by Amy Ewing
“And here are some extra diamantes, just in case,” Sil says, pressing the coins into my hands. My throat has swelled up so I nod in thanks.
“Well,” she says as the train screeches to a halt and the doors are thrown open. Then she engulfs me in a short but emphatic hug.
“Thanks, Sil,” I whisper. “For everything.”
“Go on, then,” she says, rubbing her eyes and turning away. I join the line of people waiting to board. When I get on, I find a seat by a window. Turnip and Sil are already on their way back to the White Rose.
The train rolls forward and the first step of this journey begins. To get to the Bank, I’m going to have to transfer at one of the Farm’s main terminals.
Should I even be doing this? Is the danger to Hazel great enough for me to take such a risk?
But as the farmland flashes past me out the window, I think about waiting here over the next month, so far away from her, not knowing from one day to the next if she’s dead or alive, certain of only one thing: it’s my fault. I couldn’t live like that.
The main terminal is large and loud, packed with people. I find my train, a great gray monster, and take a seat opposite a worker reading the Lone City Herald. The headline reads: “Exetor and Electress Promise Spectacular Auction Festivities This Year.” At the bottom of the page, I see another article, only a paragraph and in much smaller print: “Five Dead in Bombing; Black Key Society Suspected.”
Nerves gnaw at my stomach for the rest of the ride. Especially for one moment in the Smoke, when we pass the ruined shell of a factory near the elevated tracks. One of the bombed buildings. Black keys are scrawled everywhere. A man is being beaten in the street by three Regimentals. Then the train chugs on, leaving the unsettling scene behind us.
But it stays in my mind for the rest of the ride. I haven’t seen much of the actual revolution. I’ve heard stories, from Lucien and Garnet, and read them in the papers, but I’ve never seen the results of Lucien’s efforts laid bare in front of me. It’s very different, reading a headline versus seeing the blackened ruin left behind.
When we arrive at the station in the Bank, we’re instructed to leave the train and transfer to a different one. My stomach is in so many knots I don’t think they’ll ever untangle. I’m sweating under my arms and on my lower back. Garnet said there would be a group of newly hired servants coming in, but all I see are men in bowler hats and women with parasols.
Just then a covered wagon pulls up. Girls file out of it, all of them wearing brown dresses. They range in age from a few years younger than me to nearly as old as Sil. A woman in charge is ushering them off the wagon.
Quickly, I slip through the crowd and fall in step behind a girl with curly brown hair. We wait patiently in a group as another train, the one going to the Jewel, pulls up.
Someone grabs my arm.
“Where is your hat?” A girl in her late twenties is glaring at me, furious.
“What? Oh, I . . . I lost it,” I say. The lie falls out of my mouth on its own.
She tsks. “Here, I have an extra one.” She hands me a white cap with lace fringe on it, identical to the one on her own head. “Take care not to lose this one.”
“Right, thanks,” I say.
“You’re lucky you didn’t arrive in the Jewel like that,” she says as we begin to board the train. I notice that all the servant girls are entering a smaller, front compartment, separate from the Bank patrons. “The ladies-in-waiting are sticklers about new girls. They might just send you back to the Bank, and you don’t want that, do you?”
I shake my head.
“Which House are you assigned to?”
“The Lake,” I say.
“Really?” The girl looks surprised. “I didn’t know they were looking for more help.”
“Garnet of the House of the Lake hired me,” I say, taking care to call him by his full title. “For his wife.”
“Oh, so he’s finally getting her a proper lady-in-waiting, is he? I’d have thought the Duchess would never let her get one.” She claps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Don’t repeat that. I—I didn’t mean it.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I won’t say a thing.”
She grins. “Thanks.”
We climb into the compartment, which is standing room only. There are no chairs or benches to sit on. The train whistles and the doors bang shut. A second later, we lurch forward.
“You haven’t seen the Jewel before, have you?” the girl says.
“No,” I lie.
I must look genuinely frightened because her whole manner softens. “What’s your name?”
“Lily,” I say. Again, the word comes out on its own, but I’m glad I chose it. A tribute to my blond-haired friend from Southgate. Lily is pregnant and living in the Bank now.
“Well, Lily,” the girl says, looking out the window at the posh town houses passing by, “you’re in for a real treat.”
Six
THE IRON DOORS SCREECH WHEN THEY OPEN.
I hold my breath as the train slowly chugs through the wall that separates the Bank and the Jewel. When I came here for the Auction, nearly seven months ago, I was drugged and unconscious for this part of the journey. Now I can see just how thick this wall is, maybe even as thick as the Great Wall that surrounds the entire island. We are plunged into darkness and all I can think is, Will eighty-one surrogates be enough to bring it down?
Not surrogates, I remind myself. Surrogates are slaves. We are eighty-one Paladin.
After a full minute of pitch black, I stare out the window in awe as the Jewel comes into view. I’d forgotten just how deceptively beautiful it is.
The buildings that line the inside of the wall are not palaces, but they are glamorous all the same. We pass a restaurant made entirely out of glass, three tiers of people eating and drinking and laughing. There’s a croquet pitch—two teenage girls are knocking around brightly colored balls while their ladies-in-waiting (one male, one female) look on. In the distance I can see a rose-colored, domed building with golden spires.
The Auction House.
The train creeps toward the station, which is by far the nicest one I’ve ever seen. There is a comfortable little house beside it where people can wait for their trains. Motorcars line the road.
We are instructed to stay put and be silent until the other travelers have left and the train is empty. Then we file out in a neat line. There are three wagons waiting for us. The woman in charge begins to sort us into them, depending on which House we are going to. I’m waiting nervously for my turn when I hear a familiar voice.
“Not that one, it’s got to have the crest of the House of the Flame on it.”
The last time I saw Lucien was at the White Rose, when I asked him to save Sienna for me. That was over two months ago. He looks angry, impatient, his mouth turned down, his forehead wrinkling. His hair is in its usual perfect topknot, and he tugs at the lace collar of his white dress as two men haul the crate onto the back of a glossy coach with the Exetor’s crest on it—a crowned flame crossed with two spears.
“Be careful, I said,” he snaps at the men. I knew Lucien ran the Exetor and Electress’s household, but I’ve never seen him like this. He seems . . . mean.
But then his gaze sweeps over the line of girls being sorted into the wagons, scanning them, looking for a familiar face . . . and when his eyes land on me, they register not even the slightest hint of recognition. His face falls ever so slightly.
I suppose I should be relieved. It’s a good thing if I’m not recognized. But it stings a little all the same.
“That’s the last one, sir,” one of the men says.
“Very good,” Lucien says, handing him a few diamantes.
“House?”
I start. The woman in charge is staring down at me.
“House?” she says again.
“The Lake,” I say.
“Wagon three.” She points to the wagon on the
far right and I duck my head meekly, hurrying over to it and climbing into the back. It’s covered with a brown canvas and there are two benches. I sit beside a heavy girl with frizzy black hair.
“Which House are you serving?” she asks me.
“Oh, um, the House of the Lake.”
“I’m going to a Founding House as well!” she exclaims. “House of the Rose. Is this your first time in the Jewel?”
I nod.
“Mine too. I’m Rabbet, what’s your name?”
The wagon fills up around us. Some girls keep to themselves; others whisper to each other.
I almost blurt out my real name but stop myself at the last second. “I’m Lily.”
“That’s a pretty name,” Rabbet says. “Which circle are you from?”
“The Farm,” I say as the wagon lurches forward. Part of me wishes Rabbet would stop talking because I’m so nervous, but in some sense it does provide a nice distraction. “What about you?”
“The Smoke. I started working as a scullery maid in the Bank when I was eight. And then they moved me up to kitchen maid and then chambermaid. My mistress was going to make me her lady’s maid, she said. But then she died.”
“I’m sorry.”
Rabbet shrugs. “Now I get to work in the Jewel! I wonder what the palace of the Rose looks like.”
I saw the palace of the Rose very briefly—the Duchess and I drove past it on our way to Dahlia’s funeral. It was crafted out of jade and shaped like an evergreen tree.
I can only see out of the back of the wagon and I’m expecting palaces lined up behind golden gates, the way it was on all my drives through the Jewel. But the road we’re on is rough and uneven, not at all like the smooth roads I remember. And I can’t see any palaces at all, only large stone walls on either side of us. And every wall is topped with vicious spikes.
Are we behind the palaces?
That would make sense. The royalty would never want to see this sort of wagon on their streets. They wouldn’t want to see the servants at all.
My suspicion is confirmed when we make our first stop.
“House of the Gale,” the driver shouts. A blonde and a brunette jump down off the back of the wagon. There is an iron door in the stone wall, with a bell hanging beside it. The blonde rings the bell as the wagon begins to roll forward. The brunette glances back at us as the door opens, fear in her eyes, before she disappears from view.
I never thought to look for a door in the wall that surrounded the Duchess’s palace. And I loved walking through her wild garden.
Then I force my thoughts away from it because all of my memories of the garden are tinged with Annabelle. She was my own lady-in-waiting, but really she was my friend. My first friend in the Jewel. She was sweet and good and the Duchess killed her right in front of me.
The memory of her lying there, dying on the floor of my bedroom, rears up, a monster of guilt and pain inside me. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to steady myself.
We make two more stops before it’s Rabbet’s turn.
“House of the Rose!” the driver calls.
“Wish me luck,” Rabbet says breathily.
“Good luck,” I say with a tight smile. The wagon lurches forward and two more stops later, the driver shouts, “House of the Lake!”
My knees shake as I climb down and stand in front of the iron door that leads to the Duchess’s palace. My throat is dry and I’m having a hard time swallowing. My limbs are numb and clumsy and seem to have forgotten how to work. The wagon rolls away and I stare after it for a moment, panicked, thinking this was a very stupid idea. But then I remind myself that Hazel is behind this door, and somehow, my hand manages to reach out and pull down on the rope swinging from the big brass bell.
Several seconds pass. Then a minute. Then two. Nothing.
I ring the bell again. Then again.
What if Garnet forgot to tell anyone I’m coming? What if the Duchess said, no, he can’t hire a lady-in-waiting? What if someone else comes along this road and starts asking questions? What if—?
The door groans open.
“What do you want?” I don’t recognize the woman standing in front of me. She is plump and older, with olive skin and wrinkles around her eyes.
“I . . . I’m here to work,” I say.
The woman’s eyes narrow. “I’m not aware of Cora hiring anyone new.”
“Garnet hired me.”
The woman claps a hand to her chest. “Oh my goodness! I’m so terribly sorry, when he told me I thought it was just another one of his jokes. Come in, come in, let’s get you into some proper clothes. What’s your name?”
I almost want to laugh because the last time I was here, not only did no one ask my name, but I was forbidden to even try and say it out loud.
“Lily,” I say.
“Well, we’ll get you assigned a proper lady-in-waiting name. I’m Maude.”
I step inside the walls of the palace of the Lake, and the memories are so strong they threaten to crush me. All those walks I took with Annabelle; the day she showed me the greenhouse; the times when we would just sit together on a bench, listening to the birds chirp and the wind rustle through the trees. Finding out Raven lived next door and gazing up at the wall that separated us. Sending her trinkets, a button or a hair ribbon, anything to let her know I was all right. Seeing Ash kiss Carnelian in the ballroom, the all-consuming agony of realizing he would never be mine. How he followed me into the hedge maze and confessed to me that he hated his life. That was the day I started to realize we were the same.
“The passage to the kitchen is behind here,” Maude says, pointing to a crumbling statue of a young archer with a wolf by his side. “But I’ll show you the grounds for now. This way.”
I pretend like I know what she’s talking about. We walk through the garden, buds just beginning to blossom on the trees, the sun filtering through their branches. We pass by the old oak tree, where Dr. Blythe made me practice the third Augury, Growth. The tree was so big, I never thought I’d be able to affect it. But I did. I remember the blood that poured out of my nose while he clapped in appreciation.
I notice new things, too, things I hadn’t been able to sense before. The smell of the earth is different here than in the Farm—there’s a chemical note to it that makes my nose wrinkle. And what I once thought of as wildness in the way the trees grow now feels contained—this garden may look untamed but every tree was carefully planted. They are as trapped here as I was, all shoved together with no room to breathe. Earth is the element I connect with the easiest and most deeply—the trees around me sense my presence, the way a dog’s ears might prick at a familiar noise. I want to reach out to them, to join with them.
We pass the little pond, where I once told Ash I couldn’t see him anymore. Bright orange-and-white fish dart around in the shallow water. We emerge out into the tidier area, skirting the giant hedge maze. But instead of going in through the door next to the ballroom—the door I always used when I visited this garden—Maude swerves sharply to the right. There are stairs cut into the ground, hidden by bushes, leading down to a plain wooden door. She opens it and I find myself at the edge of a bustling kitchen.
A large wooden table dominates the center of the room. Several cooks in white aprons are busy shouting out orders or stirring things in pots or chopping vegetables. There are five enormous stoves and something seems to be boiling, simmering, or baking in every one. Scullery maids with soot-smudged faces poke at fires and refill the piles of wood stacked at various points around the kitchen. One girl is kneading an enormous pile of dough. We’re clearly in a lower level of the palace—the windows are high up in the walls, long rectangular shafts of light slanting through them. Gleaming copper pots and pans hang from racks on the ceiling. The smells here are delicious; roasting meat and garlic and freshly baked bread. A footman is flirting with a maid in one corner and with a start I recognize her—she’s Carnelian’s maid. I think her name is Mary.
I resist
the urge to touch my face, to make sure it still looks as different as I made it.
“Who’s this?” a red-faced cook bellows. She’s nearly as fat as the Countess of the Stone, Raven’s evil former mistress. But the Countess of the Stone has cold, cruel eyes—this woman bears a much friendlier expression.
“Garnet hired her to serve Coral,” Maude explains.
“Good for him,” the cook says. “It had to happen sooner or later. Here you go, dearie, have a tart.” She motions to a tray of pastries topped with glazed apple slices. I scoop one up and eat it gratefully.
“No time for food,” Maude says, leading me away.
“Thank you,” I say to the cook, brushing a few crumbs from my lips. She smiles at me.
We walk down a long stone hall, other corridors branching off it, and then up a set of stairs, emerging into the servant’s wing of the palace. Maude leads me down the main corridor and then makes a sharp left.
“Here we are,” she says, opening the door to what appears to be a combination drawing room and fitting room. There is a three-sided mirror in one corner near a row of closets. In the opposite corner is a couch upholstered in peach silk and a low mahogany coffee table. A pitcher of water and two glasses sit on the table. “Find yourself a dress that fits—I think the lady-in-waiting garments are . . .” She opens a closet door, closes it, then opens another one. “Ah. Here we are.”
There are rows of white dresses with high lace collars. A knot tightens in my stomach. This is all becoming too surreal—me being here, under totally different circumstances. I look at the dresses again. Are these the same ones Annabelle wore?
“Come on now, Lily, we haven’t got all day.” Maude reaches into the closet and pulls out a dress. “This looks to be about your size.”
She hands it to me and I realize I’m expected to change right now. I slip off the brown dress, sad to lose the only part of the White Rose I brought with me. The lady-in-waiting dress fits fairly well and I decide it can’t have been Annabelle’s—she was far thinner than me, and flatter in the chest. The lace itches around my throat.