Chapter Fifteen Nore
Fifteen
Nore
Nore stared up at the gargoyles perched along the roof of Dlaminaugh Estate and shivered. Their elongated bodies sloped down the sides of the building and their claws dug into the stone. As a girl, Nore had pictured them as an army keeping watch while she slept, like soldiers on the battlements of a fancy castle. Now they seemed to be glaring at her audacity to return. But she had to find that Scroll, which meant figuring out how to get into her family’s vault.
The gates parted up ahead and the estate came into full view, drowned in a blanket of snow. Dlaminaugh was built to inspire envy, much like the students who studied within its walls. It boasted broader buttresses and hundreds more windows than even Ya?uper Rea. Stuck to a steep mountainside, it was a masterpiece of multiple buildings constructed in Gothic stonework but modernized with tall peaks, sharp angles, concrete, and long stretches of glass walls. Its pitched roof touched the clouds, pushing the bounds of architecture beyond its natural limits.
When she crossed the gate’s threshold, the dead waited for her.
She avoided their sunken, shadowed eyes. As she passed through the courtyard, she kept her gaze on the grand glass doors ahead. Flat headstones paved the cobbled entryway, each with the surname Ambrose . She hated the way it felt when she walked across someone’s grave, like she was stirring up buried secrets. The ancestors pressed in closer: they didn’t seem to like it much either. Nore strode faster, keeping her chin tucked tight into the hood of her sapphire House robe. But no matter how fast she moved, her heart rammed faster. She gulped a big breath of icy air as the Dragun on guard approached.
“Miss Ambrose?” His wide eyes were outdone only by the grin on his face. “How was your sabbatical? It’s so nice to see you out and about.” Finally , he didn’t have to say.
Her hands trembled. She shoved them into the pockets of her dress. He bowed, keeping his eyes to the ground. A silly but effective rule Mother had made. If they didn’t look at her too long, or too hard, they wouldn’t notice the way her diadem was in a slightly different place each day.
“Good morning.” She walked right past.
“Should I call Headmistress?”
“You will do nothing. That is all.”
He nodded. She nodded back and her diadem slipped. Her heart leapt. He wasn’t looking, so she pushed it back in place. Nore hurried, skirting the main doors and darting around the estate’s exterior, past the Mortuarri Observatory, beneath the Hall of Discovery bridge (which linked two of its buildings), and around the Electus and Primus quads. She used to roam the grounds dreaming of stowing her stuff in her Electus bunk, exploring the mysterious family vault, and studying until the wee hours of morning in the Caelum, the library in the clouds— with millions of books . She used to lie awake for hours imagining what her diadem would look like, who her roommate would be, and what a Cultivator ring’s magic would feel like. But none of that ever happened. She had no magic. Her eyes stung, and she told herself it was the cold.
When her boots hit grass, she picked up to a run and left the ancestors behind. They stayed outside and didn’t wander too far from the courtyard, usually roaming one of their many graveyards.
The gravel path that snaked to the farthest corner of the property dead-ended at her private cottage. Her fingers and toes were numb by the time she climbed the steps of her rickety porch. The rustic residence was an anomaly on the sterile grounds. Like she was. But when her mother had the cottage built, Nore had insisted on one thing: that it felt like hers . Her hanging and potted plants were watered and the windows were shuttered, but the light inside was on. The welcome mat had been dusted clean. Her mother probably had that done regularly to suggest that she could be there.
Nore grabbed the doorknob and her heart seized. She was twelve when she moved into the cottage for private lessons. Or that was the cover story Isla Ambrose told everyone. By that point, Nore already knew to not let anyone ever know that the heir to House of Ambrose had shown absolutely zero propensity for magic. Nore had once asked what would happen if others found out; all Isla said was I don’t want to give you nightmares . She made Nore get ready in locked rooms without windows. She didn’t let her socialize with anyone on the grounds unless she, Nore’s brother, or her private maezre were present.
Mother’s reasoning sounded like fluff. Her mother was embarrassed that she had birthed an Unmarked heir. Nore would make a habit of exasperating her mother, playfully threatening to announce it over the House intercoms. Her mother was already so severe, getting under her skin was irresistible and easy. Until one day, when she was eleven, Nore overheard a Dragun say, An Unmarked cannot look upon magic and live . She never played games with her secret again.
For two years in that cottage, her mother left her alone, and it was glorious.
She rode Daring every day, exploring all parts of the Pacific Northwest, where Dlaminaugh was tucked away. She leaned into her love of working with her hands: sculpting, painting, sketching—you name it, she tried it. Ellery even taught her how to fish, hunt, and make a fire with nothing but wood. He was gifted magically, but he indulged all her Unmarked curiosities.
Until one dark evening when her mother told Nore she was prepared to try again and dragged her to the basement of the estate. Night after night, Isla Ambrose tried every method she could think of to cultivate magic in Nore. The experimentation was mild at first: using rings to try to stir something. But that’s when Isla’s tactics changed: elixirs that burned Nore’s skin raw, a facial shift that left her unable to see for a week. The last time her mother tried something, Nore bled a whiff of dark, cold magic from her fingers. She had gathered her things, run to Ellery, and insisted they leave that night. That was the last time she saw this place.
The cottage was Nore’s safe place, but holding the knob felt different now. She’d made a home somewhere else. With someone else. And now both were gone. Nore backed away from the cottage door. Then she paced the length of the porch before forcing down the lump in her throat and pushing her way inside.
Her quaint abode was a collage of memories. Her home was very minimalist, its walls the color of stone. There were only a few modest pieces of furniture. A book she loved to read lay open on the chair. Her favorite heather-gray blanket was in a pile on the floor next to her metal-framed bed with its paper-thin mattress. Nothing inside had been disturbed, which in and of itself was a bit unsettling. Her mother tried to control everything. But Nore was the one thing she would no longer control. Perhaps she’d realized that and left Nore’s stuff alone.
She couldn’t cook, so she stored her favorite books in her stove. She padded over and checked. They were still in there. Her skin prickled as if she’d stepped back in time. She pulled out baskets of thick, colorful yarn from beneath her study desk. She’d tried knitting, since studying magic went nowhere. She’d managed to make a few small things, which she strung up on the walls for color. She sifted through the threads and her hand hit something hard: an old film camera.
Yagrin. She felt sorrow well in her again. She’d always told him she was going to teach him to take really cool photographs. The old kind with grainy texture. Nore hugged around herself, remembering the way she showed him how to shuck corn and pluck a chicken. He was so tickled that he’d chased her once, dancing like a bird, begging her to pluck him. There was no House, no toushana, and no mother who loathed her. When they’d lie together under the stars, the only sound was the slow thud of his heart, and it lulled her into an illusion of a world that was her own.
They’d stay for hours. He would twist his fingers in her hair, and sometimes he ran his touch along the slope of her nose. She’d almost come clean with him once about who she really was. But he stared at her as if she was a daydream. She couldn’t take that away from him. Her life was the lie they both needed.
Nore let out a heavy breath and felt her pockets. The only thing she’d kept from the farm was a pair of earrings he’d gifted her. It was Yagrin’s idea to get her ears pierced in the first place. He made an entire ordeal of it, taking her to celebrate afterward at some fancy nightclub in a city with way too many lights. That night they didn’t sleep until the sun rose. She pulled the earrings out and hooked them into her ears. Her stomach knotted. She’d never worn something so frivolous in her own skin, as Nore. But she loved the way having them on made her feel.
Oh, Yagrin. She ached with longing and wondered if he felt the same. She grabbed a pillow and squeezed it . He would think she was a horrible person for pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Someone she can’t be. Nore shoved the pillow away as the weight in her chest grew. She had enough things to deal with. Sadness wasn’t going to be one of them.
She pulled out a journal to jot down her thoughts. Where would her mother keep something as important as the family vault key? The only thing she knew about that vault was that on Nore’s coronation day, her mother would hand over access to her. She tapped her lip. Sometimes the most astute solution was the simplest one. Would she keep it in her office? Her bedroom? Those were too expected. Nore paced and thought. She thought and paced. But no matter how much she tried to focus on her plan, her cottage was too quiet and too empty.
She rummaged through cabinets for a canvas but only found paint. So she grabbed a brush, sloshed it in a dollop of red paint, and streaked a bright red stroke across the wall. She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder—for what, she wasn’t sure. Then she arced another red stroke across the drab gray. She drew another, and another, until she could see the red barn of her farm, its slanted roof, the glowing wheat fields surrounding it, and the winding dirt path leading to it. When she finished, the mural on her wall was a masterpiece only she could appreciate. She stepped back and savored the bubbly way looking at art made her feel. Her fingers were covered in paint, her gray dress, too. Mother would be livid. She giggled and touched up the portrait before realizing her brother was leaning in the doorway, his smile tugged sideways. He had an armful of her moss roses, which apparently didn’t make it.
“Ellery!” She clutched her chest. “You can wipe that smile off your face. I’m here for one reason and one reason only.”
“It will be different this time, you’ll see.” He joined her inside, dumping the remains of her plants. “You have a future here, Nore.”
“A past and a present. That is all.”
He shook his head. “Have you seen Mother?”
“No.”
“And how long do you think that’ll last?”
“I wish it could last as long as possible.” Her mother was going to be shocked she was back.
He laughed. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She couldn’t tell him why she really wanted to get inside the vault. He would never go along with her plan and she couldn’t risk this failing. She wanted out of the Order. And her deal with Darragh Marionne was her only hope.
“Don’t mention anything about me being back to Mother yet.”
“She’s going to know, Nore.”
“I know. But I want her to think you’re on my side.” She grinned, and despite how hard he tried to hide it, Ellery grinned, too.
“Oh and I brought you this, too.” He pulled a book from his bag and handed it to her. “I was, uh, going to try to resuscitate this one for you. But it didn’t go so well.”
She took the book and thumbed through it. “Oh my goodness, Ell, that’s it!” Ambrosers were bookish to a fault. She knew where to look for the key to the vault. The only place Ambrose revered was a room full of books. It was so special that their priests were buried there, in the walls and floors, right among the shelves. Even Headmistresses were buried outside, but the intercessors for the Wielder, the Sovereign, and the Sage were held above the rest.
As if he could read Nore’s mind, Ellery asked, “How can I help?”
“The priests’ bodies are still buried in the Caelum?”
“You’re suddenly sentimental about House piety?”
She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, wondering how much she could say. “I just want to see them.”
His eyes narrowed in mirth. “I’m watching you, Emilie.”
She elbowed him for calling her by her middle name. She wanted to pull back the veil on her plan, but it was a risk. “There is one other thing you can help me with.”
“Yes?”
“Could you steal me some of those orange chocolate bars Crafter Kendor makes?”
The caelum doors were locked. A sign that hung from the door read Closed for Renovations. Priest Offices Temporarily Relocated to the Temple Garden. Nore peered through the glass at an endless sea of books and jerked the handle again. But it didn’t budge.
Ellery tapped on the glass, two books to return in hand. Her brother shrugged.
She grumbled. “Oh, come on. Don’t you need to swap out your books?”
“Just doing a bit of research. It’s fine.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “I’m just really glad you’re home.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Nore peered through the glass again. “There has to be a way to get in there without breaking in or alarming security. Isn’t there some kind of magic you can use?”
“I’m an Anatomer, Nore, and a fair Shifter on a good day. Not a genie.”
She moved him out of her way and inspected the doorframes. If there was a way in, she was going to find it. But the more she thought about it, the more the Caelum didn’t make sense. Would her mother keep a key she may want to use frequently in a busy workplace? Winkel, priest to the Sage, spent half the moon’s cycle in prayers with students in and out of his office all day. Nore sighed.
“Even the furthest ends of possibility have their limits. Some things are finite.”
Yes, but library access wasn’t one of them. “That’s what the Order believes about toushana. But I’m going to get rid of it.”
“Only further proving that you belong in this House.”
“Does she?” Her mother’s voice panged through her.
When she turned, the air in Nore’s lungs froze. Isla Ambrose stood about her height, with dark gray hair pulled straight back in a tight ponytail that stopped just past her shoulders. Nore tugged at her own hair, making sure it covered her earrings. Her mother wore a Cultivator’s ring, and a thin silver diadem hovered above her head. She wore a plain gray wool dress, a simple but regal gown that had been drained of life and color, like an overcast sky that had never seen sunshine.
“What are you doing here, Nore?”
She watched for some hint of relief in her mother’s surprise, but she was a blank slate.
“In less than five years, on my twenty-second birthday, I’m your replacement, the House laws say. Where else should I be?”
“I’ve given up on you. I know you certainly have given up on yourself.”
Engaging her mother was like lying down to sleep in anticipation of a recurring nightmare. Nore stiffened but mustered the best inflection she could and said, “Well, you’re wrong. I haven’t. I’ve decided to come home and make those twenty years of trying to produce an heir worth it.”
“Twenty- six ,” her brother corrected. “She had me after twenty. A son. A grave disappointment.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of the droll undertone to her brother’s words, but she liked that he seemed to have her back in front of their mother, at least.
Her mother stared with the knowing of a dead Ambrose. “You’ve always been a bad liar, Nore.” Her expression was unreadable. Nore had never seen the woman smile, let alone been hugged by her. “Do not embarrass the family or I will donate your body to the ancestors.”
“Mother.” The sharpness in her brother’s tone arched their mother’s brow.
“Only a joke. Calm down, Ellery.” Her steel-gray stare slid to Nore. “You will continue your studies with your tutor at dawn. Remain as unseen as possible on the grounds until—”
“Until you get this poison out of me.”
Isla snatched the embroidered blue House fabric from Nore’s shoulders. She worked her hands together, the Cultivator ring on her finger glowing, until the robe shifted into a heap of threads that fell to the floor.
Her mother turned to her brother. “Ellery, we’re finally getting that case of Sun Dust from the Dragunhead that you’ve been working on. Be there to receive it at seven, bring it to the Hall of Discovery, and send for me immediately.” She reached up to his broad shoulders and a crack broke her thin mouth. “And Elena Hargrove is in the receiving room for tea. Exciting.”
Her mother stepped over the mound of threads on the ground. “Welcome home, Nore,” she said, then strode away. It shouldn’t matter to Nore at all. She didn’t even want to wear the heir robe. But if there was a little girl dying an excruciating death inside her, her mother just ripped apart whatever piece of her there was left.