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“I’m fine.” I hold my cold hands tighter to myself.
“All right, well, go on and get out of here,” Plume says. “Clean yourself up. You can reach out to your mentor about anything else you would’ve missed. He’s done this all before.”
“My mentor?” I freeze.
“Yes, your pairing wasn’t just for today. Jordan will be your guide for the duration of your time here to ensure you debut. You’re expected to work closely with him to—”
“I have to go.” I rush out the door, and I could swear the walls are closing in. Working with Jordan will only ensure one thing—I end up dead.
ELEVEN
Cultivator Plume’s words linger as I dash up the grand stair to the third floor toward Grandmom’s. She has to make Plume reassign me to a different mentor. She and I agreed to have dinner together each evening this first week while things are so new. I banked on having better news to share of how my first day went. And I’m early. Like, really early.
My hurried footsteps are the only sound on the top floor of the estate. The upper floor makes the lower ones look like servant quarters. The doors up here are much more ornate, with intricate woodwork and brass handles. I rushed up here before, but now in the bright daylight, I can’t help but take it all in. Crystal chandeliers dangle overhead from the mural painted on the ceiling. Colorful, precise strokes depict an elderly man and his apprentice wandering through a golden field of glowing wheat. Familiarity nudges me. I’ve stared up at this ceiling before.
I blink, and I’m a small child again, my fingers wandering the carved molding along the walls. This is the private family floor. This is where I lived until I was five. This was home. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to pull more from the cobwebs in my memory. But the only image I can conjure is one of tiny feet running across a sun-streaked floor to loud giggles. Then it morphs to fire. Suffocating, engulfing, searing flames, surrounding little me curled up on a ragged bed, hugging my knees in a strange, dark place nothing like this here.
I shove down the unfamiliar memory and urge myself faster down the long corridor. Its windows offer a picturesque view of the grounds’ rolling acreage golden in the sun’s glow. I pass another few doors, but don’t recognize any one specifically that used to be mine. The hall halts at Grandmom’s unguarded door. A stubborn hint of cold lurks underneath my skin as I knock. I tighten my fisted hands and move them behind my back just in case.
Her maid ushers me in. Grandmom’s fireplace roars and I rush over to it to warm my hands, hoping I don’t appear too eager.
“If you’ll take a seat,” says a woman with a thin gold diadem in a maid’s uniform. “I’ll get Headmistress for you.”
I get as close as I can to the fire as I wait, straining to keep my back straight, remembering Plume’s warning about making the cut. Heat wafts against me, lulling my angst, and then Grandmom’s bedroom door opens.
“Well, you’re quite early,” she says as I stand to greet her. She pauses, eyeing my clothes. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. Just clumsy.” I shift casually. “Spilled a cup.”
She gestures for her maid. “Pull the drapes open wider, would you? And lighten them up a bit. I’m sick of the dusty old plum.”
Her maid curtsies and hurries off, working her magic, shifting the curtains from deep purples to soft blues. Grandmom hesitates another moment before squeezing my hands, now piping hot, in greeting.
“I just finished etiquette.”
The creases around her eyes uncinch the tangle twisting my insides. She’s pleased. It’s a small victory but I savor it. “Plume is the absolute best. Nabbed him from Isla, that ole hag didn’t appreciate him.”
“Isla?”
We move to a sitting area adjacent to a gallery of framed maps, and I notice my key chain on her coffee table.
“Isla Ambrose? Three leaves that intertwine?”
I shake my head, wholly fixated on the key chain. Mom.
“Oh, you do have so much to learn. Isla is Headmistress of House Ambrose. And well, Plume was miserable over there. I’ll just leave it at that.” She rings a bell and her maid returns. “Margot, would you please have them serve dinner in half an hour?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She curtsies, then leaves.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause things to rush.”
“It’s no trouble, I—”
“Were you able to get in touch with my mom?” The desperation spills out.
Her gaze falls to the key chain, and I scoot to the edge of my seat.
“No luck.” She sips her tea. “Now, tell me about sessions.”
