Garnet's Story

by Amy Ewing

  I put on my best surprised face. “Am I? Why, it completely slipped my mind.” I look Violet up and down. She seems jittery, though anyone cornered by Carnelian would be. “Are you tormenting the surrogate, cousin? Better not let Mother catch you.”

  It feels strange calling her the surrogate now that I know her name.

  “I’m not afraid of her,” Carnelian says, jutting out her chin.

  “Yes, you are,” I say. “Hey, where’s that companion she bought you? I heard you never leave his side.”

  Her face turns red and she looks like she might cry. She shoots Violet a scathing look, as if it’s Violet’s fault the companion isn’t around, then turns on her heel and storms off.

  Somehow I’ve managed to speak to Violet alone. I’m quite proud of myself even if it was accidental. I wonder if she knows her fate, that she’s supposed to die giving my Mother what she wants. I wonder what she thinks about Lucien, if he feeds her only bits and pieces of information, too.

  But I can’t say any of that out loud.

  “She always was a little sensitive,” I say, staring after Carnelian and shrugging. “Oh, I’m Garnet, by the way.”

  “I know,” she says, and I have to laugh.

  “Of course you do.” I give her one of my most elaborate bows. “Shall I escort you back to your rooms?”

  “Oh, um, that’s all right,” she says. She looks even more frightened of me than of Carnelian.

  “I insist,” I say, taking her elbow. It feels just like any other girl’s elbow. I hate that these sorts of things keep surprising me. As if I previously assumed surrogates were monsters in human skin, or mechanical, or made out of glue and string.

  “Tell me,” I say as we make our way out of the library. “Who do you hate more? My father or my mother?”

  I’m pretty sure she’s had no contact with Father, but I’m dying to know what she thinks of Mother.

  “Excuse me?” she says, shocked.

  “I’d have to go with my mother,” I say. Three is patrolling the halls and he stands at attention as I pass, the buttons on his Regimental coat gleaming. “My father is as dull as a post, so at least he’s easy to overlook. But there’s just no ignoring my mother.”

  Violet doesn’t respond, and I find myself rambling, saying anything that pops into my head, hoping to get some reaction, some sense of who this person is and why Lucien cares about her so much.

  “She’s gotten even worse since Carnelian came to live here. Poor kid. First her father dies, then her mother commits suicide. Very shocking. Scandalous for the House of the Lake.”

  “Carnelian’s mother killed herself?” she gasps.

  I nod as we take one of the back staircases up to the second floor. “She was a strange woman, my aunt. Strange and sad. I never really got to know her well—my mother despised her. I think Carnelian hates her and misses her in equal measure. It makes her a very unpleasant person to be around.”

  I think this is the most I’ve spoken about Aunt Opal since she died.

  “Why does she hate her?” Violet asks.

  “Because her mother left her all alone,” I say. In the light of this conversation, I actually find myself feeling bad for Carnelian.

  “Why did the Duchess despise your aunt?”

  Is she serious? My aunt was in the news long before she took a rope and wrapped it around her neck.

  “Because she left,” I say. “You do get the papers in the Marsh, don’t you? Aunt Opal was not House of the Lake material. Especially not after she turned her back on her royal lineage and ran off with some newspaper man from the Bank.” I grin, because I can’t believe Mother acts like I am the most disgraced member of this family. “Really, my mother has had it quite hard. A crazy sister, a broken engagement—to the Exetor, of all people—and . . . me. Ah, here we are.”

  We’ve arrived at her chambers and I knock on the door. Annabelle opens it and looks very surprised to see me with her charge.

  “Annabelle,” I cry, wrapping an arm around her, so Violet will see that we are friends and I’m not all that scary. Annabelle blushes and tries to curtsy but I’m in the way. If Violet weren’t here, she’d probably whack me with her slate for being so improper.

  “I’ve returned the surrogate safe and sound,” I say, and she ducks her head in thanks. “It was lovely meeting you,” I say to Violet. “Officially. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon. And stay out of Carnelian’s way if you can help it,” I add, giving her a wink. “I think she’s got it in for you.”

  My words ring truer in my ears than I thought they would. Though they haven’t interacted all that much, I do get the strong feeling that Carnelian detests Violet. But then I shrug it off and head to my tuxedo fitting, because really, what could Carnelian possibly do?

  Ten

  “THE TIME IS ALMOST COME,” LUCIEN SAYS TO ME, THE morning of the Winter Ball.

  I’m surprised, not only because he rarely calls me in the morning, but because he usually doesn’t freely offer up information like that.

  “She will be leaving tomorrow night,” he continues. “The reason I’m telling you this is because I will likely not be able to contact you again until the plan is executed. However, should anything go wrong, or should I be delayed in any way, I will need your help. One last favor.”

  “Favor,” I snort. “Right.”

  “Fair enough. You will do this one last thing for me. You must make sure she gets to the Jewel’s morgue.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask. “Take her to the morgue? Why? I thought you were trying to help her not kill her.”

  Lucien does that thing where he sighs like I’m the stupidest person in the world. “It does not matter why,” he says. “All that matters is she get there. The servants’ wing. The entrance is never locked. Down the farthest alley on the right.”

  I feel like I should be writing all this down.

  “How do you expect me to sneak a surrogate out of my mother’s house and to the morgue?”

  “I don’t,” Lucien says sharply. “I expect that she will be delivered there by the morgue attendants. I am telling you this only as a precaution. Ideally, you will not have to take her anywhere at all.”

  “The morgue attendants only come to pick up dead bodies,” I point out.

  “Precisely.”

  I open my mouth, then close it, then open it again. “I’m confused.”

  There’s a pause. I can sense him pondering what to tell me, and how much. As if I haven’t proved myself trustworthy enough by now.

  “I have created a serum that will make her appear as though she were dead,” he says in a hurried, clipped tone, as if he makes death-defying serums every day.

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s . . . really?”

  “Yes. However, if she is not able to take the serum, or for some reason it fails to work as I anticipate, I must have your word you will help get her to the morgue.”

  “I’ve given you my word once already,” I say. “And I haven’t broken it or taken it back yet, have I?”

  “No,” Lucien agrees. “You have not.”

  “Good. So. Morgue. All right.” Not sure how I’d ever make that happen, but hopefully, like Lucien said, I won’t have to.

  “One last thing.” There’s another pause, a longer one. “Your arcana,” he says finally. “It can connect with the one I gave her.”

  “It can?” I yelp. “How?”

  “Tap it on something metal and speak her name into it. And when you wish to sever the connection you need only squeeze it with your hand. But under no circumstances are you to contact her unless the need is dire, do you understand?”

  “Dire need,” I say, marveling at the creation hovering in front of my eyes. “Got it. How do you come up with all of this stuff anyway?”

  For the first time, I hear a little smile in Lucien’s voice. “I was fortunate enough to be born with slightly above average intelligence. And I have access to a great deal of money.”

  I laugh. Al
l this is funded by the Exetor? Incredible. How much else is going on in my own circle that I don’t know about? And what else has Lucien created?

  But I don’t get to ask before he says, “I have to go,” and the arcana falls to the floor. I pick it up and put it on my nightstand before heading to my closet to pick out my clothes for the evening.

  THE WINTER BALL IS ALWAYS THE BEST BALL OF THE YEAR.

  It takes place in a glass ballroom lit with thousands of candles—no glowglobes are lit on the Longest Night. Boughs of hellebore hang from the chandeliers and everyone wears white.

  But the best part is, all my friends are here and I didn’t have to come with Coral. In fact, I barely see her all night and that’s just fine with me. We aren’t married yet, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen Jasper and Peri.

  At some point I notice Violet is missing, but so is Lucien, so I assume he’s giving her the serum. Another perk—after tomorrow night, I won’t have to be his little lookout anymore and deal with all the late-night calls. I might even be done already. Lucien said himself that he probably won’t be able to contact me again until she takes that serum, and really, what are the chances that I will be responsible for getting her to the morgue? This is Lucien. He plans things meticulously. I’m sure the serum will work just as he intended and then Violet will be out of the palace and out of my life.

  As Peri and I take shots of whiskey and laugh about my upcoming nuptials, everything feels like it’s shifted back to normal. Even my wedding is something to joke about tonight.

  I stay up late, and we continue the party at Jasper’s house and for the first time in a long time, I feel like myself again.

  Eleven

  I WAKE UP IN THE AFTERNOON, TO CORA THROWING OPEN my curtains.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. Cora hasn’t gotten me up since I was about seven.

  “Your mother is having a luncheon and you are expected to attend,” she says. “And I am the only one she trusts with getting you ready in time.”

  She throws off my covers and marches me into the bathroom. She even waits outside the door while I shower. The hot water feels good. My head is pounding.

  Cora is so much better than any footman. She has me looking and feeling impeccable in less than an hour. I’m even early to lunch, by one minute and thirty seconds. I meet Father in the dining room by the bar.

  “What’s this one about?” I ask, pouring myself a large glass of whiskey.

  “How should I know?” Father says, taking a long drink. His eyes are red. “I just come when I’m called.”

  It’s maybe the saddest thing I’ve ever heard him say. Then Aunt Iolite and Uncle Beryl arrive and he brightens up and goes to greet them. I wonder if Father actually hates being the Duke of the Lake. Maybe he would have preferred to stay in a second-tier House.

  Mother enters the dining room two seconds before Carnelian and her companion, and ignores everyone but Aunt Iolite.

  “Did you have a good time at the Winter Ball?” I ask Carnelian as she comes over to get a drink.

  “Oh yes,” she says. “Ash told me my dancing has improved greatly. And the Lady of the Light’s son wasn’t too terrible. Not like some of the other boys she’s tried to foist me on.”

  But she glances up at the companion and I can tell she wishes he were an option. It’s so sad. As if Mother would ever allow her to marry a companion. As if companions were made for marrying at all. Six months in the Jewel and she still doesn’t get it.

  The companion himself keeps quiet, which is unusual—he’s always the one smoothing everything over. Maybe he drank too much last night, too.

  “The Count and Countess of the Rose,” one of the footmen announces at the door. “And surrogate.”

  “Ametrine,” Mother calls, and she drags Father over to greet the Countess. Her surrogate has dark skin and long black hair that’s braided and done up on the crown of her head. She looks very thin, thinner than Violet. And sad. Or maybe angry. I find myself trying to decipher her expression.

  “What’s this luncheon all about anyway?” Carnelian asks.

  “No idea,” I say. “Maybe she finally found you a husband.”

  Carnelian looks petrified.

  Then the footman announces Violet. There’s something different in the way she carries herself today, though I never would have noticed it if I hadn’t been watching her so much. A tightness in her jaw, a strange emotion in her eyes that I can’t quite read. When she sees me, I raise my glass to her. Carnelian huffs and crosses her arms over her chest.

  Mother and Aunt Iolite descend on her, the Countess of the Rose trailing behind, leaning heavily on her cane.

  I hear Mother say, “The doctor agrees we won’t have to wait so long until the next attempt.”

  My stomach squirms and I turn away. How many times has Mother tried to impregnate Violet?

  “I don’t see why surrogates need to come to these things at all,” Carnelian complains.

  “I believe your mother’s most recent attempt to have a child has failed,” the companion says. He clearly overheard the same thing I did. “Perhaps she is trying to keep her spirits up.”

  “I suppose,” Carnelian says.

  “You know Mother,” I say, glancing over to where Violet looks miserable, surrounded by gossiping women. “She lives to throw big parties. And she loves to show off.”

  Just then, the dining room door opens.

  “The Countess of the Stone,” the footman announces. “And surrogate.”

  There is no way Mother would have ever invited the Countess of the Stone—unless it was to brag that her surrogate was pregnant. She must have been pretty confident in Dr. Blythe. That seems to have backfired.

  Even Carnelian mutters, “What’s she doing here?”

  They air kiss with fake smiles on their faces and there’s more small talk but I’m ready for lunch. My stomach gives a low growl and Carnelian giggles. I grin at her.

  “I’m starving,” I say.

  “That’s what happens when you wake up at one in the afternoon,” she says.

  Once they’ve set up extra places for the Countess and her surrogate, we all sit. Finally. Violet must be nervous. She’s going to die tonight.

  And she does look upset. They serve the first course and for a second I’m distracted by the food. But every time I look at her, she’s staring at the Countess of the Stone’s surrogate. The girl is pregnant—it’s like the Countess was trying to show off by putting her in an extra-tight dress. And she’s even thinner than the Countess of the Rose’s surrogate. In fact, the more I look at her, the more skeletal and fragile she seems. Her skin is like her dress—too tight over delicate bones. Her dark eyes are blank, almost unseeing, her shoulders hunched. I feel a twist of emotion in my stomach and realize it’s pity.

  “And how are you feeling?” the Countess of the Rose asks Violet. But Violet is just staring at the pregnant girl. Maybe Lucien did tell her about what happens to the surrogates. Maybe she knows this girl is going to die.

  She suddenly seems to realize everyone is staring at her and glances at Mother.

  “The Countess asked how you are feeling,” Mother says sternly.

  “I’m feeling fine, my lady,” she says, to no one in particular. The pregnant surrogate looks up at the sound of her voice.

  A tiny hint of life comes back into her dead eyes. None of the Countess’s surrogates last very long, and I wonder how much time this girl has.

  I dig into my food—filet wrapped in puff pastry, Mother’s favorite—but I find myself glancing at the pregnant surrogate more than Violet. She seems to go back and forth between being present and being somewhere . . . else. What has the Countess been doing to her? I’ve heard the rumors, of course, but this seems extreme. How are we all having lunch while there’s a dying girl sitting at the table?

  Suddenly, the pregnant surrogate gasps. She grabs the tablecloth, and out from where her hand touches it, veins of color begin to spread, a deep inky blue.
Carnelian screams and Uncle Beryl falls out of his chair.

  “Get the doctor!” the Countess of the Rose yells. We’ve all jumped out of our chairs at this point, and then the carpet is going mad, turning a brilliant green, and I back away from it, as if the color could hurt me if it touched me.

  I see Violet crouched by the pregnant surrogate and wonder if she knows how to stop whatever it is the girl is doing.

  Then the girl vomits up a fountain of blood.

  The Countess of the Stone grabs Violet and lifts her up by the neck.

  “Get away from her,” she snarls. Everyone stops moving.

  “She—she’s sick,” Violet stammers. Blood is pouring from the girl’s nose now, too, staining the front of her dress. Her eyes have gone vacant again.

  The Countess of the Stone tosses Violet aside like a rag doll. She stumbles and I instinctively move as if to catch her then stop myself—out of the corner of my eye, I notice the companion has the same impulse.

  “Ebony!” Mother shouts. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on my surrogate.”

  The carpet has turned entirely green, but the damage is contained on only it—my shoes are still black and shiny. Mother is staring down the Countess with a look of pure hatred.

  “Get. Out.”

  The Countess’s mouth twists. “As you wish, Pearl.”

  She snatches her surrogate by the arm and pulls her upright and out of the dining room.

  “Well,” Mother says. “I think this luncheon is over.” The table is a mess. There’s blood and food and wine and strange colors everywhere. She turns to Father. “Darling, why don’t you take the gentlemen to the smoking room. Garnet, will you join them?”

  She must be joking. When have I ever joined Father in his smoking room? It’s gross in there.

  “Thanks, Mother, but I’d rather gouge my own eyes out,” I say.

  Her face hardens. “Then find something useful to do. Preferably something that doesn’t involve a kitchen maid.”

  As if I’d ever involve myself with a maid. Father is already herding Uncle Beryl and the Count of the Rose out of the room.