by Amy Ewing
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Yeah. It’s just . . . weird.” He stands and glances toward the door. “You should probably be getting out to the garden.”
“Right.” I have no idea what to do, how to be a lady-in-waiting.
Garnet’s expression softens. “Do whatever she says. Pick out dresses and stuff. And bring her breakfast if she wants it. That’s all the job is. I’m sure you remember.” I know he’s talking about Annabelle. “Here,” he says, heading over to a closet and handing me a soft, pink shawl. “Sorry about the color. Coral likes pink.”
I give him a weak laugh. “You think?”
My hands tremble as I wrap the shawl around my shoulders.
“Hey, Violet?” Garnet says. “What you did was reckless and all that, but for what it’s worth, I think your sister is lucky to have you.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, my throat tight. I point a finger at him. “It’s Imogen now. Don’t forget. I might.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a grin.
My legs tremble as I make my way back downstairs and out into the garden.
BEING CORAL’S LADY-IN-WAITING IS AN EXERCISE IN patience.
I hope Annabelle never felt this way about me. She prattles on about anything and everything, who’s wearing a dress she wants or which old friend won’t speak to her now that she’s moved up in the Jewel. It’s enough to make me want to jam my fingers in my ears. And on top of that, while we’re in the garden I have to keep chasing after her. One second she’ll be gushing over a particular flower and the next she’ll see a bird and just have to run after it. Finally, she insists that she’s exhausted and demands to be taken inside.
By the time dinner arrives, I’m tired and frazzled and haven’t had even a second to spare to try and figure out a way to get into the medical room. When I was the Duchess’s surrogate, I took a private elevator from the second floor straight down to the basement. I remember the route exactly; down the hall of the flowers, through the open gallery, then a right, then a left, then down a short hall paneled in oak. But thanks to Coral’s incessant needs, I haven’t had a chance to even attempt to get there. Besides the fact that Maude told me I mustn’t be seen in the halls. Maybe there’s a servant’s entrance to the medical room? I try to remember if I noticed any other door during my doctor’s appointments, but all I can recall is the sterilized feel, the clusters of bright lights, the tray of shiny silver instruments.
Dinner brings a brief respite (after Coral tries on and dismisses seven dresses and makes me redo her hair twice) and I’m grateful for it. Was Annabelle always this tired? My feet and calves ache, and the beginning of a headache is forming at my left temple. After I walk Coral to the dining room, I decide to try and find the kitchen again and get lost in the maze of underground servant tunnels. I’m too embarrassed to ask for directions. Everyone looks so busy. I pass a Regimental and can’t help the way my chest seizes up, my pulse kicking into a sprint. He stops and introduces himself as Three, then very nicely points me in the right direction.
“So, you’re serving Coral?”
I nod. After what Garnet said, I’m afraid to speak in front of anyone. Not that the Regimentals would remember my voice.
“What circle are you from?”
He’s slim and brown-skinned, with big hazel eyes. He has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a boy. I’ve never really taken the time to look closely at the Regimentals before—they’ve always blurred together.
“The Farm,” I lie.
“I’m from the Bank.” I wonder if he is the son of the Cobbler, the man who Lucien sent to fetch me from Lily’s house, the man who lost his son to the royalty to be trained as a Regimental. “What did they decide to call you?”
“Imogen.”
“That’s nice. I don’t think I’ve heard that one before. I’m about the millionth Three to walk these halls. The Duchess fired most of her previous guard after that whole business with the companion. I’ve only been here a few months.”
I smell the kitchen before I see it—the scent of ham and honey mixed with rosemary and thyme. My stomach growls and Three laughs.
“You’ll eat soon. After Coral has retired for the night.” He leans in. “Be nice to Zara. She’s the fat cook. Well, the fattest cook. If she likes you, she’ll let you snack.”
The kitchen is a madhouse. Pots banging down on stovetops and large serving dishes being laden with food, footmen running around, cooks shouting at maids to add more of this or a pinch of that to various dishes.
“We need the second course now,” one footman snaps.
“You’ll have it when it’s ready,” the fat cook who gave me a tart earlier snaps back. One look around tells me she must be Zara. She squeezes half a lemon over an enormous whole dorado nestled among lemon slices and fluffy greens. A kitchen maid sprinkles a bit of seasoning on it, then Zara hands the tray to the grumpy footman. Her eyes land on me and light up. “The new girl! Did they give you a name yet?”
“Imogen,” I say.
“I’m Zara,” she says. “You must be starved. Help yourself to anything on that cutting board over there.” Another kitchen maid drops a bowl of thick, white cream onto the floor and Zara starts shouting at her. I sneak off to the corner, desperate for food.
The board contains a hunk of blue-veined cheese and half a loaf of bread, a couple of small, firm tomatoes, a bowl of olives, half a dozen figs, some walnuts, and a few slices of cured meat. I shove as much of it as I can into my mouth, nearly choking on an olive pit.
The arcana in my bun begins to buzz and suddenly I’m desperate for a way out. I walk as quickly and casually as I can toward the door that leads to the garden, not wanting to attract attention. But everyone is so busy with dinner that no one notices me. I slip out into the cool April evening.
There is a large shrub, trimmed in the shape of a dancing bear, by the glass corridor to the east wing, and it’s big enough to hide behind. I crouch down and carefully extract the arcana.
“Lucien?”
“Garnet told me you made it. How are you? He said you did a remarkable job with your disguise.” The sound of his voice makes my insides melt with relief.
“I’m all right,” I whisper. “I’m successfully situated as Coral’s lady-in-waiting.”
“You know, you are infuriatingly stubborn, but this might not have been the worst idea after all. Maybe we can even arrange a way for you to see the Auction House before the big day. Get yourself familiar with it in real life.”
That’s all well and good, but right now I only want my sister. “I need to see Hazel, Lucien. They’re keeping her locked up in the medical room and I know where the elevator is but I’m not supposed to be seen walking through the halls and Coral always needs something from me and—”
“Calm down, honey. Take a breath. Every royal medical room has an underground entrance. You’ve seen the servants’ tunnels by now, I imagine?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s really confusing.”
“There are other tunnels as well, ones that are more private.”
I pause. “Like the one I used to sneak into Ash’s room?”
I can hear Lucien smile. “Yes. Look at that, your tryst had its uses.” His tone is gently teasing.
“So one of those tunnels might lead to the medical room?”
“Definitely. Royals do not like wheeling pregnant surrogates through their gilded halls when they are ready to be sent to the birthing facility. Or dead surrogates to the morgue. They prefer a subtler exit. Many of these are close to the garages, so you might want to start there.”
“Thank you, Lucien,” I say fervently. “Any more news on . . . on the Electress’s plans?”
“None, though if you recall before you so suddenly decided you had to come back here, I never had concrete proof. Only snippets of conversation between the Exetor and the Electress.”
“What were they saying?”
“I distinctly remember the Exetor saying
something about a wedding and the Electress laughing and saying a shroud might be more appropriate than a dress.”
“That could be about anything,” I say.
“Yes, but you don’t live with the Electress. She despises the Duchess. She’s constantly asking me to check up on the Duchess’s surrogate, to find out how she’s doing, the state of her pregnancy. The problem is, since the engagement has been officially announced, any attempt on Hazel’s life would be seen as an attempt on the future Electress’s. It would be considered treason.”
“And you think the Electress would risk that?”
Lucien sighs. “I am not sure. She takes her situation entirely for granted. It would not surprise me to think that she holds herself above the law. But remember, she is not truly royal. There are many in this circle who would turn on her in an instant, who would clamor to replace her with a true royal.” There’s a pause. “The troubling issue is that she has not outwardly asked for my help. If anyone were to be able to accomplish a discreet surrogate killing . . .”
“Please,” I say. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
“I would never do it, of course,” Lucien says. “But she has asked me before. Why does she not seek my help now?”
“Maybe because you haven’t done it in the past,” I suggest.
“Maybe . . .”
A twig snaps near my hiding spot, followed by the sound of voices.
“Someone’s coming,” I hiss.
The arcana drops, silent and lifeless, into my open palm.
“. . . don’t even know where she came from,” a girl is saying. “She just showed up.”
“I thought for sure the Duchess would make you the new lady-in-waiting,” a second voice says. I peer through the branches and see Mary, Carnelian’s maid, with another servant.
“I know,” Mary replies. “But it wasn’t the Duchess who hired her. It was Garnet.”
“Do you know what I bet it is?” the second girl says slyly.
“What?”
“She’s really here for him. A little plaything for the royal son. I can’t imagine Coral is all that exciting behind closed doors.”
Mary stops and raises an eyebrow. “Oh yes.” She giggles. “Elizabeth, I think you might be on to something.”
Elizabeth shrugs. “So the Duchess will probably take care of her the same way she did the mute.”
The two girls laugh, and it takes all my effort to remain rooted in my spot, not to join with Earth and have the ground open up beneath their feet or the trees tear them to pieces.
“Let’s get inside,” Mary says.
I wait a full minute before returning, head spinning, to the kitchen.
THE END OF DINNER IS SIGNALED BY MAUDE RUSHING into the kitchen and demanding to know where Imogen is.
For half a heartbeat, I look around for someone else before remembering that’s me.
“Get upstairs,” she hisses.
“Sorry!” I say, following her out into the stone halls. “I didn’t realize dinner was over.”
“You have about three minutes before it is,” Maude says. “I rang the bell.”
“I was in the garden. I needed some fresh air. It won’t happen again,” I say quickly, withering under her gaze.
“I certainly hope not. You are to escort Miss Coral upstairs, prepare her for bed, and then report to Cora. She will be your direct supervisor in this house.”
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “Of course.”
We climb the set of stairs behind the tapestry and come out in the hall by the dining room. Cora is already waiting there. The sight of her brings back another flood of memories—a plate of grapes and soft cheese, the soothing feel of the ice ointment she applied after the Duchess hit me. Putting on my veil for Dahlia’s funeral. The way the keys that hang from her belt would clink together. Her auburn topknot is exactly as I remember it, as are the crinkles around her eyes. She gives me a curt once-over.
“And Garnet hired her?” she asks Maude.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I keep silent.
“Hmm.” Cora’s mouth turns down. “I heard Coral gave you a name.”
I nod.
“Imogen,” Maude says.
“Hmm,” Cora says again. “You will report to my chambers after Coral has retired for the evening.”
I drop into a curtsy just as the doors open. I look up and find myself face-to-face with the Duchess.
The panic that grips me is so complete, the fear so overwhelming, that for an instant it’s like I no longer exist. My body is gone and my mind is blank and there is nothing left but terror.
I’d forgotten just how beautiful she is. Her caramel-honey skin, her ebony hair, the way her purple silk gown hangs perfectly off her thin frame, revealing her shoulders and collarbone. But it’s her eyes that I remember the most. The way they used to study me, critical and impassive. How they could shift from vulnerable to cruel in an instant. The look in them when she ran the knife across Annabelle’s throat, as easy as if she were slicing through a stick of butter.
The Duke is by her side. He looks drunk.
“Fabulous dinner, Maude,” he roars. The Duchess winces. “You must send Zara my compliments.”
“Yes, my lord,” Maude says.
“What is this?” the Duchess asks, stopping short to look at me. It doesn’t escape my notice that she says what instead of who. Sweat drips under my arms, and my knees shake, but I force myself to keep my gaze steady, my face neutral, the same way I did the very first time I met her, before she hit me.
It was harder then. I didn’t know anything, about where I was or who I was or what I had the potential to be. I’m not that girl anymore.
“New lady-in-waiting, your ladyship,” Maude replies.
At that moment, Garnet and Coral appear behind them.
“Mother, have you met Imogen?” Garnet says. He looks a bit intoxicated himself. “I got her for Coral. She must have a proper lady-in-waiting, right?”
The Duchess gives me a long, lingering look. Perhaps I’m imagining it, but she seems particularly focused on my eyes. Then the moment passes, and she turns to her son, an icy smile on her face.
“Why, darling, how marvelous. I never thought you capable of hiring help.”
“Isn’t she perfect?” Coral coos. “She looks just like me, doesn’t she?”
I really wish she hadn’t made that particular comparison. I don’t need the Duchess looking at me any closer than she already is. I feel like she can see through this thin veil, my Auguried disguise.
“Yes,” the Duchess says after a moment. “I suppose she does.” Her eyes flicker to mine one last time before she strides off down the hall in the direction of the main staircase. My entire body feels like it’s deflating from the tension. Cora follows after her, their heads close together as the Duchess whispers something I can’t hear.
“Sure you won’t join me for a brandy?” the Duke says to his son.
“No, Father, I think I’ll pass.” Garnet barely hides his disdain as the Duke staggers off toward his smoking room.
“Come on, Imogen,” Coral says. “It’s time to get me ready for bed.”
We retire to her chambers after Garnet makes some excuse about needing to use the library. I run a bath for Coral and find scented salts under the sink. Soon the air smells like lilac and freesia. I want to climb into this bathtub and never get out.
“Is it ready?” Coral says. She stands in the doorway wearing a thick white robe. As if it’s nothing, she slips off the robe and hands it to me. She is completely naked. I don’t know where to look, but Coral seems perfectly at ease.
“Shall I wait outside, miss?”
“Yes, that would be fine. Go arrange my best nightdress on the bed for me.”
I curtsy and run out of the room. Coral has three closets, an armoire, and two dressers plus a vanity. I think Annabelle kept all my nightclothes in a drawer, and sure enough, I find a wide variety of silky undergarments and sleepwear. As I sift th
rough the contents, wondering what exactly her best nightdress might be, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen any of Garnet’s clothing in these closets.
“Imogen!” Coral shouts. “The water’s gone cold, bring my towel now!”
What did she do before she had a lady-in-waiting? I wonder to myself.
After Coral has been dried off and her hair has been brushed out and her face and arms moisturized and the blankets have been tucked right up to her chin, I am finally released from my duties.
“Good night, Imogen,” Coral says.
It wouldn’t surprise me if Garnet has never spent a night in that bed.
“Good night,” I say, closing the door behind me.
Now for the real challenge.
It’s time to face Cora.
Nine
CORA’S CHAMBERS ARE BEHIND THE FIRST DOOR IN THE east wing. Maude pointed them out earlier.
I take a steadying breath before knocking.
“Enter,” she calls from within.
The parlor is lit with a soft glow—pretty sconces hang on the walls giving off a pinkish light. There is a fireplace and a large couch that curves in the shape of a smile and a thick gold rug. Oil paintings hang on the walls and golden curtains cover the windows.
It reminds me very much of Ash’s old room in this palace, the parlor I used to sneak into when Carnelian was at her lessons.
Cora sits in a rocking chair by the window, a position that is so reminiscent of Sil it makes my heart throb. She doesn’t stand as I enter.
“Sit,” she says, indicating the couch.
I do as she commands.
“When did Garnet hire you?”
I try to keep my voice low and husky, and answer as honestly and succinctly as possible. I don’t need to get myself tangled up in any more lies than necessary. “Yesterday.”
Her eyes narrow. “You will address me as ma’am. What House did you work for?”
It’s like all the royal Houses have vanished from my brain. I can’t think of a single one, but somehow, “The House of the Flame, ma’am,” comes out. Cora nods as if that makes sense to her. I make a mental note to tell Garnet later, in case she asks him.