by Amy Ewing
“Do not lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
The Duchess’s nostrils flare. “Fine.” She turns to the Regimentals. “Tie her up. And bring the other one in.”
The Regimentals descend on me before I have a chance to react, yanking my arms behind my back and binding me with a coarse rope. I cry out and struggle, but the bonds are too tight. The rope chafes against my skin, the polished wood of the bedpost pressing against my back as they tie me to it. Then a small, willowy figure is marched into the room.
Annabelle’s eyes are filled with fear. Like me, her hands are bound behind her back. She won’t be able to use her slate—Annabelle was born mute and can only talk through writing. Her copper-colored hair is out of its usual bun, and her face is so pale that her freckles stand out clearly. My mouth goes dry.
“Leave us,” the Duchess orders, and the Regimentals close the door behind them.
“She—she doesn’t know anything,” I protest weakly.
“I find that hard to believe,” the Duchess says.
“She doesn’t!” I cry, louder now, fighting against my bindings, because I can’t let anything happen to Annabelle. “I swear on my father’s grave, she didn’t know!”
The Duchess studies me, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “No,” she says. “I still don’t believe you.” Her hand whips across Annabelle’s face with a sickening smack.
“Please!” I scream, as Annabelle stumbles back, almost losing her balance. “Don’t hurt her!”
“Oh, I have no wish to hurt her, Violet. This is your fault. Her pain ends when you tell me the truth.”
My wrists are raw, the rope cutting into my skin as I struggle against it. Suddenly, the Duchess is inches away from me, my face clutched in her iron grasp, her fingernails biting into the bruise on my cheek. “How long have you been sleeping with him?”
I try to answer her, but I can’t open my mouth. The Duchess releases me.
“How long?” she says again.
“One time,” I gasp. “It was just one time.”
“When?”
“The night before,” I say, panting. “Before the second time that the doctor tried . . .”
The Duchess glares at me, seething with rage. “Have you been intentionally destroying these pregnancies?”
I can feel the blankness on my face. “I—no. How would I even do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Violet. You’re clearly such a resourceful girl. I’m sure you could find a way.”
“No,” I say.
The Duchess’s hand slams into Annabelle’s face again.
“Please,” I beg. “I’m telling you the truth.”
One of Annabelle’s shoulders is hunched up as if to try to cradle her swollen cheek. Our eyes meet and all I see is fear. Confusion. Her eyebrows knit together and I know she’s trying to ask me something but I can’t figure out exactly what.
“Here is my dilemma, Violet,” the Duchess says, pacing back and forth in front of me. “You are a very valuable asset. As much as I might want to kill you for what you’ve done, it wouldn’t be a very good business practice. Obviously, your life in this palace will be different from now on. No more balls, no more cello, no more . . . well, anything, I suppose. If I have to, I’ll keep you tied to the medical bed for the duration of your stay. I’ve sent an emergency petition to the Exetor for the companion’s execution, so he should be dead in an hour or so. That will serve as some punishment. But is it enough, I ask myself?”
I try to swallow the whimper that climbs up my throat, but the Duchess hears it and smiles.
“Such a waste, really—he is so very handsome. And quite skilled, from what I’ve heard. The Lady of the Stream raved about him at Garnet’s engagement party. Pity I didn’t get the chance to sample his talents myself.”
A cold, slippery feeling squirms around inside me. The Duchess’s smile widens. “Please, tell me,” she continues, “what exactly did you think would happen with him? That you two would ride off into the sunset together? Do you know how many women he’s slept with? It’s disgusting. I would have thought you’d have better taste. If you’re going to get all love-struck in this palace, why not choose Garnet? His manners might be atrocious, but he’s good-looking enough. And he comes from an excellent bloodline.”
At this, I can’t help choking out a raspy, bitter laugh. “His bloodline? Do you honestly think that matters to anyone in this city besides the royalty? You people wouldn’t even need surrogates if you didn’t care so much about stupid bloodlines!”
The Duchess waits patiently for me to finish. “I would think you would choose your words more carefully,” she says. This time when she hits Annabelle, the skin breaks open below her right eye. Tears stream down Annabelle’s cheek.
“I need you to understand,” the Duchess says. “You are mine. The doctor will not stop until my baby is growing inside you. I will no longer have any consideration for your pain, or discomfort, or frame of mind. You will be like a piece of furniture to me. Is that clear?”
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I say. “But please don’t hit her anymore.”
The Duchess becomes very still. Her expression softens, and she sighs. “All right,” she says.
She walks to where Annabelle is bent over. In one fluid motion, she yanks Annabelle upright, holding her head back by her hair.
“You know, Violet,” the Duchess says. “I cared about you. I truly did.” She seems sincerely sad as she holds my gaze. “Why did you have to do this to me?”
I don’t see the knife in her hand—just a flash of silver as it whispers across Annabelle’s throat. Annabelle’s eyes widen, more in surprise than in pain, as a crimson gash opens on her neck.
“NO!” I scream. Annabelle looks at me, her face so lovely and frail, and I can see the question now, clear enough on her face that she wouldn’t need her slate to express it.
Why?
Blood spills down her chest, staining her nightdress a brilliant scarlet. Then her body crumples to the floor.
A wild, guttural wail fills the room, and it takes a second before I realize it’s coming from me. I thrash against my bonds, ignoring the pain in my back and wrists, hardly feeling it at all, because if I can just get to Annabelle I can make this right; if I can hold her in my arms I can bring her back. There must be a way to bring her back, because she can’t be dead, she can’t be . . .
Annabelle’s eyes are open, vacant, staring at me as blood pours from the wound on her neck, seeping toward me across the carpet.
“You needed to be punished for what you did,” the Duchess says, wiping the blood from her knife on the sleeve of her dressing gown. “And so did she.”
As casually as if it were nothing, she steps over Annabelle’s body and opens the door. I catch a glimpse of my tea parlor and the two Regimentals guarding me before the door closes and I am left alone with the corpse of the girl who was my first friend in this palace.
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About the Author
AMY EWING earned her MFA in Writing for Children at The New School and received her BFA at New York University. The Jewel started off as a thesis project but is now her debut novel. She lives in New York City. Visit Amy online at www.amyewingbooks.com or on Twitter @AmyEwingBooks.
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Books by Amy Ewing
The Jewel
The White Rose
The House of the Stone
Copyright
THE HOUSE OF THE STONE. Text copyright © 2015 by Amy Ewing. All rights reserved under In
ternational and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © June 2015 ISBN 9780062385666
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FIRST EDITION
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