Page 71 of House of Marionne

“Oh, nothing. Just a meeting.” She averts her eyes and I’m immediately uneasy. “Honing going all right? On track to have everything worked into your blade by morning?”

“It’s going fine.”

“Very good, then. I’ll see you.” Dexler waves, then wrings her hands as she leaves. Was she here about . . . me? I jump to my feet and press myself to the door, listening.

“It’s unnerving, but I’m not getting my drawers in my ass about it,” someone with a fruity voice says.

“Are you some sort of mongrel or a lady? I honestly cannot tell,” a husky voice chastises. “And as far as this issue goes, the situation is being handled; I’ve told you I’m looking into it.”

I chew my lip.

“Forgive me, but I don’t trust your House to handle this by yourself,” a third person says.

“Then have your Draguns join in the search, Isla, if you must!”

I press closer, my ear flush against the wood.

“We should all put a few from our Houses forward. Put it to a final vote.”

“I’m not sending my Draguns after some pipe dream for glory.”

“This isn’t about Houses, Litze,” Grandmom says. “If that crack worsens, all our lives, all our magic, are on the line.”

The Sphere. Of course. I sag against the door a bit too hard.

It creaks.

The voices hush as the door eases open.

My heart stumbles.

Footsteps patter toward me. “Oh, look at the time. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” The handle jiggles, and I turn to dash.

“Quell?”

Too late.

“Grandmom.” My chin rises, parallel with the floor, channeling everything Plume has taught me. “I was looking out the window. The view from up here is breathtaking.”

“You are simply regal, child.” She turns me, admiring my diadem again, and I spin, a feast trapped in Grandmom’s web. I try to calm my racing heart. Trying to forget I was sobbing on the floor no more than an hour ago. And put on my best everything-is-fine face.

“I’m just finishing a Council of Mothers meeting. But you must come inside and meet everyone! They’re all dying to meet you after . . .” She smooths her blouse. “So many years.”

Meet them . . .

The Headmistresses.

“All of them are in there?” I swallow.

Inside, fresh flowers tied with pretty ribbons fill vases around the room, and a tea cart full of artsy confections is parked beside three women who couldn’t be more different. Each sits cross-legged around a table. The blond woman with a brightly colored diadem set in silver doesn’t even look up when I enter, tapping on her phone. Her pantsuit is widened at the legs, and her blazer does the same, giving her petite frame an oddly modular appearance.

The gangly woman beside her, with a face and complexion that reminds me of carved bone, wears a scowl. Her brownish-red hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and bangs shade her eyes, which match her drab gray dress uncannily. A sleek diadem hovers above her head, unadorned and minimalist without a single gem. We meet eyes and she folds her tattooed arms across her chest. Isla Ambrose.

“My, my, aren’t you a sight,” the woman with the husky voice says, standing. I don’t have to guess which one of the Headmistresses is most intrigued by me. I face her as pleasantly as I can. A crown of silver hair coiled in a bun sits on top of her head and fur is wrapped around her shoulders. Her frame matches her voice. Her diadem is statuesque, a bronzy-gold color, adorned with deep honey-colored gems. She moves closer, and a brooch in the shape of a cracked column glistens from her scarf.

I take a tiny step closer to Grandmom, who hovers nearby like a queen watching her finest peacock spread its tail feathers.

The woman who sent her Dragun to kill me catches me staring and holds out her hand, knuckles swallowed in black and red gems. “Beaulah, Headmistress, House Perl.”