by Amy Ewing
Two pink spots appear on Lucien’s cheeks. “Thank you.”
“I doubt I could ever understand what you’re doing here.” I glance at a beaker filled with bright emerald liquid.
“I’m sure you could work a few things out,” he says, eyes twinkling. He glances around the room. “This place has been precious to me for so long.”
“The Electress doesn’t know about it?”
He chuckles. “Oh no. Neither the Electress nor the Exetor know about this room. There are many secrets in this palace that they are unaware of. That is what happens when you do not look below the surface of things, when you only focus on what is right in front of you.”
He picks a copper spring up off the floor and twists it around in his hands.
“Why so many clocks?” I ask.
“I told you a bit about my childhood,” he says. I cringe inwardly, remembering the horrific tale of how Lucien was castrated against his will by his own father as his mother and sister watched. “I loved taking the one clock in our house apart and putting it back together. I suppose old habits die hard, as they say.” He glances at the wall of timepieces behind him. “Some of them feel like very old friends.”
It occurs to me then how little I truly know about Lucien.
“How long have you been collecting them?”
He slowly begins to unroll the coil in his hands. “Since I was twelve. This is the seventh iteration of my wall of clocks. Some I’ve kept. Most are new. The clockmakers in the Bank adore me. Fortunately, neither the Electress nor the Exetor seem to notice or care that we order so many new ones each year.” He sighs. “They would not understand if I ever had to explain it to them. These clocks comfort me. They remind me of someone I used to be. That would sound foolish to them.”
“It doesn’t to me,” I say.
“I know, honey.” The coil has entirely unrolled into a thin line of copper. Lucien bends it in half and tosses it aside on the table. “I remember the first time I heard you play the cello. At the Exetor’s Ball. The intensity of your playing, the simplicity of the music, the expression on your face . . . I remember thinking, I know that feeling.”
“That seems like ages ago,” I say.
“Yes, I imagine it does to you.”
“And not to you?”
Lucien shrugs. “I have lived in this circle a very long time. I suppose I’ve become used to the way time passes here. It ages you. It changes you.”
Silence falls, broken only by the bubbling of beakers and the ticking of the clocks on the wall.
“Hazel escaped,” I say. “She somehow got out of the medical room and ran up to the kitchen. She said . . . someone is trying to kill her. I think she meant Cora. But that can’t be right, can it? And Cora denied it, said Hazel was drugged or something.”
“She escaped the medical room?” Lucien says, raising an eyebrow. “Impressive.”
“She said someone was trying to kill her,” I say again. I’m not feeling like he’s grasping the severity of the situation.
“We know someone is trying to kill her, Violet,” he says patiently. “That’s why you came back to the Jewel in the first place.”
“So what do I do?” I ask, slamming my fist down on the arm of the chair. “She was right there, Lucien, right in front of me begging for help, and I . . . I couldn’t do anything.”
He purses his lips. “I fear there is nothing for us to do now except let this whole thing play out. I imagine the Duchess has increased security around her, after the shooting. That is the best we can hope for—all we can hope for, really. The plans of this Society will come together on Auction Day, or they will not. Time will tell.”
“Do you think the Electress was behind the shooting?” I ask.
“It is certainly the most popular theory.” I give him a look. “Yes,” he admits. “I do.”
I shudder. “It’s so strange,” I say. “That palace . . . it’s gone completely back to normal. Like the Duke never existed.”
“He was not well loved, I’m afraid.” He smacks his hand against his chest. “I forgot to tell you! Ash has made contact with a group of his former colleagues. They are eager and willing to join our side. What a boon! A group of highly trained young men with access in and out of the Jewel. I could not have planned it better myself.”
“He’s all right?” I ask, jumping to my feet. “What else did he say? Is Ochre okay? When did you speak to him?”
“He is fine, as is your brother. I have not spoken with either of them myself. They made contact with another one of my sources two days ago—I believe you met the man during your time in the Bank. The Cobbler, he is called.”
“Yes, I remember him.” I sit back down, my heart beating fast. Ochre and Ash are still together. They are all right.
“He is attempting to coordinate as many companions as he can—both inside the Jewel and out. I believe he’s created some sort of code. He will lead those in the Bank, joining the Society members by the wall near the Auction House on the day of the Auction.”
I remember what Ash’s note to me said. I will be there on Auction Day. He’s keeping his promise.
Lucien is still talking. “Anyone on our side will wear a piece of white fabric tied around their left arm, to identify them.” He pats my knee. “That was Ash’s idea, and quite a smart one. I will spread it to the rest of the Society. It will make it easier for us to identify our friends.”
“Won’t it make us easier to be identified by the Regimentals?”
“I do not believe the Regimentals who are against us will care much if they shoot a member of the Society or a random shop owner. And for those Regimentals who are with us, it will be extremely helpful for them to see who they can trust.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t choose black fabric. For the Black Key and all.”
“I believe it is meant to symbolize the White Rose,” Lucien says. “Which has been just as important, if not quite as well known, as the Black Key.”
“Yes,” I murmur. “That’s nice.”
Another silence falls, a peaceful one. I think about that last conversation Ash and I had in the hayloft, about our future together. For a moment, I allow myself to believe it could be real.
“What do you want for this city, Lucien?” I ask.
He smiles lazily. “No walls. No separation. A united city. A ruling body chosen based on the quality of minds and the depth of compassion, not bloodlines and Houses. People from every circle represented. I want the people of this city to have a legitimate say in how they live their lives.”
“Yes,” I agree. “No more walls. I want everyone to see one another as people, not companions or surrogates or servants.” I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of wood varnish, and books, and paint. “I really like it here.”
Lucien looks overcome for a moment, his eyes brimming with emotion.
“Thank you,” he says finally. “You do not know how much that means to me. And how much it pains me to ask this one favor of you.”
“Anything,” I say.
“If the time comes . . . the Auction . . . and we lose—”
“Let’s not think ab—”
He holds up a hand. “Should things start to look bad for us . . . I want you to destroy this place.”
I gasp. “What? Why?”
Lucien takes in the beakers, the clocks, the unfinished portrait of Azalea. “I will not let this fall into their hands. And you are the only one who can destroy it.”
Even as he says it, I sense the air around me pricking, charging. Air and I could tear this place apart easily. Even if it would break my heart to do so.
He looks at me with eyes so desperate, so pleading. “Please, Violet. Do not let them take this last piece of me.”
I have no choice but to agree. “All right,” I say. “But only as a last resort.” I reach out and place my hand on top of his. “Azalea would be so proud of you.”
Lucien lets out a quiet sob, then pulls himself together. “I truly hope so.” He t
akes my hand in both of his and kisses my knuckles gently. “I did not know how you would change me. I didn’t realize my own prejudices, my own shortsightedness. I thought I knew everything; I thought I had a plan and the execution would be simple. I was wrong.”
“Haven’t we all been wrong about this at some point?” I say. “I mean, isn’t that how we learn to be right?”
“You are a good person, Violet Lasting. I hope that never changes.”
“You are a good person, Cobalt Rosling.” Lucien starts at my use of his true name. “I hope we both make it out of this. This city needs you.” The mood has grown too somber. I try to break it. “And I’m sick of being called Imogen. How do you handle it?”
Lucien crosses his legs and leans back. “You know, I don’t even mind it anymore. I’ve assumed ownership over the name, I suppose. There hasn’t been a Lucien in over a hundred years. Do you know, the Exetor named me himself? Since there was no Electress when I was purchased by the Royal Palace.” His eyes glaze over a bit with the memory. “I was so scared I was shaking. There was an ancient woman named Gemma who trained me. And the Exetor came into the dining room while I was learning the finer points of service. He is an avid hunter, and I knew that. He asked me about all the different types of prey that are groomed for the Royal Forest, and the best methods to track each one. He asked me about royal lineages. He gave me a gun in pieces and watched as I put it together, while a footman timed me. He gave me a list of taxes collected from some royal holdings in the Farm and asked me to predict the percentage increase over the following ten years. I had just turned eleven. By the end, I was sweating. I remember the Exetor rolling up several sheets of parchment, handing them to Gemma, and saying, ‘Most impressive. His name will be Lucien.’ And that was it. I wasn’t Cobalt anymore.”
“You still are,” I insist.
“I suppose.” He scratches his elbow. “For all their preening and airs, the royalty are still just people. Twisted, yes, but people all the same. The Exetor was very lonely. I think that’s why he married the Electress. Because I have always suspected that he is still in love with the Duchess.”
“Then why was their engagement broken?” I wonder aloud.
“As far as that goes,” Lucien says, standing, “your guess is as good as mine. Come. We have lingered here long enough.”
As we leave the secret chamber, climb down the spiral stair, and emerge back into the bustling servant halls of the palace, I feel like I have just left a dream and entered the real world again. Lucien’s workshop feels like a part of some other place, a piece of him made tangible.
I truly hope I don’t have to destroy it.
Seventeen
ONE WEEK.
That’s all we have left. Seven days until the world changes, for better or for worse. Raven and Sil should be leaving for Southgate tomorrow. And the next train they take will be to the Auction House.
I’m carrying a basket of Coral’s laundry down to be washed, lost in thoughts of the surrogates, of the Auction, of the impending deadline that moves closer each day.
Lucien’s workshop keeps popping up in my head, too—the bubbling beakers, the unfinished painting, the wall of clocks that symbolize his childhood. I hate the promise I made to him, but I know I’ll keep it. Lucien is right. That place should never fall into royal hands.
I’m barely paying attention to where I’m going, so when I round a corner and run straight into Dr. Blythe, I drop the laundry, and some of Coral’s undergarments spill onto the stone floor.
“Oh!” I cry, stooping quickly to pick them up.
“I’m terribly sorry.” Dr. Blythe reaches down to lend a hand but I wave him off.
“No, no, it’s all right, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.” I take my time, stuffing a silk chemise into the basket, hoping he’ll be on his way.
“You are just the person I was looking for.” Dr. Blythe seems delighted to see me. The feeling is not mutual. “Please remind Coral she needs to schedule an appointment with me before the Auction, so that we may go over the protocol for creating an embryo, compatibility with a surrogate, all that sort of thing.”
“Y-yes,” I stammer, standing up. “Of course.”
“How would six o’clock this evening be?”
I keep my eyes trained down at the basket in my hands. “That should be fine. She will be in the Bank for her final dress fitting at two but I can have her back by six.”
“Excellent.” The doctor claps his hands together and gives me a polite nod. “Good afternoon.”
I drop into a quick curtsy and make my way down the hall, handing the laundry off to a red-faced washerwoman. I take the stairs back up to the second floor by the east wing. Just as I’ve emerged from behind the bust of the old Duke, I run into another familiar face.
Rye is impeccably dressed, as usual. I haven’t really seen him in this palace without Carnelian, but he’s alone now. And looking at me strangely. I curtsy again, for lack of a better idea. He glances behind him at the empty hall, then turns back to me.
“Violet?” he says quietly.
My eyes widen. “How—”
But before I can say another word, he pulls me into a small room across the hall. Butterflies in glass cases line the walls.
Rye grips my wrist, my pulse humming against his fingers.
“Ash sends his regards. To both of us.”
“Is he all right?” I ask. “Where is he? Have you spoken to him?”
“No, but someone else has. A mutual friend.”
I assume he means another companion.
“Who? When?”
He chuckles lazily and I wonder if he’s on drugs. “No one you know. And yesterday.”
“Did he say anything about my brother?”
“Your what? No.” Rye looks me up and down and whistles. “He said you looked different, but . . . wow. You surrogates are full of surprises.”
“I’m not a surrogate anymore,” I say.
“Right,” he says. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you earlier but it’s hard getting away from Carnelian.”
“I bet,” I mutter.
He grins. “Yeah, she’s pretty obsessed with Ash. Can’t stop asking me questions about him. The Duchess, too. At first, at least. She stopped after a while. Not Carnelian though.”
“Terrific,” I say dryly, switching the subject to more important matters. “Has he spoken to any other companions? Are they willing to help us?”
“Help the Black Key, you mean? Sure.” He shrugs. “It’s not like our lives can get any worse.”
I bite my lip.
“I’m staying in Ash’s old rooms,” he says. “I’m sure you can remember the way there.” He winks. “Meet me tonight and we’ll talk.”
I wait a few seconds after he leaves, then hurry down the hall to Coral’s room. I’m so distracted by this new development while I’m dressing her for the trip to the Bank, I end up putting her high heels on the wrong feet.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing, miss. I’m sorry,” I mumble, correcting the mistake.
Miss Mayfield’s is one of the top dressmakers in the Lone City, with a waiting list a mile long, and Coral cannot stop chattering about how fabulous her dress will be.
“I chose pink, obviously,” she says, looking up as I apply her eyeliner. “My mother always wore blue or silver to the Auction.” She sniffs. “Pink suits me better.”
“Yes, miss.” I suddenly remember I haven’t told her about the doctor’s appointment. “Dr. Blythe would like to see you this evening, after your fitting. He said—”
“My very first surrogate appointment!” Coral studies her reflection in the mirror as I finish with the eyeliner. “Of course. We’ll be back well before then, won’t we?”
I’ve learned over the past few weeks that “our” whole schedule is entirely in Coral’s hands. She doesn’t want to do something? It doesn’t happen. Yet she always insists on asking me anyway.
�
�Yes, miss,” I say. “Will Garnet be accompanying us this afternoon?”
I haven’t seen much of Garnet since his father’s death. He’s thrown himself into his role as a Regimental, making more trips to the lower circles than he had before.
Coral giggles. “Boys don’t come to dress fittings.” She scrunches her nose. “Carnelian will be coming though. She’s always so dull and serious.”
“Is Carnelian going to the Auction?”
“Of course not, Imogen, she isn’t married. But there will be lots of festivities the day after, the dinners of course, and some other parties, so she must look nice for those, even if she can’t come to the event itself.”
Coral fusses with a curl by her left ear.
“My mother has been telling me stories about the Auction since I was little and I can’t believe I finally get to go. It sounds so wonderful. There are rooms for entertainment, and games on the lawns. It starts in the afternoon and lasts the whole day! And there are distractions for the women waiting to buy surrogates and then things to do once you’ve bought yours. I’ve never been inside the amphitheater before, but I’ve heard it’s just lovely.” I have been inside that amphitheater and lovely is not a word I’d ever use to describe it. “There will be food and drinks and games to watch and musicians and jugglers and all sorts of fun things!”
She looks so excited. As if the Auction isn’t about a bunch of girls being carted off to a strange place, drugged, dressed up, and then paraded onto a stage. As if all that fear, all that anxiety and worry, all that abuse, is merely entertainment.
But this Auction isn’t going to be like the others.
I’m going to make sure of that.
Eighteen
I SIT IN THE MOTORCAR OPPOSITE CORAL AND CARNELIAN as we drive to the north train station. Miss Mayfield’s is in the North Quarter of the Bank.
“This is so stupid,” Carnelian grumbles. “After all those bombings and riots and stuff. I can’t believe she’s sending us out there.”
“Nonsense,” Coral replies. “There hasn’t been a bombing in a week.”
“Not in the Bank, maybe,” Carnelian says. “But the Smoke and the Farm are getting pretty dangerous. Don’t you read the papers?”