by Amy Ewing
Emile is in front of me in a second, his mouth so close to mine at first I think he might kiss me.
“Of course I know,” he hisses. “I know a great deal more than you do. Do you know how many surrogates I’ve seen pass through this house? Ten. One for every year I have worked here. I assume you have noticed by now that there are no other women in this palace. Just you and the Countess. The doctor’s appointments serve a purpose, but the equipment that Frederic creates? That is just fun for her. You are the target on which she can focus all her rage. All her hatred. So follow my lead. When I act happy, it is because you have at least the slimmest, slightest chance of being happy today.”
I am stunned into silence. Emile turns away and I follow him without thinking, wrapping a towel around my body and standing numbly in front of a closet full of dresses I don’t want to wear. Emile talks to himself, musing about this fabric or that. All the dresses he handles are black. That does not make me think “Happy Day.”
Ten surrogates have lived in this room before me. And how many others before that?
“Ah,” Emile says. “This will be perfect.”
He holds out a long black dress with an accordion skirt and lace top. I don’t even glance at myself in the mirror when he sits me at the vanity to attack my face and hair again. I don’t trust mirrors anymore.
The food arrives. Cinnamon rolls and hot coffee and fresh peaches. This time I eat everything.
Emile finally pronounces me finished, then steps back to admire his work.
“You really are beautiful,” he says.
I stare at him. I don’t know what he expects me to say to that.
We sit in silence for a while.
“Would you like to know where you’re going?” he asks.
“No,” I lie.
His mouth twitches.
The door opens and the Countess walks in. I can’t help it—I jump to my feet. I don’t know if I’m preparing to run or fight or if I just feel more confident standing.
Frederic is right behind her, carrying some black lace in one hand and—my stomach drops—that horrible jewel-encrusted helmet thing from the wall of torture. The Countess sees me looking at it and smiles.
“I can have five Regimentals come in and beat you bloody and Frederic will fix you up as good as new,” she says. “And you will still wear everything I want you to wear. But that will make us late, and I despise being late. So be a good girl and stand still.”
The memory of my mother’s face, melted and distorted, keeps my feet glued to the ground. Frederic fastens the black lace to the crown of my head and pulls it over my face like a veil. My stomach turns as he gently places the helmet over my head.
But it’s not a helmet, really.
It’s a muzzle.
It pushes my jaw shut, leaving space only for my eyes. But there must be some kind of visor on it, because the last thing I see before Frederic pulls it down is the Countess’s gleeful expression.
“Oh, Frederic,” she says as everything goes dark, “it’s perfect.”
ONCE AGAIN, I’M LED ON THE LEASH THROUGH THE PALACE, unable to see, waving my hands in front of me like an idiot.
Every time I catch myself doing it I stop, but it’s deeply instinctual. I hear the whispers again, this time commenting on the horrible muzzle.
“So much nicer than last year’s.”
“Oh look, he’s used sapphires and emeralds.”
“Such attention to detail.”
I don’t know what Emile was playing at thinking this day would make me happy in any way. Until I feel a warm breeze on my skin and hear the distinct sound of a motorcar engine.
I’m going out.
Out means Violet.
I’m muzzled so I can’t really smile, but my whole body is beaming. I slide into the motorcar awkwardly and don’t even flinch when the Countess’s arm brushes against mine.
I’m going to see Violet, I tell myself. Violet will make it okay.
We don’t drive in as many circles this time, and at some point, we start going up what feels like a very long, large hill. The motorcar slows and the visor is lifted. There’s a click and the muzzle is removed. I stretch out my jaw with relief.
We’re in front of a massive palace that looks like it’s made of liquid gold. It’s more opulent than anything I’ve seen, with towers and domes and other various appendages jutting out all around. The road we’re on is packed with motorcars. I see black-clothed royalty mixed with black-veiled surrogates and my heart lifts.
Oh, Emile, I think. You were right.
Somewhere in that crowd is Violet. I know it. I feel it.
The Countess yanks on my leash. “The same rules apply as last time,” she says. “Remember that.”
I give her my coldest stare. It feels lukewarm.
The driver opens the door for her and she pulls me out of the car. We enter the throng of women and almost immediately that unpopular Duchess is on top of us.
“Oh, Ebony, how awful,” she says.
Blondie is by her side, veiled and nervous, attached to her mistress by a leash like mine. I’m glad I’m not the only one who has to wear this thing. A couple of glances around tells me every surrogate is chained to her mistress.
The Countess shrugs. “I am not surprised.”
“Do you think it was her?”
“Of course it was her. We’ll never be able to prove it, though.”
I search the sea of veils, hoping to see Violet, but everyone looks the same.
Suddenly, there is a blaring of trumpets and the doors to the palace open. Silence falls as a man even I recognize steps forward, surrounded by Regimentals.
The Exetor. He looks older than in his pictures.
“Her Royal Grace thanks you for your support during this sad time,” he says. “But she will not allow any surrogate within these walls. If you wish to pay your respects, you must leave them here. Protected, of course, by my own personal guard.”
Blondie’s mistress gasps, like he’s just announced he’s going to remove her limbs or something.
The Countess sighs and shakes her head. “Amateur,” she says. She unclasps the chain that connects us from her wrist and fastens it on mine. Then, without a word or a glance in my direction, she strides off through the crowd toward the palace.
She is the only one who has this reaction. The other Duchess hurriedly follows her lead, though with a lot of reluctance, but many of the women are whispering and frowning. Eventually, though, they all give in and a steady stream of black flows into the palace as a file of red surrounds the surrogates. The Exetor’s guard carry rifles and seem bigger and more imposing than the other Regimentals I’ve seen. Though maybe I’m just imagining that.
They tighten the circle around us, and Blondie and I bump into each other. It occurs to me that she knows Violet, at least what she looks like.
“Have you seen the other girl from the dinner?” I ask. “The one with black hair and purple eyes?”
“Be quiet,” she hisses. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Are you kidding me? They’re not here. How will they know?”
She sniffs and makes a big show of folding her arms across her chest and turning away from me.
Coward.
I turn to another girl and am about to ask her the same thing when a thought occurs to me.
The royalty—our mistresses—are not here.
This is my chance. I’m not going to waste it asking stupid surrogates questions they don’t know or are unwilling to answer. If I want to see Violet, I have to find her myself.
I take a deep breath and as loud as I can shout, “Violet!”
A few girls shrink away from me like I’m diseased, but a couple brighten at my boldness.
“Violet!” I shout again.
“Raven!”
She’s here! Her voice makes my knees weak, but my heart pumps in my chest with sweet, unabashed hope. Strong. Brave. Immediately, I’m running in the direction of her v
oice, pushing past surrogates who take up my mantle, calling out names of their friends.
“Fawn!”
“Scarlet!”
“Ginger!”
But I can still hear my name—Violet’s voice getting closer—and then there she is and I’d know her anywhere, even with a stupid veil over her face. We collide into each other, and I wrap my arms around her, feeling her familiar form, and I don’t ever, ever want to let go.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
Without thinking I reply, “I’m all right, are you—”
Gunshots rip through the air as the Regimentals fire their weapons, and Violet and I break apart as the crowd of surrogates huddles together. She grabs my hand, and I clutch hers like it’s a lifeline.
“How is the palace of the Lake?” I ask. “Does the Duchess treat you well?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Violet says. “She hit me.” My stomach clenches. “But then she gave me a cello. And the food is great.”
I let out a laugh for the first time in what feels like years. Violet is a terrible liar. She is not being subjected to the same treatment as I am—she’d never be able to hide something like that. She is all right. She has food. She has a cello.
Violet is all right.
I am filled with an overwhelming sense of relief. She smiles at me.
“What about the Countess of the Stone?” she asks.
I give her my best everyone-can-go-screw-themselves snort. “No. I don’t think the Countess and I are going to get along very well.”
Her face crumples.
“Why?” she asks. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry about me, Violet.” I curl my lips into what I hope is a confident grin. “I’m going to make her rue the day she bought me.”
“Raven, don’t,” she pleads. “She could hurt you.”
“Yeah. I know.” My mother’s melted face appears in my mind. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”
“No.”
“You will. And then you’ll see. Or maybe not,” I say, because she’s looking even more concerned. “Maybe the Duchess is different. But the Countess is . . .” I choose my words carefully. “There’s something wrong with her, Violet.”
“Raven, you’re scaring me,” she says.
And then I see that I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t share this burden with her.
I won’t take her hope away.
But I have never felt so alone in my entire life.
I squeeze her hand to reassure her.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, and I’m proud at how true it sounds. “Don’t worry about me.”
She opens her mouth, looking like she’s going to press for more information, when I’m mercifully saved by another volley of gunshots as the royal women begin to trickle out of the palace.
“I don’t want to leave you,” she whispers.
“Me neither,” I say. A sob wells up in my throat, but I choke it down and hitch a brave smile on my face. “But we’ll see each other again. Founding Houses, right?”
“Right,” Violet says. Women begin collecting their surrogates, and I easily spot the Countess’s enormous figure. Her threats are real and I’d like to keep my tongue where it is.
“She can’t see me talking to you,” I say. And before Violet can say anything else, I’ve released the warmth of her hand and melted into the sea of black veils.
I keep the hand she held clenched tight into a fist, as if I could hold the feeling of her hand in mine, as if it were something tangible. The Countess finds me and reattaches my leash to her wrist.
Do your worst to me, I think as she leads me back to the motorcar. You can’t hurt my friend. Violet will be all right.
I keep that thought close to me as she puts the muzzle back on.
I keep it close as I’m led back to my cage.
I nurture it like a candle flame, keeping it safe and warm and bright.
Because if I don’t . . . I’m not sure I’ll survive this place.
Excerpt from The White Rose
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the thrilling second book in the trilogy.
THE ARCANA IS SILENT.
I stare at the small silver tuning fork, nestled among the jewels scattered across my vanity. Garnet’s words echo in my ears.
We’re going to get you out.
I force my mind to work, push down my terror, and try to fit the pieces together. I’m trapped in my bedroom in the palace of the Lake. How does Garnet, the Duchess of the Lake’s own son, have an arcana? Is he working with Lucien, the Electress’s lady-in-waiting and my secret friend and savior? But why wouldn’t Lucien tell me?
Lucien didn’t tell you that childbirth kills surrogates, either. He doesn’t tell you any more than he thinks you need to know.
Panic grips me as I picture Ash, trapped and bleeding in the dungeons. Ash, a companion to royal daughters, who endangered his very life by loving me. Ash, the only other person in this palace who understands what it feels like to be treated like a piece of property.
I shake my head. How much time have I spent staring at the arcana—ten minutes? Twenty?
Something needs to happen. After the Duchess caught us in his room together, he was beaten and thrown in the dungeon, and no one has been sent to save him. If Ash stays there, he’ll die.
The terror resurfaces, rising in my throat like bile. I squeeze my eyes shut and all I can see are the Regimentals bursting through the door to his bedroom. Ripping him from the bed. His blood spattering across the comforter as a Regimental slammed a pistol into Ash’s face again and again while the Duchess looked on.
And Carnelian. The Duchess’s wicked, horrible niece. She was there, too. She betrayed us.
I bite my lip and wince. I look at myself in the mirror—hair disheveled, eyes red and puffy. My lower lip is split at the corner and the beginning of a bruise darkens my cheekbone. I probe the tender spot, remembering the feel of the Duchess’s hand as she struck me.
I shake my head again. So much has happened since the Auction. Secrecy, alliances, death. I was bought to bear the Duchess’s child. I can still see the fury in her eyes as she saw Ash and me in the same room, in the same bed. Whore, she called me, after her guard of Regimentals dragged Ash away. I don’t care about her insults. I only care about what happens now.
Lucien gave me a serum that I was supposed to take tonight. It would make me appear dead, and he could get me out of the Jewel, to somewhere safe where my body wouldn’t be used for royal purposes. But I didn’t take it. I gave it away—to Raven.
Somewhere, in the neighboring palace of the Stone, is my best friend, Raven. Her mistress is using her for a darker purpose. Not only is Raven pregnant with the Countess of the Stone’s child, but she is being tortured in ways I can’t imagine. She is the shell of the girl I once knew.
And I couldn’t leave her there. I couldn’t let her die like that.
So I gave her the serum.
Lucien will be upset when he finds out, but I had no choice. He’ll have to understand.
With trembling fingers, I pick up the arcana and sit on the edge of my bed.
“Garnet?” I whisper to it. “Lucien?”
No one answers me.
“Garnet?” I say again. “If you can hear me . . . please. Talk to me.”
Nothing.
How can I be rescued with Regimentals guarding the door? How can Ash be rescued?
My head throbs—it hurts to think. I curl up on my bed with the silver tuning fork clutched tight between my fingers, trying to will it to buzz, to make someone speak to me.
“Please,” I whisper to it. “Don’t let him die.”
I, at least, might have something the Duchess wants. My body might be enough to keep me alive. But Ash doesn’t have that.
I wonder what it would feel like, to die. The wild girl appears in my mind, the surrogate who tried to escape the royalty and went into hiding. The one I saw executed in front of the walls of Southgate, my hold
ing facility. I remember her strangely peaceful expression as the end came. Her courage. Would I be able to be as strong as she was, if they put my head on the chopping block? Tell Cobalt I love him, she’d said. That, at least, I can understand. Ash’s name would be one of the last words on my lips. I wonder who Cobalt was to her. She must have loved him very much.
I hear a noise and jump up so quickly the room seems to tilt. My only thought is that I have to hide the arcana somewhere, now. It’s my one connection to the people who want to help me. But there are no pockets on my nightdress, and I don’t want to risk hiding it in the room in case the Duchess decides to move me.
Then I remember the Exetor’s Ball, when Lucien first gave it to me. When Garnet ruined my hairstyle and Lucien came to my rescue, hiding the silver tuning fork in my thick, dark curls.
Has Garnet been working with Lucien since then? Did he muss my hair on purpose?
But there’s no time to wonder about that now. I bolt to my vanity, throwing open the drawer where Annabelle, my own personal lady-in-waiting and my closest friend in the Duchess’s palace, keeps my hair ribbons and pins. I twist my hair back into a thick, messy knot at the nape of my neck and secure the arcana inside it with pins.
I fling myself back onto my bed as the door opens.
“Get up,” the Duchess orders. She is flanked by two Regimentals. She looks exactly the same as she did when last I saw her in Ash’s bedroom, wearing the same golden dressing gown, her glossy black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. I don’t know why this surprises me.
The Duchess’s face is cold and impassive as she approaches me. I am reminded of the first time I met her, expecting her to circle me with sharp, critical eyes, then slap me across the face again.
Instead, she stops less than a foot away, and her expression turns from cold to blazing.
“How long?” she demands.
“What?”
The Duchess’s eyes narrow. “Do not play stupid with me, Violet. How long have you been sleeping with the companion?”
It’s jarring to hear her use my name. “I—I wasn’t sleeping with him.” This is partly true, since at the moment we were discovered, we were not actually sleeping together.