House of Marionne

I rush through the halls, ignoring every look and word tossed my way, trying to forget—for at least a moment—the way it felt being in there. And the way Abby looked at me as I left. The feeling trails me like a ghost, pushing one hurried step in front of the other, past the corridor that leads to my room, past the library and yoga studio.

Through the dining hall and into the courtyard. So many people. So many eyes. I keep going, farther, until the estate is small behind me. Until I can finally breathe. I traipse toward the gardens, where I spot the towering glass walls of the conservatory. I tug on the handle. Closed. I knew it would be. I peer through the windows for some glimpse of a familiar Dragun with keys.

No luck. I opt for the rose garden beside it instead. I settle on a bench inside and let the cool morning air soothe my nerves. I imagine myself blowing as it does, directed by its own wiles, free. And the tangle in my chest unwinds. I’m doing this for her. For both of us. But I can’t pretend it wouldn’t be nice to fit into this place and have her by my side. Abby’s slumped shoulders tug at me, but I uncoil the guilt from around my throat. If she knew Mom’s and my story, if she knew what I was fighting for, she’d want me to get out of there and practice, too. She’s that kind of friend.

I pull my bag to my lap and slide out my dagger. Grandmom might see my passing Second Rite as a ticket to furthering her legacy. But it’s my ticket to a life that’s my own. Failing isn’t an option.

“Now, we’re going to try this again.” My pulse ticks, even and calm, and my toushana is quiet. I clear my throat and dig for magic. A tendril of warmth coils in me, and I hold it there, letting it grow hotter. With a double fisted grip on on the dagger’s handle I imagine the heat in my limbs siphoning into my hands. The curl of magic tightens like a cord pulled taut, and I am tingly all over. “Now, into the blade.” I squeeze my hands. The demonstration is supposed to show that I can focus my magic enough to push it into something at will. But my magic quivers, its fire dimming. “No, no, come on.” I resituate my grip. “Into the blade.”

“That’s not going to work,” a voice says, sending my heart racing.

Jordan.

“I heard someone talking, so I came here to check it out. You’re doing that wr—”

“Wrong, of course.”

“Quell.” My name from his lips pulls at me like a song, the other night playing on repeat. He sets a hand on the garden gate. Past the garden’s shrubbery, through the glass walls, I can see the fountain we sat beside just days ago.

“I only want to help you,” he says.

I’m not sure if it’s the lilt of his tone, the kindness webbed around his eyes, or that I’m parched to believe someone, anyone, would be on my side in all this. But I actually believe him. “It’s not that simple.”

“It actually is.”

I should say something, send him away, but deep down I’m not sure I want to. I’m still not certain how close he and Beaulah are. And with my toushana flaring at will, distance from Jordan is wise. But my feet betray me. Because somewhere deep down, I want him here. I lift the garden latch, and he steps inside, and my heart leaps in my chest.

He moves behind me, so close I can feel the thrum of his heart against my back. “Hold it here, even with your hips.” He tucks my elbows tight to my side, drawing a line with his hand from my elbow down to my waist. “Angle it toward the nearest kor to help conduct your magic.”

I raise the dagger’s point toward the sun.

“Now, from your diaphragm.” His fingers start at my waist and follow my ribs to where they meet, just below my breasts. He presses there, but I feel his touch all over my skin. “Now call to your magic, and when you feel it, direct it using all the muscles in your body to tell it where to go.”

I do and lean into the rush of heat that answers. It swarms inside me violently, and I let it whip around freely, exploring every part of me. Into my blade. Magic thickens, growing heavier, moving slower, trudging through me as if each grain of the Sun Dust has magnified in size and weight. I cinch my ribs with my elbows and my magic tugs sharply into my arms in one smooth motion. I stagger and Jordan holds me closer.

He moves my hair to one shoulder and whispers, “Focus.”

My breath hitches, and I tighten every muscle in my arm. Magic tugs harder, as if pulled by a hook, through my wrists. I tighten my grip until it burns, magic streaming into my hands. The blade throbs with light.

“I did it.”

“Look at that,” he says, still holding on to me when my fingers suddenly prickle, like cold droplets of rain on a raging fire.

I shove myself away from him, my toushana unfurling, and search his eyes for knowing.

“What’s wrong?” He reaches for me.

“Don’t!” I say. “Don’t touch me.” I grab my dagger from the ground and back away. He may be helpful, and perhaps trustworthy, but I must do this on my own. I have no choice. What I might feel doesn’t matter.

His mouth parts.

“You asked if you could assist. And my answer’s no, Jordan. Just . . . please, if you want me to succeed, the most helpful thing you can do is just . . . leave me alone. You said we’ve started over, so those are my terms.”

“As you wish.” His words are as steel as his revised composure. But in his eyes I see the boy who sat with me on the bench just a few days ago. I have wounded him.

“Thank you.” I take off before the thunderclouds in his eyes deliver on their promise of rain.

I couldn’t eat dinner because of nerves over my exam. I couldn’t sleep for the same reason. And I wasn’t ready to see Abby. So I stayed in the library going over my enhancer note cards until they kicked me out at two a.m. Then I found a settee in the hall not too far from the exam room, and that is where I wake.

I pull at a thread in the cornflower-blue cushion before fully realizing what I’m doing. I try to smooth it back down, but it doesn’t go, so I yank the rogue thread out, which only rips the fabric more. I put my bag over it and try to forget about it. I have bigger issues, such as how I’m going to keep my toushana calm as I push proper magic into my blade. There are seven others waiting to take the exam. Their daggers, all a bit different, rest on their laps.

“Good luck,” I say, when I make eye contact with one of them. They smile nervously and return the encouragement when our names are called.

“Could I see your daggers?” Dexler greets us with a bright smile, collecting our blades. “We inspect them first just to be sure there’s no funny business.”

I look over it once more before handing it to her. Then I force myself to think of positive things. The minutes tick like days and finally the doors open again, and we follow her inside. The exam room is a sparse classroom with a raised platform and podium. In the back, all of the Headmistresses sit at a long table. None of them smile in greeting this time.

“Where emerging shows one’s propensity for strengthening magic, honing demonstrates your measure of control.” Grandmom paces the length of the room and no one next to me moves. “Having access to magic is dangerous if you are not able to command it. The exam is one hundred twenty questions; you must finish them all. You will have one hour.”

I try a smile at Grandmom, but she only points at one of seven desks in the room. I slip into the chair and feel the Headmistresses’ stares fixed on me like sweat all over my skin. The hour winds by, and I answer each question with more certainty than the one before it. The Latin portion is much easier than I anticipated, but I still am careful to take my time, finishing last, and checking it over thrice before handing it to Grandmom.

She gazes over it. “Very good. The oral portion consists of four random questions, one from each of us. We’ll start with Quell.” She addresses the others, “Please take a seat back in the hall and await your name being called.” The door clicks following their patter of timid footsteps. “Do you need a moment?” Grandmom asks me. “Shall we proceed?”

“I’m ready.” Her brow rises. And I nod, assuring her that I am.

As ready as I’ll ever be.

“Take the podium just over there. We’ll go around the room, starting with House Oralia, then Ambrose, then Perl, finishing with myself. You have three minutes to respond to each question.”

“Good to see you again, Quell.” Headmistress Oralia throws her blond hair back over her shoulders. “My question is which enhancer is steeped in argala tea as a part of its mining process and why?”

I know this one. “Brazen Enhancers are mined from a volcano in a toxic region of the Kenetan Rainforest. It’s steeped in argala tea because the anthraquinones in argala have a neutralizing effect on any toxins that may have been absorbed by the stone during the mining process.”

Headmistress Oralia smiles, sitting back in her chair.

“Miss Marionne.” Headmistress Ambrose fixes her mouth in a clever smirk. “What are the limitations of known elixirs?”

Elixirs. The marks all the way up Octos’s arms turn on like a bulb in my memory. This is a trick question. There is a “known” limit for the rest of us, but not for House Ambrose because they aspire to surpass the bounds of the known. I can’t answer her in a way that makes me seem naive. I also can’t answer it in a way that suggests I know more than I should about the intricacies of her House. I clear my throat.

“The only limit is ours. There are twenty-three known elixirs. But with commitment to astute study, the possibility of discovering more is undeniable.”

“Mmm. Yes. I suppose that is correct,” she says, crossing her legs. Grandmom winks at me and my insides flitter.

“Quell.” Beaulah stands to administer her question and my heart knocks against my ribs. “What strands of magic are forbidden? And why?”

Grandmom’s expression at Beaulah narrows.

“Could you repeat the question?” I dig a nail into my palm.

She restates the question.

Know too much, and she’ll see right through you.

I twist the end of my dress. “I only know of one forbidden strand. Toushana.” I can count on one hand how many times I’ve said that word aloud. I hold still, careful not to flinch. “And it’s forbidden because . . .”

“Yes?” Beaulah rotates a ring on her knuckle, and I imagine her wringing her hands around my throat.

“You have one minute left to answer the question,” Dexler announces.

“Because it is destructive in nature.”

“Anything else to add?”

“No, I don’t know much about it. Only what’s been mentioned in session a few times.”

Beaulah resituates her fur on her shoulders, fingering her jewelry, apparently done with her questioning.

“And Quell, my question is, what is our House motto?” Grandmom asks.

“A cut above the rest!”

“Brilliant.” She winks. “It’s only fair to get an easy one from your own House. You’ve done very well,” she says. “Dexler has outdone herself preparing you.”

“Your dagger was inspected and found without any abnormality,” Dexler says. “You’ve honed it beautifully. Now, if you would, show us you know how to push your magic into it. If done correctly, the blade will glow to some varying level of brightness. And then I believe we’re done here.” She hands me my blade, and Grandmom’s grip tightens on the arm of her chair. Beaulah leans forward.

Please cooperate.

“You have three minutes, starting now.”

I grip the dagger firmly in both hands, forcing myself to look anywhere but at Beaulah. I latch on to a flicker of warmth, incensing it with my focus. My toushana twinges. There is good in you, Quell. I dig again for the warmth that I’ve felt so many times before, urging for it to unleash. Proper magic that I know is there, but my bones answer with an ache.

“Two minutes,” Dexler says, tapping her pen on a clipboard. Beaulah clears her throat.

“Come on,” I mutter. Again. I call to my proper magic, tightening my midsection, holding on fiercely to it, imagining it combusting in a cloud of fire and smoke, burning everything in its path. A gust of hot swells in me, but my magic doesn’t bluster around or grow heavy. Instead, a knot of cold unspools from my side, clawing its way through me. The world blurs.

“One minute.”

Grandmom stands. Her glare and Beaulah’s ghost of a smirk spurs my panic, and my slick hands slip on my dagger. The gnaw of cold in me grows to a tide, rising up, then falling back, but growing closer with each lapse. I shudder, unable to feel even a single granule of warmth. The rush of cold pools, swelling until I am ice, all over. Heat, I need heat. I call to it, copper spreading on my tongue as a sudden fever blooms in my belly like a rose in the middle of a winter storm. I pant in anticipation. The feeling stretches, and I tighten all over, every muscle within reach, trying to grab hold of it. My throbbing side softens, my toushana being tugged back into the crevice of death it emerged from. It’s working. Hope beads on my forehead.

I groan. The world dents at its edges, color bleeding away as my toushana plays to win. But I’m so close. “Please . . .”

“Time,” Dexler says.

“She’s almost got it, hush.” Grandmom nips at her knuckle.

“The rules are the rules, time is time.” Headmistress Ambrose’s smirk has returned, reminding Grandmom she’s not the helmsman here.

“It’s obvious she can’t do it,” Beaulah says.

“No, wait,” I plead. “Just a few more—”

“I’m sorry, dear.” Dexler’s hand cups my shoulder. “Passage of Second Rite, denied. Discourse for expulsion will be scheduled per the Council’s availability.”

Something bangs as her words drown me in a tide of chaos, a rush of hollowness that unsteadies me on my feet. The Headmistresses are up from their seats arguing with Grandmom, but it blares in my ears. Everything came down to this moment.

And I failed.