The Fine Art of Enduring Etiquette: A Treatise by Dorian Marquis
Category: Uncategorized

Date: Who even keeps track anymore?

Mood: Delightfully sarcastic.

Another day at the esteemed Marquis School of Poise, Prestige, and Perfect Hairdos. Or, as I like to call it, Cressida's Castle of Tortured Teenagers.

Today, I had the pleasure of lecturing the older girls on how to hold a teacup without looking like they're about to hurl it at someone. Riveting stuff, truly. I can't believe I get paid to teach people that the pinky finger isn't a weapon of mass destruction. Christian, of course, was brooding somewhere in the corner, probably thinking of ten ways I could improve my "delivery." Love you, bro, but lighten up. I’m not going to ruin the family name by making a joke about saucers.

Chloe came by with her usual “mom-is-so-unreasonable” rant. Honestly, the girl has a point. Cressida could use a vacation. Preferably to a tropical island where the Wi-Fi mysteriously cuts out. I suggested it once, and she looked at me like I’d just told her to eat soup with a fork.

Highlight of the day? A student asked if I’d ever met someone high-class who wasn’t utterly unbearable. I nearly choked on my coffee. (Note to self: stop drinking coffee in front of inquisitive children.) I told her, "Why, yes, I have. He’s sitting right here, and his name is Dorian Marquis." She didn’t laugh. Tough crowd.

On a brighter note, I made Christian laugh this evening. Well, okay, it was more of a smirk, but I’ll take it. My mission to drag my older brother into the land of humor continues.

As for the students, they’re starting to pick up my sarcasm. Cressida may kill me for it later, but I consider this my greatest accomplishment to date. Etiquette is fine and all, but teaching the next generation to laugh in the face of absurdity? That’s a legacy I can get behind.

Until tomorrow, dear journal. Let’s see if I can make Christian snort.

Yours wittily,
Dorian Marquis

Date: An endless Monday, I’m sure of it.

Mood: Optimistically amused.

Today, I bore witness to something truly extraordinary: a roomful of teenagers attempting to curtsy without looking like they’d just tripped over invisible furniture. It was like a synchronized comedy routine, and honestly, I was impressed. If etiquette doesn't work out for them, perhaps a career in slapstick is calling.

Christian, as expected, remained utterly unimpressed. He stood at the back of the room like a grim sentinel, arms crossed, staring at me as if I’d just declared curtsying irrelevant to modern society (which, between us, it probably is). I resisted the urge to wink at him—barely.

Cressida, of course, floated in midway through the lesson, exuding her usual aura of "Do not disappoint me." It’s a talent, really. Her presence instantly transforms the girls into picture-perfect statues of propriety. I’d be jealous if it wasn’t so terrifyingly effective.

Chloe, bless her rebellious heart, skipped class today. When I confronted her about it, she shrugged and said, “Why bother learning the rules when breaking them is more fun?” I couldn’t argue with that logic, though I made a show of scolding her for appearance's sake. Behind the scenes, I was quite proud of her strategic irreverence.

The real highlight of the day was dinner. One of the students attempted to balance her soup spoon on her nose during the meal. Naturally, I applauded her ingenuity (in my mind) while externally offering a very serious critique about the misuse of dining utensils. Christian shot me a look of pure disapproval, which only made it funnier.

In other news, I think I’ve finally cracked the code to make Christian smile—mentioning how his tie always looks impeccable, even in a tornado. He claims it's discipline. I suspect sorcery. Either way, it’s a minor victory in the grand campaign to humanize my brother.

As I close this entry, I find myself oddly grateful for the madness of it all. Life here is absurd, but it’s my kind of absurd.

Yours with a crooked grin,
Dorian Marquis

Date: The day we unwrapped Pandora’s box.

Mood: Pensive with a dash of nervous humor.

Well, today was the day. After much deliberation, side-glances, and a truly unnecessary number of brooding silences from Christian, we decided to tell Chloe the truth about her father.

I won't sugarcoat it—there was a moment when I seriously considered staging an elaborate distraction involving a toppled vase, an unruly Hellhound, and an urgent tea emergency. But alas, even I can only delay the inevitable for so long.

Chloe took it… as well as could be expected. Which is to say, she didn't storm out or set anything on fire (a low bar, I know, but you take your victories where you can). She was quiet—too quiet, really—and her expression was a mixture of surprise, hurt, and the kind of determination that made me think, Ah, there’s the Marquis fire.

I tried to lighten the mood, of course. “Well, now that you know, maybe your rebellious streak makes a bit more sense?” She didn’t laugh, but I caught the faintest hint of a smirk before she rolled her eyes. Small wins.

Christian, naturally, was stoic throughout the whole thing, playing the role of supportive but serious uncle to perfection. He’s probably replaying the entire conversation in his head right now, wondering if we said too much—or not enough. Cressida… well, she’s always harder to read, but I could tell this weighed on her. She’s spent so long protecting Chloe from the truth, and now that it’s out there, I imagine she feels a bit exposed. Vulnerable, even.

As for me, I’m torn. Did we do the right thing? I believe so. Chloe deserves the truth, even if it’s messy and complicated. But part of me wonders if we’ve just handed her another piece of the puzzle that is our chaotic, cursed family.

Still, she’s stronger than she knows. If anyone can handle this, it’s her.

Tomorrow, life will go on—lessons to teach, etiquette to enforce, and cups of coffee to quietly sip while watching this wild, wonderful family of ours navigate the latest storm.

Yours contemplatively,
Dorian Marquis

Date: When shadows return.

Mood: Wry, with a tinge of wariness.

It seems the Marquis family dinner table just got a little more crowded—Julian is back. The prodigal shadow manipulator himself, gracing us with his presence and his ever-so-subtle penchant for stirring the proverbial pot.

I wish I could say I was surprised, but let’s be honest, it was only a matter of time. The moment whispers of Julian's name started to creep back into the family conversations, I knew he’d materialize sooner or later. He’s always had a flair for dramatic timing, hasn’t he?

Christian, naturally, is wound tighter than a clock spring. If Julian so much as breathes too heavily in Cressida’s direction, I swear Christian might explode on the spot. I can’t say I blame him entirely—Julian’s shadow tricks have always made him uneasy. I’ll admit, there’s a certain unsettling charm to the way Julian can slip into a room without so much as a flicker of light to announce him. But then again, isn’t that what makes him so uniquely Julian?

I’ve tried to keep things light between us, as is my usual approach to everything. Someone has to be the balancing act between Christian’s constant suspicion and Julian’s smug nonchalance, and, surprise surprise, it’s me. Again. Over dinner, I made a harmless joke about Julian’s uncanny ability to sneak up on people. He smirked, Christian glared, and Cressida sighed. Business as usual.

But in all seriousness, Julian’s return does raise a lot of questions. What does he want? Is it really just about reconnecting with the family, or is there something more? He claims he wants to "mend old wounds," but with Julian, there’s always a deeper play. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already weaving his shadows into whatever schemes we haven’t caught onto yet.

Despite my reservations, I can’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity—maybe even hope. Julian is family, after all. Beneath the rivalry, the tension, and the shadows, there’s a connection that even time and distance can’t erase. Part of me wonders if this time will be different, if we can find a way to work together instead of constantly being at odds.

Still, I’ll be keeping one eye on him—and another on Christian, because the last thing we need is for those two to set Everthorn ablaze with their mutual stubbornness.

Tomorrow, I think I’ll take Balios out for a midnight ride. It’s always easier to sort out my thoughts under the stars, where the shadows feel less ominous and more like old friends.

Yours with cautious optimism,
Dorian Marquis

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