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“You’re breathtaking.”
I want to tell him to shut up, but that crack in my composure can’t show. I have to be resolute and focused. I refuse to feel anything for him after what he’s done. He takes my wrist and affixes the flowers he brought to it. I want to cringe at his touch.
“Now, I believe it’s your turn.” He grabs my boutonniere from the table and hands it to me. Forever two steps ahead of me. He looks at me, and I’d forgotten what this felt like. To stare into the sun on the horizon and not blink. I bite my lip and pin the flower on his chest, making short work of it. I’m pretty sure it’s crooked, but I don’t care.
“Are we ready for pictures?” I ask. Let’s get on with this mess.
Grandmom smiles, doting on my hair, my dress. She reaches to adjust Jordan’s boutonniere, but he jerks away ever so slightly. He isn’t as on board with Grandmom’s plan as I thought. Even if I could talk some sense into him, opening the floodgates with Jordan is too risky. I can’t dig through the quicksand of emotions I’ve buried, or I risk drowning with him. The best thing I can do is keep him in the dark like Grandmom and get this Rite over with.
“Shall we?” Jordan offers his arm, and I loop mine through his to keep her from asking questions. We move through the estate in silence and descend the stairs. The photographer is set up in the foyer and low music plays somewhere. We pose and smile, and every time Jordan looks at me, I make it a point to avoid looking his way. It takes an hour or more, but once we finish, my chest is tight. My toushana burns colder, urging me with encouragement. I blow out a breath. I can do this.
Grandmom waves goodbye at us and disappears into the ballroom, which is swarming with guests hurrying to their seats. A line of ball gowns and masks in tuxedos snakes up to the door.
“Congrats,” one of them says. His date curtsies to me, and because Jordan is on my arm and I don’t want him to suspect my true plan, I go through the motions.
“You both look lovely,” I say to them. “Good luck with First Dance.”
She blushes, and the couple in front of her turn, realizing the Headmistress’s heir is in line with them. They offer Jordan and me congratulations.
“And to you,” Jordan answers, before I get a chance to.
“I can respond for myself, thanks.”
“You’re wound in a knot. I can feel it,” he says. The tracer. Oh, how that complicates things. Confidence is my shield. This only works if I keep him in the dark.
“I couldn’t reach you the last few days.”
I fiddle with the beading on my gown.
“I hoped I was wrong. Or there was an explanation. Or . . .” He moves closer, not with his body, but with the warmth of concern in his words. Too close. He shakes his head and the lines of frustration deepen. I shift on my feet as the first couple’s names are announced and our short line moves forward. They go right into First Dance and my stomach twists with dread. I’m not looking forward to this. Silence hangs between us, and it pulls at me with an urge to fill it. I meet his eyes and glimpse the boy I knew. The boy I love. Loved. I can’t entertain his sympathy, be seduced by his hopes. A fissure has opened between us, wider than a lifetime. But it’s better this way.
After the next two couples’ names are called, there is one more before us. I consciously tell my shoulders to relax. This is almost over.
Jordan tires of waiting for a response. “But it appears I was right,” he says. “I should have known something was off when Headmistress Perl asked me about you.”
I try to bite my tongue but can’t.
“What would Headmistress Perl say if she knew your loyalties have shifted to Darragh Marionne?”
“Introducing!” The announcer motions for us to step forward. “Quell Janae Marionne, sixth of her blood, Cultivator candidate, and heiress to House of Marionne.” The ballroom stands, welcoming us with applause. “Escorted by Jordan Richard Wexton, thirteenth of his blood, Dragun candidate, Ward of House of Marionne, House of Perl, and as of yesterday, understudy to the Dragunhead himself.” I look at him, speechless.
The Grand Ballroom is layered in fine fabrics, beautifully folded napkins, satin-wrapped chairs, and luscious flower arrangements in every direction with glittering tiered lights overhead. There’s more of everything than at Abby’s ceremony: chairs, cakes, tables, people. Servers work their way through the crowd, passing out champagne. Wine bottles with the House name monogrammed on them sit at every place setting. A live band plays adjacent a stage, which is wreathed in dahlia blooms and fresh roses from Grandmom’s garden.
I spot my dagger onstage beside four others. I blow out a big breath as the music beckons us, and our feet answer its call effortlessly. Jordan pulls me to him, our hands fit together. He dances and my body echoes his movements, gives in to the requests of his hands as he spins me out, back to him, hugs around me, then replaces his hand at my hip. The melody shifts to the slower part and I press hard against him, our chests, our hearts, beating to the same rhythm. His cheek caresses mine.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Quell,” he whispers. I long for the slow cadence of the music to pick up so I can put some distance between us. “I understand what finishing Third Rite must mean to you.” His words twist in my stomach. “And yes, this plan of Headmistress’s is wrong. But I get why you’re doing it.”
I meet his eyes.
“This is a home, safety. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The melody shifts into a faster rhythm and our bodies break apart, to my great relief. I take the lead, pushing my hips, moving with the next motion before he gets a chance to. Confusion staccatos his steps, and it takes him a minute to adjust to my flow. He falls in line with me and we’re in sync again, but we move to my dance. My song. His brows dent in confusion as I spin him out. The crowd’s faces crease in curiosity as well. I pull him back.
“Quell, what are you up to?”
“Shut up and just dance with me.”
His lips part in realization and he misses the next step, our hand-holding breaks, and he spins out far away from me. The ballroom stills. His eyes narrow, and my breath quickens. He knows. I smile, curtsying as the music comes to an awkward finish. Jordan bows where he is. And we exit the dance floor.
