The Black Key

by Amy Ewing

  Coral’s smile widens even more.

  “Yes, of course,” the Exetor says. His gaze drifts around the room and I wonder if maybe he is interested in seeing Hazel after all.

  “You are too kind,” Garnet says. “We would love to.”

  Trumpets blare from out in the garden. The Duchess enters the ballroom wearing a beautiful gown of silver, diamonds stitched into the bodice and skirt so that she sparkles when she moves. She stops just inside the door. Those who have made their way out into the garden begin to crowd back toward the palace, necks craning, everyone eager to see the surrogate.

  It’s disgusting. I remember the way they stared at me at the Exetor’s Ball when I was forced to play the cello. I hate that Hazel has to experience that.

  “My friends,” she says, spreading her arms out wide. I notice a silver bangle on her wrist that makes my heart sink. “I am so pleased to present to you once again, after quite the whirlwind few months, my surrogate.”

  She jerks the wrist wearing the bangle and Hazel shuffles into view. She is attached to the Duchess by a thin chain that is fastened to an ornate collar around her neck. Tension rolls over me in waves. Hazel is on a leash.

  But even worse, her stomach protrudes from under her dress, a round curve that clearly shows she’s pregnant.

  But she’s not. She can’t be. I saw her two days ago. And they’ve stopped trying to impregnate her.

  My thoughts are snarled up, and then, from across the room, my sister’s eyes find mine and she gives me the slightest shake of her head. Reassuring me. Whatever is under her dress, it isn’t real.

  It is disconcerting, though, how easily she is able to pull off being me. The Duchess was very clever. Hazel must be in heels to match my height. They’ve padded the bodice of her dress so her chest looks like mine. She wears the exact same dress I wore to my first dinner in this palace—pale purple, with an empire waist. Her hair has been curled and pinned just how Annabelle used to do mine.

  The only new addition, besides the pregnant stomach, is a veil. A shimmering layer of white gauze covers Hazel’s face from the bridge of her nose to just below her chin. It is translucent, so her features are still partly discernible. Maybe the Duchess wanted a precaution against anyone realizing she isn’t me. Or maybe it’s just some new surrogate fashion.

  Hazel’s purple eyes are wide with a mixture of fear and wonder at the scene spreading out before her—I realize she’s never actually seen this palace, or any other royal, before. Her gaze travels over the glittering fabrics to the glossy instruments of the string quartet and finally lands on the tables of food laid out in the garden, before returning to me.

  The royals are watching her with interest, too. Their eyes all flicker between the Duchess and Hazel’s stomach.

  “She has been through a terrible ordeal,” the Duchess is saying. “So please, keep your distance. We don’t want to overwhelm her too much.”

  The Electress has already crossed the ballroom to stand in front of Hazel. The Duke makes his way unsteadily to stand beside the Duchess and they bow and curtsy as the Exetor joins them, the nurse trailing behind. The room watches with bated breath as the Electress looks Hazel up and down.

  “She seems . . . thinner,” the Electress says.

  “She is perfectly healthy, I assure you, Your Grace. The doctor visits her every day.”

  The Electress opens her mouth, but the Exetor puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her to face the waiting crowd. He gestures for the nurse to hand Larimar to the Electress so that they are grouped together, the Duke and Duchess, Hazel, Larimar, and the Electress and Exetor, in a bizarre mockery of a family photograph.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I present to you the future of the Lone City!”

  The crowd erupts in cheers. The Countess of the Stone, I notice, claps unenthusiastically. The Electress’s smile looks forced. Larimar begins to cry, reaching out for his nurse. I spot the gray-haired Countess of the Rose in the crowd, Sienna’s former mistress. She watches the scene with a smug expression.

  “Now let’s celebrate with a drink!” Garnet says. The cheers turn to laughs, and the string quartet starts up again. Hazel is immediately surrounded by royal women who are clearly dying to get as close to her as possible without inciting the wrath of the Duchess.

  It makes me furious. Hazel looks terrified, all these unfamiliar ladies gawking at her, talking about her to the Duchess like she’s not standing right there, a leash fastened around her neck.

  Lucien glides over to where we are standing. “Emile,” he says. “Is Frederic still sick?”

  “He is.”

  “Do send him my best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  “I will.”

  Lucien ignores me completely.

  “The Electress must be very happy to see the surrogate,” Emile says.

  “Indeed,” he replies. “I don’t think she’s going to let the girl out of her sight all evening.”

  It does seem as though the Electress has glued herself to Hazel’s side. Her closeness hasn’t escaped the Duchess’s notice either. Cora hovers behind them. When our eyes meet, she gives me a curt nod.

  I feel better knowing that I’m not the only person looking out for Hazel tonight.

  The party moves into the garden as the sun begins to set, decorating the sky with streaks of pink and orange. The ladies-in-waiting keep on the fringes, and I find myself enjoying this party more than any of the ones I attended as a surrogate. Probably because no one is staring at me or talking about me like I don’t exist. I watch Rye feed Carnelian a chocolate-covered strawberry and my heart aches thinking of Ash again. And Ochre now, too. I hope they’re all right, wherever they are. The only consolation I have is that, if Ash had been caught, I surely would have heard by now. The Duchess would be ecstatic.

  I spend quite a bit of time with Emile and find myself enjoying his company immensely. He is kind, and smart, and has a quick wit. I feel bad that he has to live in that horrible palace. I can’t wait to tell Raven I met him.

  The Duke gets staggeringly drunk. He keeps making elaborate toasts that no one wants to listen to. The Duchess tries to stay as far away from him as possible, Hazel by her side. Hazel and I have exchanged a few glances, but there’s simply no way to talk to her here. The Electress keeps petting the top of her head, like she’s a dog.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” the Duke says, raising his glass for the third time. “I would like to make a t—”

  Suddenly a loud voice booms out over the music.

  “The House of the Lake is a poison to this city!”

  A Regimental stands in the middle of the crowd. He’s smaller than most of the other ones I’ve seen, with a haggard face. There is a moment of shocked silence among the partygoers.

  “Their blood shall never sit on the throne!” he shouts. Then he draws his pistol and points it straight at Hazel.

  And with a loud pop, the shooting begins.

  Fourteen

  HAZEL.

  That’s all I can think.

  I have to get to Hazel.

  After the first shot rings out, chaos erupts. More shots are fired and it seems like they’re coming from everywhere. Someone yanks me to the ground and I realize it’s Lucien.

  “Stay down,” he growls in my ear, before rushing into the fray. I’m on my feet as soon as he’s gone. Rye runs past me with Carnelian, her face pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her.

  Hazel. I have to find Hazel. That man was pointing the gun right at her.

  As I shove through the crowds fighting for the exit, I stumble on something and fall to the ground, scraping my palms.

  The Duke’s eyes stare up at me, unblinking, a red spot in the center of his chest growing bigger and bigger. I scoot backward and see One and another Regimental standing over the body of the haggard man beside another dead Regimental—his accomplice I would guess, judging by the way One is glaring at him.

  “Search t
hem,” One spits. “Then get them out of here.”

  The garden is emptying out now. The Exetor and Electress are nowhere to be seen—they must have been the first ones the Regimentals protected when the shooting started. Then I see a fine silver chain in the grass, its end broken off the wrist it was once attached to. I crawl on the ground toward it, and find a pair of little feet poking out from underneath a white-clad body.

  Cora is prostrate over Hazel. I grab her arm and pull her off my sister. She moans.

  Blood has seeped through her dress, staining her shoulder bright red. Hazel coughs and sits up.

  “She . . . she pulled me down,” she says, staring wide-eyed at Cora, who has sunk into unconsciousness.

  “Protect my surrogate, you fools!” the Duchess shrieks, crawling out from behind a table. Three comes bounding out of nowhere, scoops Hazel up, and disappears with her.

  It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream after her.

  “Cora!” the Duchess cries, seeing her cradled in my arms. She runs over and sinks to her knees, her dress billowing out in sparkling waves around her. “Give her to me,” she snaps, grabbing Cora’s limp figure from my grasp and holding her to her own chest. “Oh, Cora, Cora, what did they do to you . . .”

  I’ve never seen the Duchess look like this before. Tears spill down her cheeks as she rocks her lady-in-waiting back and forth, blood dripping through her fingers.

  “Help me!” she screams, and more Regimentals swarm her. I get up and stumble backward as they lift Cora up and carry her, I presume, to the medical room. I bump right into Garnet, who is staring down at the body of his father.

  “What’s happening?” I ask numbly.

  “I . . . he . . .” Garnet looks confused, as if the scene before him doesn’t make any sense. “Will you help me carry him inside?”

  The ballroom is empty. Broken glass, puddles of wine, and overturned food platters litter the parquet floor. We lay the Duke out by the doors. I grab a clean linen tablecloth and drape it over him.

  “Thanks,” Garnet says, but there’s no emotion behind the word. “I think a footman got shot as well.”

  We find the footman slumped over a shrub. He is young, with copper skin and a large nose. I’m pretty sure his name was George. Garnet and I carry him inside to lay him out beside the Duke. Maids and footmen have begun to tentatively inch back into the ballroom.

  “Start cleaning this up,” Garnet says. I’ve never heard him sound so commanding. He looks like he’s aged ten years tonight.

  “Garnet—” But before I can continue, there is a commotion in the hall and then we hear a voice cry, “For the Exetor’s sake, Five, it’s me, let me through!”

  A few seconds later, Dr. Blythe hurries through the ballroom door. He stops short and gasps at the scene before him. He hasn’t changed a bit—though maybe there are a few more streaks of gray in his thick black hair. His green eyes grow sad as he lifts the corner of the tablecloth covering the Duke.

  “Where is your mother?” he asks, looking up at Garnet, who points out to the garden.

  Dr. Blythe hurries off, and I hear a wail, followed by, “Cora, attend to Cora, you idiot!”

  A second later, he’s back and out the door. I realize someone’s missing.

  “Garnet,” I say quietly. “Where’s Coral?”

  Garnet blinks and looks around. “I don’t know.” He stares blankly out the door for a second, then says, “I’m . . . I’ll be back.”

  He wanders out of the ballroom like a man in a trance.

  I head out into the halls, searching for Coral. After a few minutes, I find her crying on one of the smaller staircases. I sit down and wrap my arms around her as she falls into my chest.

  “Oh, Imogen,” she sobs.

  “Shhh,” I say automatically, holding her tight as much for my own sake as for hers. Hazel nearly died tonight. I was right there and powerless to stop it. I came here to keep her safe and I failed. If Cora hadn’t . . . I squeeze my eyes shut because I can’t think about that.

  I finally get Coral up to bed and settled. Then I walk in a daze back down the stairs and through the halls, not caring about using the servants’ tunnels. I pass the ballroom, where Mary and the other maids are cleaning the floors, while footmen pick up the shattered bottles and broken tables. I should join them. I should help. But my feet keep moving.

  As I walk past the Duke’s smoking room, I hear a quiet noise, like a sob. The door is slightly ajar and I peek in and see Garnet, sitting in an armchair, head in his hands.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m about to turn and leave when he looks up.

  “Oh,” he says, quickly rubbing the tears from his cheeks.

  “Are you all right?” I ask, slipping inside and shutting the door behind me. It’s a stupid question. Of course he’s not. “Do . . . do you know what that was? I mean, was it planned? Was it a Society action?”

  “No,” Garnet says grimly. “Definitely not.”

  “Then—”

  “I don’t know, Violet.” His tone is sharp and he seems to realize it. He sighs and leans back in the chair. “I hate it in here,” he says. “Always have. Stinks. I never understood why my father liked cigars so much.” His voice cracks the tiniest bit on the word father.

  I perch myself on the edge of a leather-covered ottoman. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Garnet’s face grows red and he looks away. “I didn’t even like him all that much,” he says. “He was so embarrassing. Boring. Always drunk. But I didn’t . . . I didn’t want him to . . .” He rubs at his eyes again.

  “When my father died, I felt so guilty,” I say quietly, keeping my gaze focused on a crystal ashtray. “I thought I should have been able to do something, I thought . . .” I clear my throat. Talking to Hazel about this is one thing—it’s hard for me to share these memories with someone else. But Garnet needs this right now. “Then I got angry. Which only made me feel more guilty.”

  “I don’t feel guilty,” Garnet snaps.

  I pause. “Don’t you?”

  A vein in his neck throbs. Then he crumples, the sobs heaving in his chest. I kneel beside him and take his hand in mine.

  “It’s not your fault,” I whisper.

  Garnet’s head falls onto my shoulder, and I let his tears soak my dress for a while, until we hear voices outside. Regimental boots are marching up and down the corridors. Garnet sits up and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

  “You should go,” he says. “We shouldn’t be in here together.”

  I stand. Then I kiss him on the forehead. He gives me a watery smile, before I slip back into the halls. I’m so tired. I want my bed.

  I’m almost at the glass promenade when I run into Dr. Blythe. All my exhaustion disappears in a flood of adrenaline. He looks drained, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

  “Good evening,” he says, then frowns. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. He’ll know my voice.

  “I’m Imogen,” I say, grateful that I’m already so full of emotion, the words come out thick and muddled. “Coral’s new lady-in-waiting.”

  “Ah.” He sighs and puts the handkerchief back in his pocket. “You didn’t suffer any injuries, did you? I’d be happy to examine you.”

  That would be a terrible idea, since nothing about my body has changed. I shake my head vigorously.

  “The surrogate?” I ask. “Is she all right?”

  One of his eyebrows curves up, curious. “She is fine. I’d thought you’d be more concerned with Cora.”

  “Yes, I—how is Cora?” I can feel my cheeks turning pink and I try to will the color away.

  Dr. Blythe studies me for a moment. “She’s fine. The bullet grazed her shoulder. She saved the surrogate’s life.” He rubs his temple. “I’m sorry, have we met before? You seem familiar somehow.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, looking down. “Please excuse me, I’m very tired. It’s good to hear that
Cora is all right. Good night, Doctor.”

  Stop talking, Violet, I scream at myself inwardly. Without waiting for a response from Dr. Blythe, I hurry down the glass corridor, not stopping or looking up until I’ve reached my room and closed and locked the door. I collapse on the bed and the weight of the whole evening crashes down on me.

  A tear leaks from the corner of my eye and leaves a warm trail down my cheek. So many tears being spilled tonight.

  I feel like such a fool. I can’t protect Hazel here. Ash was right. And who am I to tell anyone what to do, how much to risk and for whom?

  I wish desperately for our hayloft. I want to sink down on the woolen blanket and feel his arms around me, his breath stirring my hair as I let out all my fears and frustrations. I want to feel as though I am loved, no matter what decisions or mistakes I’ve made.

  Because I love him for all of his.

  My arcana begins to buzz. I yank it from my hair and my bun comes loose, blond waves falling around my shoulders.

  “What happened?” I demand, before Lucien has a chance to say anything. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.” I’ve never heard him sound like this before. Confused. Almost frightened. “I cannot believe the Electress would orchestrate something like this on her own but . . . if she did, it’s a very bad sign.”

  “How?”

  “It would mean she no longer trusts me, and that is something we cannot afford.”

  “So do you think she planned it or not?” I say.

  “She was by Hazel’s side all night, until right before the shooting began, when she insisted on going inside because it was cold, even though this night was quite pleasant. She and the Exetor were whisked away immediately and she insisted I come with them, even though she knew I could help with the injured. After all, I have saved your life before. Perhaps she did not want me to repeat the performance.”

  “We’ve got to keep her away from Hazel,” I say.

  “I have no power to do that,” he says gently.