The House of the Stone

by Amy Ewing

  Still and calm.

  I will be brave.

  He studies me, and for one brief second I think I can taste victory because I feel how badly he wants me to fight or cry or beg or plead. He runs his fingers along the rod, a frown creasing his smooth skin.

  He cannot own me. He can’t make me frightened if I choose not to be. I still have that power, as fragile and delicate as it might be.

  And just to play with him, I smile.

  The rod flies through the bars, quick as a whip, and the barb burrows itself between my big and second toe. I can’t control the shriek of agony that bursts out of me. Blood gushes, hot and wet under my foot.

  Then the barb is ripped out, taking a chunk of flesh with it. My shriek becomes a howl and I roll on my side, grabbing my injured foot. My toes are on fire.

  Frederic hangs the rod back on the wall without even cleaning it.

  “Just a reminder,” he says lightly. And without another word, he turns and strides out the door.

  I bite my lip so hard I’ll probably break the skin, but I don’t want to let another scream out. I press my face hard against the cold floor, my hands slippery with blood.

  I won’t cry. I won’t.

  But the tears come anyway.

  I try to control my breathing, to focus on my lungs taking air in and pushing it out. My heart beats in time with the throbbing of my foot.

  It occurs to me then that this might be happening to Violet.

  This might be happening to Lily.

  Lily was always more Violet’s friend than mine. She was too open, too excited about being a surrogate for me to truly like her. But she wasn’t a bad person. Is someone somewhere stabbing Lily in the foot? Slicing through her skin? I imagine she’s in the Bank, what with her low lot number. Will that be enough to save her?

  The door opens again, and I selfishly pull my thoughts away from my friends because no matter how brave I want to be, I am terrified that Frederic will hurt me again. I grit my teeth and prepare for pain. I won’t look at him. This time, he won’t hear me scream.

  “Hello.” The voice is hesitant, but musical. Again, I can’t tell if it’s a man’s or woman’s. But it’s definitely not Frederic.

  There is the clang of metal on metal and the click of a lock.

  “Come,” the voice says. “Don’t you want to get out of this cage?”

  That makes me lift my head.

  A boy, maybe my age or a few years older, is crouched at the now-open door of my cage. His skin is several shades darker than mine, but his eyes are blue and shaped like sideways teardrops. He has thick, kinky black hair that is tied up in a bun on top of his head, but he wears the garb of the ladies-in-waiting, a long white dress with a high lace collar.

  He frowns at my bleeding foot.

  “Oh dear.” He glances at the vast array of silver instruments hanging on the wall and I get the sense he is familiar with them and that that barb means something to him. Then he smiles and holds out a hand. “My name is Emile. I won’t hurt you, I promise. That’s not my job.”

  I don’t trust him. I can’t. I can’t trust anyone here.

  But I don’t want to stay in this cage.

  I don’t take his hand. “Back off,” I say.

  He nods and moves away, leaving the cage door open so I can crawl through it. Each movement is like glass slicing between my injured toes.

  I hoist myself up to stand, my joints creaking. I’m taller than he is. He smiles at me.

  “I can fix that when we get to the powder room,” he says, nodding to my injured foot. “Would you like me to carry you?”

  He doesn’t look that strong, but it’s not fear of being dropped that makes me shake my head.

  As long as I can still make choices, I can still be me.

  “I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth.

  I thought he might be impressed by my grit. Instead, his face falls in a look of resigned disappointment.

  “All right,” he says. “But my arm is here if you need it.”

  “I don’t,” I mutter.

  Three

  BY THE TIME WE REACH THE THIRD STAIRCASE, MY HEAD is spinning and my vision is getting fuzzy. There is a light ringing in my ears. I so desperately want to grab Emile’s arm, to beg him to carry me, because the stairs are agony. So many of them, a mountain that never ends, and my foot screams at me to let him help, to just ask for a break, to beg him to make it stop.

  But I don’t.

  When we reach a spiral staircase, Emile turns to me.

  “Last one,” he says.

  I don’t know how, but I manage to nod. That one simple movement makes the world tilt.

  One foot in front of the other. That’s all I think about.

  When Emile opens the door at the top of the stairs, I want to cry with relief. But I’m brought up short by the room that spreads out in front of me.

  It’s decorated in onyx and gold, large columns sprinkled throughout. There is a thick gold carpet on the floor, and an enormous bed with a white canopy and rich copper bedspread. Circular windows line the walls, though the room itself is shaped like a box. There is a gold-and-white-striped sofa and a polished mahogany table with matching chairs. A fireplace with a hearth of dark stone sits cold and empty off to my right. Gilt-framed paintings are interspersed among the windows, women in various gowns, some holding books, others seated at writing desks, one reaching into a silver dish of grapes.

  As I stare at the paintings, I realize it’s the same woman represented over and over again.

  I don’t realize that Emile has left my side until he comes back, holding a jar in one hand and a vial in the other.

  “Why don’t you sit down right here,” he says.

  “I’m fine,” I gasp. But my legs don’t listen. They slip out from under me, and suddenly I’m staring up at a ceiling painted with stars. Their points seem to wave at me. I want to wave back.

  “You’ve lost a bit of blood,” Emile says.

  The most wonderful sensation travels through my foot and up my leg, a cool numbness that dulls the pain instantly. I can’t help the grateful moan that escapes my lips. Strength floods back into my limbs, and I prop myself up on my elbows.

  Emile has the vial in his hands. He opens the space between my toes and carefully administers one drop of black liquid on my wound. It’s like I can feel my skin knitting together. He applies another round of whatever the amazing cool stuff is in the jar, and the pain is gone. My skin is smooth and unblemished. As if there were never a wound in the first place.

  My senses sharpen. I sit up. But the absence of pain makes me uneasy. It vanished too quickly, too completely. Almost like it wasn’t real.

  “What is this place?” I ask, looking around at the room. Its beauty is making me uncomfortable. I don’t trust it.

  “These are the surrogate quarters,” Emile says.

  “Then . . . why was I in that cage?”

  “Let’s get you ready for dinner,” Emile says, ignoring my question and standing up.

  “I’m not having dinner with the Countess.” Though I have to admit, I am starving. But I’d rather starve than spend a meal with that woman.

  Emile smiles. “You’re having dinner with the four Founding Houses and the Electress, actually.”

  With everything that’s happened since I woke up, I’d sort of ignored the fact that I was bought by a Founding House. I wonder if there’s some sort of correlation between how high up in the royal hierarchy you are and how cruel you are to your surrogate.

  I should have kept failing my Augury tests. I should have strived to be Lot 1.

  “Is there any point in asking if I can just wear this?” I ask, tugging at the black tunic.

  “No,” Emile says.

  He turns and walks across the room, sliding open a panel I had mistaken for a wall to reveal rows and rows of glittering fabric.

  I can’t help thinking about what Patience, the head caretaker at Southgate, said on Reckoning Day,
when I hoped whoever bought me would let me wear pants.

  I wouldn’t get your hopes up, dearie.

  Wearing a dress is the least of my problems.

  I don’t bother to look at what Emile pulls from the closet. I stare out the nearest window, where I can see curving spires of gold shooting up from behind a wall topped with spikes.

  “This way, 192,” Emile says.

  He’s standing in the doorway to a lavish powder room, all white marble embellished with gold and silver.

  “My name is Raven,” I say, marching past him because honestly, I am dying for a bath. But the tub is too small to lie down in, and there is no curtain around it. Just a large tap hanging from the ceiling. It looks like a lamp. Emile pulls a lever and a waterfall explodes out of it.

  “I assume you’ve never taken a shower before, 192?”

  “No,” I say, not missing the fact that he’s ignored my name.

  “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  I stand there awkwardly for a moment, waiting for him to leave. He hangs the dress I’ll be forced to wear tonight on the wall of the powder room, then turns back to me. He seems surprised to find me dry and still clothed.

  “Aren’t you going to get in?” he says.

  “Aren’t you going to leave?” I ask.

  His mouth tightens ever so slightly. “No.”

  I don’t know what to do. The only man I’ve ever been naked in front of is Dr. Steele, and at least then I had a robe and it was only for a few seconds.

  My hands shake as I pull the tunic over my head. The cool air sends a flurry of goose bumps across my stomach. I force myself not to look at Emile as I step into the shower. The water runs through my hair, down my shoulders and back, over my breasts and waist and thighs and knees down to my feet, a constant reminder that every inch of me is exposed. I don’t know how to be brave like this. I face away from Emile because it’s the only way to protect myself, but I am naked in every way, because this is private and he should not be here watching me. I feel violated, like my skin has been opened up and my insides are laid bare for all to see.

  I can’t enjoy the heat of the water or the scent of the soap. I just want this to be over.

  As soon as my hair is rinsed, the shower turns off and Emile appears in front of me holding a towel. I wrap it around myself as tight as I can, tighter than it should be, so that it’s almost hard to breathe. My legs tremble as I step out of the tiny tub. He has a smaller towel that he rubs my head with until my hair is reasonably dry. Then he hands me the dress. It’s similar to the one I wore at the Auction, but not nearly as costumelike. The material is silky and it fits my body as if it were made for me.

  I’m just grateful to be wearing clothes again. My breathing slows. The muscles in my shoulders relax a fraction.

  “Time for hair and makeup,” Emile says, beckoning me to follow him.

  It takes forever to get me ready because, like in the prep room, I’m just not very good at sitting still. At least Emile doesn’t threaten to tie me to the chair like my prep artist did. And he doesn’t make me look like some sort of carnival creature. His touch is quite light, gold on my eyes, a pink flush to my lips, and it’s really not so bad just sitting in this opulent room. By the end of the session I finally feel recovered from that horrible shower. When I see my reflection I grudgingly have to admit that I look pretty good.

  “Done,” he says. I sigh with relief just as the door opens.

  All my muscles tense back up as Frederic enters the room. He is carrying what looks like a long silver necklace in one hand and a piece of black ribbon in the other.

  “Is it ready?” he asks.

  Emile simply bows low and extends one hand in my direction. Frederic sniffs.

  “It will suffice,” he says.

  He moves forward, like he’s examining me closer. Then in one swift motion, he’s fastened a collar around my neck.

  “What—” I pull at the collar as Frederic hands a thin chain to Emile.

  “Hold it tight,” he says.

  I’m on a leash.

  “No!” I cry. I scratch at the metal around my neck, yanking hard as my nails cut into my skin.

  “I said hold it tight, Emile,” Frederic snaps and suddenly my neck is jerked backward and I can’t breathe. In the same moment, I feel something cold lock around one wrist, then the other. The pressure on my neck disappears and I gasp for air. My hands are shackled with probably the most artfully crafted handcuffs in the world. Engraved silver fish swim in a sea of sapphires.

  “Are you going to be a good girl now?” Frederic says. His repulsive beaked nose is only inches from mine.

  I’m not anyone’s good girl. Least of all his.

  I spit in his face.

  He chuckles and takes a handkerchief out of the pocket of his dress to wipe it off. “If I didn’t know better,” he says, “I’d think you enjoy being punished.”

  There is something lecherous in his tone, something that makes me feel more naked than showering in front of Emile.

  He holds his hand out and Emile takes the black ribbon from him. The last thing I see before it loops around my head, covering my eyes, is Frederic fingering the delicate leash.

  Then my sight is gone. There is a sharp tug on my neck.

  “Let’s get going,” Frederic says. “We don’t want to be late.”

  I AM LED THROUGH THE COUNTESS’S PALACE, BLINDFOLDED, on a leash.

  I thought the doctor’s appointments at Southgate were bad. Or the Augury lessons. Or the prep room. They were nothing compared to this. How many more humiliations do I have to suffer? I’ve only been here a day.

  To counteract my blindness, I have to keep my hands out in front of me to make sure I don’t hit anything, which makes me look and feel stupid. Stairs are especially treacherous. I don’t trust Frederic one iota, so with each step I feel like the floor might just vanish beneath me. I wouldn’t be surprised if this palace had trapdoors or endless chasms or other awful things.

  And I hear whispers. Everything will be quiet and then suddenly we’ll turn a corner and there will be footsteps and voices.

  “There it is.”

  “It’s taller than the last one.”

  “Prettier, too.”

  “Oh, look, it tripped.”

  And then we’ll turn another corner and the snickers will fade away, leaving a dark blush on my cheeks and a squirming in my stomach.

  It’s also unnerving that every voice I hear is male.

  Suddenly, there’s a cool gust of air on my face.

  “Put it in the car, Frederic.” The Countess’s voice makes my skin prickle. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I can’t see her.

  Frederic tugs me along, the metal leash digging into the back of my neck. Then his hand is on my head, pushing it down. “Get in,” he says.

  I reach out with my hands to keep myself from falling and they land on something smooth that smells like leather.

  “This would be easier if I wasn’t blindfolded,” I mumble, stumbling on the hem of my dress as I get into whatever mode of transportation this is. A door on the other side of me opens and closes and judging by the way the seat sinks down, I’m guessing the Countess just got in. I can feel her presence next to me and shrink away from it.

  “Go,” is all she says. An engine starts and then we’re moving.

  It’s very different from the electric stagecoach that took me to my house on Reckoning Day. It feels like we’re gliding instead of driving. Maybe we are. I wouldn’t know.

  We drive in circles for a while, until I’ve lost all sense of direction. The silence in the car is interrupted only once.

  “She must be quite confident,” Frederic says. “It’s been nineteen years.”

  “Her theory is flawed,” the Countess says. “We are going to prove that to her.”

  Whatever we are traveling in slows and the ground underneath us becomes uneven—gravel maybe? Then we come to a stop. The door on my side opens.
r />   “Does she require assistance?” an unfamiliar, wheezy voice asks.

  “Not at all,” Frederic replies.

  There’s a yank on my leash and I stumble out into fresh air.

  “Watch the stairs,” Frederic says. At first, I don’t think he’s talking to me, but then my foot connects with the hard edge of a step. I count them—five stairs, but they are long, so we’re not going up very much. I walk forward over a smooth surface that makes my footsteps echo. I think I hear running water.

  The blindfold is removed.

  The light around me is soft, but I still have to blink as my eyes adjust. I’m standing in a large foyer with a fountain in its center. An old man in a coat with tails is taking the Countess’s cloak.

  “This way,” he says. We walk down a hall decorated with large oil paintings. The old man stops in front of a closed door and turns to Frederic.

  “You may wait in here,” he says.

  Frederic nods and moves forward, but the old man clears his throat.

  “Her ladyship requests that all accessories be removed prior to entering the dining room,” he says.

  Frederic raises an eyebrow, but the Countess merely chuckles.

  “Of course,” she says. “Whatever our gracious host desires.”

  Frederic reluctantly removes my handcuffs and leash. I rub my neck.

  He disappears into the room—I see a glimpse of more white dresses before the door closes behind him. The Countess, the old man, and I continue walking. We come to a set of double doors, guarded by a footman, who springs to attention as we approach.

  “One moment,” the Countess says as the footman moves to open the doors. She turns to me. “You will not speak. You will not eat more than three bites of anything that is served. Three. I will be counting. Do not try to communicate with the other surrogates in any way. Break any of these rules and I will cut out your tongue. Do you understand me?”

  I nod right away, partly because I believe she’ll actually do it, and partly because she said other surrogates. There are other surrogates here. Could I be lucky enough to see Violet so soon?

  “Good,” she says.

  The footman opens the doors.

  “The Countess of the Stone,” he announces. “And surrogate.”