by Ewing,Amy
When will it happen?
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think about something else, but there’s nothing else to think about. It all seemed so distant, so far away in a future I couldn’t imagine when I was at Southgate, but now that I’m actually here, the thought of being pregnant, of having someone else’s child growing inside me, is terrifying.
The door opens and Annabelle comes in, bringing the delicious scent of coffee with her. She places a covered tray on the breakfast table.
The smell of food makes me feel better—I am still hungry after my disappointing lack of dinner last night. My mother used to say that a good meal could ease a troubled heart. Annabelle beckons for me to sit and lifts the cover off the tray.
There are soft-boiled eggs sitting in little silver cups, yogurt with fresh fruit, buttered toast, crisp strips of bacon, and a cold glass of orange juice. Annabelle lays a napkin in my lap and pours coffee into a pink china cup while I attack the food.
She raises an eyebrow.
Hungry?
“Starved,” I say through a mouthful of toast and egg. “The Duchess barely let me eat anything last night.”
Sleep well?
The strip of bacon freezes on its way to my mouth. I shrug and put it down, taking a sip of coffee instead. “It’s a very nice bed.”
When I’m finished with breakfast, Annabelle runs me a shower, then laces me into a beautiful gown the color of a ripe peach. I sit at the vanity in my bedroom while she curls my hair and pins it up.
“Am I going somewhere?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“Do you know . . . I mean, do you have any idea . . .” I don’t know how to phrase the question. How do you ask someone when to expect to be impregnated? “Do I have a schedule or something?”
Wait for D to call
“Oh.” I fiddle with one of the opal-and-topaz earrings dangling from my ears. “All right.”
When she’s finished, I stand up and study myself in the mirror. With my hair pinned up and dressed in such fine fabric, I look older than the girl who stood in the prep room and gazed at her reflection like it was someone else’s.
Pretty
I open my mouth, then close it, unsure of what to say. I do look pretty. I’m just not sure I look like me.
The morning is spent exploring my chambers. I have three closets full of dresses in every color and fabric and pattern, from simple daywear to elegant ball gowns. Annabelle opens the curtains in my bedroom, and I get my first glimpse of the outside of the palace. A wide gravel driveway encircles an enormous lake, glittering and smooth, like a crystal mirror, a brilliant and unnatural blue. In the distance, I can see a pair of golden gates.
After a while, we move to the room next to my bedroom. The tea parlor is very pleasant and sunny, all the furniture upholstered in yellows and oranges, with bouquets of marigolds and daisies interspersed on the tabletops. Tall bookshelves line one wall, and the collection contains a mix of familiar and unfamiliar titles. A Complete History of the Founding Houses overshadows a battered copy of The Wishing Well, a collection of children’s stories.
“Oh, I love this book!” I exclaim, sliding The Wishing Well off the shelf. I’m surprised to find it in the Jewel—it’s a welcome reminder of home. “My father used to read these stories to me. Have you ever read them?”
Annabelle shakes her head no.
The story of the Wishing Well was our favorite, mine and Hazel’s. I flip to it now and smile, remembering how we’d wait by the door for Father to come home from the factories, smelling of smoke and grease, and we’d beg him to read to us while Mother fixed his dinner. He had the most wonderful reading voice. The story is about two sisters who find a magic well; they free the water spirit who lives inside it, and in return, she grants them each a wish. Hazel and I would curl up on either side of him and let the words wash over us, and gasp and cry in all the right places. I must have been about ten, then; Hazel was six. A year later, Father was dead.
As I’m flipping to another story, lunch is served. A young maid in a black dress and white apron brings in a tray full of food. If I thought the meals at Southgate were good, they’re nothing compared to the Jewel’s.
After lunch, I begin to get bored. I read through most of The Wishing Well, but my attention drifts. Annabelle sits in one of the armchairs, embroidering a handkerchief.
“Can I see the rest of the palace?” I ask.
Not till D calls
“When will that be?”
Annabelle shrugs.
I sigh and flop back on the couch, but the stays in my dress poke me and I sit up again. Annabelle puts down her embroidery and picks up her slate again.
Halma?
“You play Halma?” I ask eagerly.
Annabelle’s smile widens.
“I THOUGHT THIS WAS A MARSH-GAME,” I GRUMBLE LATER that afternoon, as I stare intently at the six-pointed star on the board. “How come you’re so good at it?”
Annabelle has already beaten me twice, and she appears to be heading for a third win. Nearly all her marbles are in my corner—mine are scattered in the center of the board, making it only too easy for her to use them as stepping stones.
V. old, orig. from F
“The Farm? Really?” I hop over two of her marbles to finally land one of mine in her corner. “I didn’t know that.”
Annabelle uses my newly placed marble to hop halfway across the board.
Not pop in J, only serv play
“Yeah, I can see that,” I mutter darkly. I’m not used to losing at Halma—Raven was such a terrible player. She had no patience for it. We’d play with Lily and she’d always get crushed.
It takes Annabelle only three more moves to end the game. “Rematch,” I say immediately.
The door to the parlor opens. A Regimental stands at attention as the Duchess of the Lake sweeps into the room. Annabelle jumps out of her chair, and I scramble to my feet. The Duchess wears a red dress, layers of chiffon falling to the floor, cinched around her waist with braided ropes of silk. A fan dangles from a chain around her wrist. Her face is a carefully controlled mask, but there is a frantic energy about her, like strong emotions are boiling just under the surface.
She looks me up and down appraisingly. “Nicely done,” she says, with only the barest glance in Annabelle’s direction to indicate that she’s speaking to my lady-in-waiting. I wonder if my appearance was some sort of test for Annabelle.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” I say, with an awkward curtsy.
“Yes,” the Duchess replies, “it is a good afternoon, isn’t it?” She walks toward me, a tiny smile on her lips, and it takes all my strength not to cringe or lean away. “You were very well behaved last night. I am impressed.”
“Thank you, my lady.” I wish she’d take a step back. I don’t like her being this close to me.
She laughs. “Don’t look so frightened. I told you, prove you can be trusted and you shall be rewarded.” She waves her fan at the Regimental. “Bring it in.”
The Regimental makes a signal, and two footmen enter carrying an enormous wooden crate and place it on the floor. Using crowbars, they pry off the lid and prop it against the box.
“That will be all,” the Duchess says, and the footmen bow and leave.
There is a loaded silence during which I look from the Duchess, to the box, to Annabelle, and back to the box again.
“Well?” the Duchess says. “Go on.”
I’d really rather open whatever it is alone, but that’s clearly not an option. I take a few hesitant steps forward and kneel beside the open crate, pulling out handfuls of packing hay. There is a gleam of varnish, and suddenly my uncertainty turns to excitement. I move faster now, tearing the packing hay out of the way to get to the cello. My fingers brush the strings and a muted jumble of notes echo in my ears.
I uncover it tenderly—it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in the past two days. The varnish gives the
maple wood a deep red glow; the f-holes are curved more ornately than I’m used to, and I trace my fingers along the purfling, marveling at the inlaid border. I run my fingers over the strings again, plucking each one individually, my throat tightening at their familiar tones.
“Do you like it?” the Duchess asks.
“Is this for me?” I whisper.
“Of course it’s for you. Do you like it?” the Duchess asks again impatiently.
I swallow. “Yes, my lady. I like it very much.”
“Good. Play something.”
I take the cello by the neck and lift it out of the box, sending stray bits of hay fluttering to the floor. A bow and a block of rosin are nestled in the packing, and I grab them and head to one of the hard-backed chairs. The weight of the cello is comforting, and I squeeze its body gently between my knees, the neck resting against my shoulder. I run the block of rosin back and forth over the bow and a flood of memories is released with its sharp, resinous scent—the day I chose to learn the cello, the first time I ever held a bow, playing alone in my room late at night, playing duets with Lily in the music room . . .
“Do you have a preference for composer, my lady?” I ask.
The Duchess raises an eyebrow. “No. Play whatever you wish.”
I take a deep breath and position my fingers against the strings, noting idly that I’m going to need to cut my fingernails. Then I draw the bow across the C string.
It’s perfectly in tune. The note envelops me, filling the room, rich and warm and vibrant. I close my eyes.
I play the prelude of a suite in G Major, one of the first pieces I ever learned. The notes flow easily, falling over one another like water running across smooth stones, my fingers moving deftly, sure of their positioning. The room around me fades and I feel a wonderful sense of release—my whole being feels altered when I play. I am the music and the strings and my body is as resonant as the cello’s. We are one instrument, in a place where no one can touch me, where there is no Jewel and there are no surrogates, a place where there is only music. The tempo and pitch increase as I reach the end of the movement, the notes climbing higher and higher until I pull the bow long across the final chord, a perfect fifth that hangs in the air, shimmering and flawless.
I open my eyes.
The Duchess’s face is transfixed, her expression triumphant. If anything, this scares me more than the mask.
“That was . . . exquisite,” she says.
“Thank you, my lady.”
She fans herself a few times, then snaps the fan closed.
“She goes to bed early tonight,” the Duchess says to Annabelle as she sweeps out of the room, the Regimental at her heels. “Tomorrow we’re going out.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Ten
“OUT WHERE?” I ASK ANNABELLE FOR THE HUNDREDTH time, as she finishes brushing my hair that night. “Into the Jewel?”
She puts the brush down.
Or Bank
“Are you coming?”
She shrugs. I can tell by her face that she honestly doesn’t know.
“Is it . . . am I going to see a doctor?” I ask nervously.
Annabelle shakes her head.
Dr. comes here
“Oh.” I chew on my thumbnail, feeling a little better.
Annabelle pushes my hand away from my mouth and starts rubbing moisturizing cream on my arms.
“I never paid much attention to the Jewel when I was at Southgate. It was my friend Lily who would read the gossip magazines and imagine our life here. I wonder where she is now. She was such a sweet girl. I hope someone nice bought her.”
I run my fingers along the polished surface of my vanity and over the velvet top of one of the jewelry boxes.
“She’d love it here.” It’s nice to talk about Lily—it reminds me that she existed, that she still does, that we were friends, and it meant something. “She loves extravagant things and getting dressed up and all that. She’d have a heart attack over this room. But she was Lot 53. She might be in the Bank now.”
Bank is nice
I laugh. “You don’t know Lily. Her definition of ‘nice’ isn’t the same as everyone else’s.” My thoughts drift to the dinner last night. “I saw my best friend, you know. Raven. At dinner yesterday. She was bought by the Countess of the Stone. Do you know anything about her?”
Annabelle shrugs, but her front teeth worry at her bottom lip and her eyebrows knit together. “Raven’s tough,” I say, more to make myself feel better than to defend her to Annabelle. “Tougher than anyone I’ve ever met. She’ll be okay.”
Annabelle nods in an absentminded way and unscrews a jar of cream for my face.
A thought occurs to me and I grab her wrist. “You don’t know my name,” I say. No one knows my name, but it’s disturbing that I never even thought to try to tell her.
Annabelle’s eyes widen and she shakes her head frantically.
“Oh, please,” I press. “Please?”
She looks away, her expression pained.
“Okay,” I say. “Sorry. Never mind.”
Her shoulders relax, but I grab the slate and chalk, and before she can take them or look away I scribble:
Violet
Then I tap the slate clean.
THE NEXT MORNING, ANNABELLE DRESSES ME ALL IN black.
There’s something different about her mood—she seems on edge, rarely using her chalk and shaking or nodding her head curtly if I ask a question. The gown she chooses for me is similar in cut to my Auction dress, floor length with an empire waist. She ties a choker of black velvet around my neck.
“What’s this for?” I ask, rubbing the soft material with my fingertips—it feels nice. Annabelle doesn’t respond, she just pins up the front section of my hair, leaving the rest of it down.
Cora bustles in, holding a black lace veil in one hand.
“Is she ready?” She scrutinizes me from head to toe. “Very good,” she says to Annabelle, before securing the veil in my hair.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Don’t ask questions. Come with me.”
“Isn’t Annabelle coming, too?”
“No,” Cora says sharply.
Annabelle gives me a small smile as I follow Cora out of my chambers. Anxiety thrums inside me as we walk down the flower hallway, then the hall of portraits, taking a large sweeping staircase down to the glass foyer I glimpsed before the dinner. Sunlight streams through the roof, making the water in the fountain twinkle. The Duchess is waiting for me, her guard of Regimentals surrounding her, a wall of red. She wears a long black skirt, with a black silk blouse under an expertly tailored black blazer. Perched on her head is a black pillbox hat, its netting just barely covering her eyes, which scan me critically.
“That dress is so . . . plain,” she says.
“My apologies, my lady,” Cora says, curtsying. “She can be changed.”
The Duchess waves her hands dismissively. “No, there’s no time.” She saunters over to me in her black heels, her eyes level with mine. There is something silver in her hands. “Now, I don’t necessarily like this, nor do I think you need it,” she says, holding up the silver thing. “But there are some people who will use any excuse to slander me. If you behave yourself, I won’t use it again unless I absolutely have to. Do you understand?”
I don’t understand at all, but her words frighten me. Then she unfolds the silver thing and my stomach drops.
It’s a leash.
“You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you?” she purrs. My brain is screaming at me that this is wrong, this is horrible, but my muscles have all locked down, freezing me in place, while my heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. All I can do is stare.
The Regimentals move forward, as if they’re anticipating that I’m going to bolt, but the Duchess holds up a hand.
>
“No,” she murmurs, keeping her dark eyes on my face. “Stay back. She understands.”
Against everything I am, against every impulse I have, I allow the Duchess to fasten the silver collar around the velvet choker on my neck. Part of me is still in shock. Part of me doesn’t want to get hit again, or have it forced on me by Regimentals. But a part of me does understand, as the Duchess fastens a bracelet around her wrist, attached to the long silver chain that now connects us. I understand that she has an agenda, and that I am part of it, and with this gesture, she is saying that I’m hers now.
I understand, but I don’t care. I hate her for it.
“The veil, Cora,” the Duchess says, and Cora lifts the black lace and lowers it over my face. It covers my eyes, my nose, my mouth, and falls to my shoulders.
I am chained, bound, hidden. For the first time, I feel like a prisoner.
“Come,” the Duchess says, walking forward. The leash goes taut and tugs at my neck, and I see the reason for the velvet choker—it prevents the collar from chafing my skin.
I have no choice but to follow. Humiliation burns in my cheeks and I clench my hands tightly, my fingernails digging into my palms. The pain sharpens my focus, a place to concentrate my anger.
A set of glass doors are opened for us by a pair of footmen, and bright sunlight filters through my veil. The sun is warm, though a cool breeze plays across my skin, raising goose bumps on my arms and the back of my neck. For a moment, I forget my anger and my embarrassment, and the injustice of this whole situation, because I am standing at the edge of an enormous circular courtyard, surrounded by a palace that looks to be crafted out of sheets of diamond. Its multifaceted surface throws off rainbows in the light and its many turrets are topped with blue flags, fluttering in the breeze. The crystal blue lake stretches out in front of me, and I can see the gates in the distance.
Something moves in one of the windows on the ground floor. I see a figure, a girl, standing with her arms folded across her chest, glaring at me. Or maybe she’s glaring at the Duchess. It’s hard to tell.