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The estate has quieted as I sneak to my room, and my eyelids are heavy, demanding to be closed. My head swims with the chaos of the last couple of hours. But I urge my feet forward, the warm sheets of my bed calling to me. When I wake up, maybe this will all have been a bad dream. It’s a lie, but without it I’m not sure I’d be able to put one foot in front of another at the moment.
I could have been killed.
I claw at my throat, willing it to unclench. My fingers reach for the metal on my head again, and I ease out a breath. It’s rose gold not black. My secret is hidden.
Broken glass litters the halls, swept aside as if cleanup is in progress. Whispering somewhere freezes me on the spot, but it’s too far and too faint to make out. I ease around the banister and up the grand stair to the Belles Wing, my head still pulsing with a minor throb. It’s hardly noticeable compared with what it felt like ten short minutes ago.
When I enter our suite, Abby’s wide awake, shifting the fabric on a long gown.
I stop, a ball of tightness and nerves.
She gasps at the showing arced above my head, and the dress in her hands falls to the floor. She rushes to greet me, shaking my shoulders.
I force them to sink and try to relax my arms as I close the door behind me. It takes every bit of focus not to look down at my shoes.
“You! It’s so tall and . . .” She steps back with sweeping dramatics, brandishing her arms in every direction. “Magnificent, regal, resplendent, grand!” She swings me around and curtsies.
Shame burns in my chest. But I force myself to look at her and smile. To step into this world of make-believe where I am actually worthy of this fawning affection.
“Well go on, curtsy like a proper lady!” She scrunches up her nose and I laugh, a burst of joy rushing up against the dam of my indignity.
I copy to appease her, but my heart is not in it. My knees go all wobbly when I get too low. “That’s harder than it looks.”
“Plume will whip you into shape, don’t worry. You’ll be the talk of the entire Season!” She pulls me to the mirror, and I suck in a breath as I take myself in fully. Despite the events of the night, the stranger who stares back at me holds her shoulders squarely; her chin doesn’t point to the floor as it usually does. I look away. She’s a liar. A cheater. Disguised as someone deserving.
Abby rotates my head, making me stare into the mirror. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, mimicking a stuffy announcer’s voice. “I present Quell Janae Marionne, granddaughter of Darragh Marionne, Headmistress and Cultivator extraordinaire.” She laughs, and the bubble in me somehow resurfaces, spilling out in bashful laughter.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You just don’t seem nearly excited enough. First Rite, down. Two to go!”
“I am, really.” I shrug. “There’s a long way to go to Cotillion, that’s all.”
She sits on her bed and pulls her dress across her onto her lap, her magic shifting the shiny purple fabric to a deep shade of green.
“That looks nice.”
“Oh, thanks. The nice thing about being away from home is I don’t have to listen to my parents nagging about how Vestisers are a frivolous waste of shifting ability.” She rolls her eyes. “I like fashion. They act like that’s a crime.”
“Well, I’m glad here you get to be yourself.”
She slips her dress onto a hanger before climbing into bed. “I have honing exam tomorrow. Finally. It’s taken me forever to even qualify to sit the exam. Like two entire summers. Give me all the good juju to pass.”
I wiggle my fingers in her direction. “Juju sent. You’ll do great though. I’m sure of it.”
She reaches for the lamp with a yawn as I climb into bed.
“Thanks, Abby. For sticking by me and being excited and stuff.”
“You just wait. This entire House is going to bow at your skirt.”
The light clicks, and my insides swirl with nerves. A different kind than I’ve felt before. Angst, yes, but rooted in something strangely unfamiliar. I hadn’t thought about what people would say. My diadem is beautiful. More glorious than I could have even dreamt up. Even when blackened, it was stunning. Maybe even more so.
But the truth—that this isn’t the real diadem—needles me.
You emerged, my conscience whispers. That matters.
I stew on the thought, and something uncinches in me.
