anyone in here?”

“Didn’t you say it was open?”

“I guess it isn’t. I don’t know. Try later.”

Their footsteps disappear and I fall to the floor, like a bird with clipped wings. Hot tears sting my face. Shadows taunt from the darkest crevices of my soul: Why am I this way?

“Please,” I mutter between tears. Someone, please, anyone, help me. I’d give anything, anything to get this poison out of me. I try to turn off my tears, but the more I push them down, the more they break free. I shake, sobbing until I have nothing left.

I don’t know how much time passes. My eyes are dry and swollen when I pull myself up. I don’t know what I’m going to do about honing, but I have to get out of here. Panic flits through me at the decaying wooden table I ripped into. I bite my lip, ruing the only thing that makes sense. As foolish as it feels, it’s the only sure way to get rid of this mess.

I glance over my shoulder at the door, shove out a breath, and call on my toushana. The cold answers instinctively, yawning from its moment of rest. I hold my side and I feel it shift, stretching through me, rushing into my hands as I rub my poisonous magic all over the table until it’s a pile of ash. My breath hums in me steady and even, a dirge of sorts. I’ve never been more focused, and yet I’ve never done anything so dangerous—using my toushana on purpose.

I take the chair in my hands and it collapses around me like a dropped bucket of sand. That’s about enough . . . I pace a few moments until the chill in my fingers slinks off, my magic finally obeying me for once.

I grab a broom from a closet and sweep the entire mess until the room looks as it was. I remove the barricade from the door and resituate the tables so it’s not obvious one of the tables is missing. The bile . . . I grab a towel from the lab sink, clean my face and hands, then scrub the floor. Back and forth, my knuckles white from the force, until the floor shines. I rinse everything and survey my work.

I was never here.

I exhale.

Cold prickles through me. It moves like a thread, coiling up my spine, my neck, and through my hair. Not consuming or grating, somehow gentle and inviting. My head feels dizzy for a second, and I dash for a mirror. My diadem twists, its rose gold coils lengthening, growing more robust and ornate. Gems bloom like budding roses against the metal on my head. I gape at my diadem, more statuesque than any I’ve ever seen, watching as my desperation fuels my doom.

Using my toushana did this.

It’s growing stronger.

TWENTY-TWO

Shame burns my cheeks as I ascend the stairs; dinner with Grandmom starts in ten. She will expect an update, and I have nothing to give. I keep my head down as I hurry through the halls. A throng of Primus greet me as they pass, but I can’t look at them. I’ve told myself I belong here, but maybe believing it isn’t enough anymore.

I arrive to Grandmom’s sitting room adjacent to the dining room. Her maid ushers me inside.

“She’s in a meeting; she’ll be out in a moment and you can go through.”

“Thank you.” Whatever I do, I can’t let on that anything’s awry. Get out of here quickly and get back to honing. That’s the plan.

The room is as stilted as the rest of Grandmom’s quarters with its high-back settees, crystal chandelier, and towering drapes. I warm myself by a fire, still haunted by the blue stone I tried but failed to fold into my blade. Everything just seems to get harder the closer I get to Cotillion. The truth weighs me down like an anchor, and I immediately regret admitting it to myself.

Servants dip their heads in and out a few times, offering me refreshment. But I’m not in the mood to drink, or even eat. I should have faked being sick and skipped dinner altogether. There’s no letting up. No mercy. Just the weight of my toushana closing the walls in around me. Frustration knocks me between woe and fury like waves on a stormy sea. I hate this. I hate all of it. Jordan’s face flickers through my mind. I try to blink away his brooding gaze, but it lingers like a stain.

“Quell?” Dexler exits a door on the far end of the room.

“Cultivator Dexler? What are you doing here?”