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My toushana flutters through me, nudging my insecurity. As if even it knows the very idea of me here, in this world, is preposterous. More heads turn our way at the mention of my surname, and I fight the urge to look at my shoes, to shrink away. I force my head up. You’re not invisible anymore.
“Yes, that’s me.” The words are foreign in my mouth, but I chew them up and force them down. I am a Marionne. Grandmom and I share blood. I clasp my fingers behind me, hoping my mannerism reads normal and not suspicious.
“I’m Rose,” she says, something shading her expression. “This is a lot, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. How long have you been here?”
“Since the very end of last Season but it was too late then to really do anything.”
Something about what Shelby and Abby said made it sound like it happened quickly for everyone. She must read my mind because irritation sets her jaw.
“How’d you do with the oleander?” I ask, trying to change the subject. She looked a lot more confident in Dexler’s than I felt.
“I managed to pull a leaf out of my dirt. No flower, though.”
“I’ve heard it takes practice.”
“Hoping so.” She smiles before letting out a long breath.
“Have you—”
“Did you hear”—her interruption startles me—“how nice the Moonlight Mixer was?” She pulls at the threads of her embroidery. “It was at the Wexton Regency. In New York, you know?”
“I, uh . . . no.”
“The Season’s opening ball is always unforgettable, but I heard this year’s was especially decadent. Everyone who joined the Order last Season got an invite to kick off things this year, rub elbows with society’s elite.” She smiles but it tremors, then fades. “My parents made an appearance. My sister. But I of course couldn’t go, not yet. They’re always harping on me about finding a respectable man in the Order. Magic should marry magic, you know?” She scoffs.
“Oh?” A better response escapes me.
“But how exactly am I supposed to do that if I can’t get this thing to grow out of my head!” Her cheeks ripen with frustration.
“I’m sure you’ll emerge and get invited to one soon.” I offer the best smile I can muster at the awkwardness.
She exhales a disgruntled sigh. “Well, it was nice to meet you.” She moves away and I exhale. When the doors to the ballroom open, a gentleman in a dapper suit with a short coat and longer panels in the back enters. A sturdy black tie sits at his neck.
“Cultivator Plume,” the crowd says, bowing and curtsying. I copy and move through to the front to hear better.
“Good afternoon.” Plume gestures widely before folding his lean gangly frame at the waist. He moves like air, gliding closer to us, each step perfectly poised. The twist in his hips would put Mom’s strut to shame. He is the epitome of elegance. “Well, we’re missing a few, aren’t we.” He surveys the group, hands on his hips, then glances at his watch just as the doors behind him open again. “Ah, there we are. Please, find your name, take your seat.”
I rush to the seat labeled “Marionne.” But when a face dents my peripheral, I still, registering Jordan as one of the latecomers Plume was referring to. I press back into my chair. Why is he here? He’s not in the slacks and top like the others. Instead he’s in a tuxedo like Plume. One of the perks of being a graduate, I guess.
He crosses the room along with two others, both with statuesque diadems. His shoulders are squared, stomach in, and the table flits with whispers and fawning smiles. Whether or not he notices, I can’t tell. His eyes find me as if he can hear my thoughts, feel my panic from yards away. I try to scrub the shock from my face and fix my glance on the plate in front of me, counting the ridiculous number of utensils and glasses. There are so many plates!
“Good afternoon, Miss Marionne.” The chair beside me slides back and I feel Jordan’s presence. I make the mistake of looking at him. His chiseled jaw hardens, etching the sculpted hills beneath his eyes. Craters in his cheeks soften his brooding expression. He is beautiful, criminally so.
“Do you have an answer for me yet? This morning didn’t seem like the proper time to ask.”
“And now is? I’m trying to focus. But I can’t with your—”
“My . . .” His brow rises, and the insistence in his gaze pulls my chin over my shoulder to look squarely at him.
“Your questions.” I still have no explanation for why I could see through his cloaking. My toushana flutters in warning the longer he stares. I warm my hands between my thighs, garnering a few quizzical glances.
“It’s cold.” I look ridiculous, especially in here. Like coarse wool next to fine silk. Jordan’s expression narrows in thought at me, and I grip the sides of my chair.
Plume claps along the others who are too slow to get into their seats. Then he raises his glass toward the room, and it quiets. “I do not allow swine at my table unless it’s on a plate.”
My hold on the chair slacks at session starting, thankful to look anywhere else but at Jordan.
