The Jewel

by Amy Ewing

  Hazel stands. “Is that what we are? An account to settle before you go off and live in some palace in the Jewel?”

  “No,” I say, aghast. “No, of course not.”

  She balls her hands into fists, exactly the way I do when I’m angry or hurt. “Then why are you here?”

  I shake my head, shocked. “Why . . . ? Hazel, I’m here because I love you. Because I missed you. And Mother, and Ochre. I miss you every day.”

  “Then why didn’t you write to me?” Hazel shouts, and her voice cracks, and my heart cracks with it. “You told me you would. ‘No matter what,’ you said. I waited every day for a letter and you never, ever wrote, not once!”

  Her words punch at my chest. I thought she would’ve forgotten that promise. It’d been so clear that it could never happen once I was inside the facility. “Hazel, I couldn’t. We’re not allowed.”

  “I bet you didn’t even try,” Hazel spits. “You just wanted your fancy things, new clothes and fresh food and hot water. That’s what you get in there, I know it, so stop lying.”

  “Yes, I do get those things. But don’t you think I would give them all up in a second if it meant I could live with you again? If I could tuck you in at night, and sing to you? And we could make mud pies when it rains, and then throw them at Ochre when he’s not looking?” The images well up, threatening to consume me. The life I could have had. Poor, yes, but happy. “Do you really think I’d abandoned my family for running water and clothes? I didn’t have a choice, Hazel,” I say. “They didn’t give me a choice.”

  Hazel doesn’t say anything, but she looks unsure. I take a step toward her.

  “I celebrate your birthday every year,” I say. I’m risking setting the transmitter off, but I don’t care. “I make them bake a cake, chocolate with vanilla frosting, and they write your name on it in green icing and put a candle in it, and my friend Raven and I sing happy birthday.” We do that for Raven’s brother, too, and Ochre.

  Hazel blinks. “You do?”

  A tear trickles down my cheek and lands on the corner of my mouth. “Sometimes, I talk to you after lights-out. I tell you jokes I’ve heard, or stories about my friends and life in the facility. I miss you every day, Hazel.”

  Suddenly, she crosses the distance between us and throws her arms around me. I hold her tight, her bony frame so fragile and shaking with sobs. More tears drip down my own cheeks and into her hair.

  “I thought you didn’t care.” Her voice is muffled by my robe. “I thought you left me forever.”

  “No,” I whisper. “I will always love you, Hazel. I promise.”

  I am so glad I get this tiny slice of time. No matter what happens after, no matter what result the Auction brings, I am grateful that, at least, I get this one last moment with my sister.

  DINNER THAT NIGHT IS A SMALL ROAST DUCK THAT IS mostly bones, boiled potatoes, and a few wilted string beans.

  I feel guilty thinking of all the dinners I’ve eaten, the endless choice of the freshest foods. And my family treats this humble meal as though it’s a feast fit for the Electress.

  “Ochre’s brought cream from the dairies,” Hazel exclaims, tugging on my sleeve. “We can have ice cream for dessert.”

  “What a treat,” I say with a smile before passing the potatoes to Ochre. “So, you work in the dairies?”

  Ochre nods. “Most of the time,” he says, scooping a large amount of potatoes onto his plate—Mother grabs the bowl away from him before he can take them all. “I like working with the animals. The foreman says in a year, I could start learning to plow the fields.” His chest puffs out a little as he says it. “As long as I can keep working for the House of the Flame, I’ll be happy. They treat their workers fairly, give us good long water breaks and decent hours and everything. Remember Sable Tersing? He works for the House of the Light and apparently they’re awful. The foremen have whips and they’re not afraid to use them, and they’ll dock your pay if they catch you smoking, or—”

  “What is Sable Tersing doing smoking?” Mother demands. Ochre flushes.

  “No, I didn’t mean Sable, just that—”

  “Ochre, I swear on your father’s grave, if I catch you with a cigarette—”

  “Mother.” Ochre rolls his eyes. “All I’m saying is, it isn’t fair to the workers, not knowing how you’ll be treated from one royal house to the next. There should be fixed rules, and we should be allowed to take our case to the Exetor if they aren’t enforced.”

  “Oh yes, because I’m sure the Exetor has nothing better to do than listen to the complaints of a few teenage boys,” Mother says. But I can’t help smiling.

  “You sound like Father,” I say to Ochre. He scratches the back of his neck in a self-conscious sort of way and shovels a few potatoes into his mouth.

  “He made some good points,” Ochre mumbles through the food.

  Hazel tugs on my sleeve again, demanding my attention.

  “I’m in the top of my class at school,” she says proudly.

  “Of course you are,” I say. “You’re my sister, aren’t you?”

  Mother laughs. “You didn’t get into nearly as much trouble as this one. The year has only just started and she’s been in two fights already.”

  “Fights?” I frown at my sister. “Who have you been fighting, Hazel?”

  Hazel shoots our mother a look. “No one. Just some stupid boys.”

  “Yes, and if it happens again, there will be extra chores and no games for a week,” Mother says sternly. Hazel pouts at her plate.

  Jealousy twists inside me, listening to the daily life of my family. There is so much love around this table it is tangible—a real, pulsing, living thing. I watch as Ochre and Hazel bicker, and Mother laughs and shushes them. I can see how I would have fit here, how I should have completed this family.

  I am seized by the desire to make sure my mother knows I’ll be all right. Even if I don’t believe it myself, even if it’s a lie. I don’t want to do anything to endanger the happiness in this room.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I say. Everyone falls silent and stares—I probably shouldn’t have said it so bluntly. “I mean . . .” I look at my mother. “I’ll be okay.” She puts down her fork. I force a smile on my face and hope it looks genuine. “Tomorrow I’ll be living in the Jewel. Isn’t that exciting? I’m sure they’ll take great care of me there.” Hazel’s eyes are wide as saucers. “But, you should know . . . I mean . . . please know how much I love you. All of you.” My voice falters and I take a sip of water. My mother’s eyes are filled with tears, and she presses a hand against her mouth. “If there was any way I could stay with you, I would. I—I’m so proud to be a part of this family. Please know that.”

  Their eyes burn into me, and suddenly I can’t look at them anymore. The fire is low in the grate and I stand. “The fire is dying,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll get more wood.”

  I rush out the back door, gulping at the cool night air, my hands shaking.

  Don’t cry, I tell myself. If I cry, they’ll see how scared I am. I can’t let them see that. They have to think I’ll be happy.

  I lean against the wall of the house and stare up at the night sky, glittering with stars. At least, wherever I end up, it’ll be under the same sky. Hazel and I will always look at the same stars.

  I turn to the woodpile, when my gaze falls on the lemon tree, silver in the moonlight, and an idea hits me.

  The third Augury, Growth.

  I hurry over to it and run my hand against its familiar bark. This will hurt, but I don’t care. The pain will be worth it, for once. And I know I can do it—I’m the best third-Augury student at Southgate.

  I find a small knot in one of the branches and press my hand against it, repeating the words in my head.

  Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.

  I picture what I want in my mind—a heat builds in the center of my palm at the same time the ache begins at the base o
f my skull. I can feel the life of the tree, a moving, shimmering thing, and I pull at it, tugging on it like strings on a marionette, drawing it out. A tiny lump forms under my palm, a green leaf peeking out between my fingers. The tree resists a little and I gasp as fire rips down my spine, and it feels like needles are being shoved into my brain—my back arches and my head spins, but I’ve experienced worse pain in my four years at Southgate, and I’m determined to succeed in this. I force myself to focus, biting my lip hard to keep from crying out, coaxing the threads of life one by one, like strands of gossamer, pulling them out, shaping them, and the lump grows bigger, until it fits comfortably inside my hand.

  A lemon.

  I release it and my knees buckle—my palms hit the ground, and I stay doubled over, panting. A few drops of blood splash on the dirt, and I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I lean my forehead against the tree and count backward from ten, the way Patience taught us, and gradually the pain subsides, until all that’s left is a dull ache behind my right ear. Shaking, I get to my feet.

  The lemon is perfect, its skin a rich yellow, its plump little body dangling from the branch. Hazel will love it.

  I can still feel the life of the tree inside me, and I know that I’ve given a piece of myself to it, too. This tree won’t be barren anymore.

  I turn away, picking up some wood off the pile, and head back inside to join my family.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Three

  THE ENTIRE HOLDING FACILITY STANDS ON THE PLATFORM to see us off.

  Southgate has its own train station, as does Northgate, Eastgate, and Westgate. We are the last stops in the Marsh—the trains don’t go any farther than the holding facilities. The stations that transport workers to the other circles of the city are farther on, closer to the wall that separates the Marsh from the Farm. I remember walking my father there once when I was little, frightened by the big black steam engine with its piercing whistle and its chimney belching clouds of white smoke.

  It’s very early in the morning, just after dawn, and many of the younger girls are bleary-eyed and stifling yawns. But the ceremony is mandatory. I remember my first ceremony—I was cold, and tired, and I didn’t know any of the girls going to the Auction. I just wanted to go back to bed.

  It’s strange, standing on this side of the platform. We won’t know what we’ll be wearing until we get to the preparation rooms at the Auction House, so we’re dressed the same—knee-length brown shift dresses, with SG and our Lot numbers stenciled on the left side.

  I am now officially Lot 197. Violet Lasting is gone.

  A representative from the Jewel stands behind a podium and gives the usual speech. He is a large man, with wire-rimmed glasses and a brocade waistcoat. On his left hand is a ring—a ruby sits like a fat, glittering cherry, encircled by tiny diamonds. I can’t take my eyes off that ring. It could feed three families in the Marsh for a year.

  He has a bland, droning voice, and the wind picks up most of his words and carries them off. I’m not listening anyway—it’s pretty much the same speech year after year, about how noble the tradition of surrogacy is, how essential we are to the continuation of the royalty, how esteemed we’ll be in the eyes of all the residents of the city.

  I don’t know about the Bank and the Jewel, but I’m fairly sure the rest of the city couldn’t care less about the surrogates, unless you live in the Marsh and it means losing a daughter. None of the lower circles—the Smoke, the Farm, and the Marsh—are allowed to have surrogates. Sometimes parents try to hide their daughters, or pay off the doctors who test them. The blood test that indicates surrogacy is mandatory for every girl in the Marsh once she reaches puberty. They don’t know why only girls from the poorest circle have the strange genetic mutation that causes the Auguries, but the royalty won’t let anyone slip through the cracks. If you’re caught trying to avoid the test, the sentence is death.

  I shiver, remembering the first public execution I ever witnessed. It was seven months ago. A girl had been caught after three years in hiding. They brought her to the square in front of the gates of Southgate—we were kept behind screens, transparent on our side but opaque on the other, so that the gathering crowds couldn’t see us. I searched for my mother in that crowd, but she wasn’t there. It’s nearly an hour’s walk from our house to Southgate. Besides, she probably wanted to keep Ochre and Hazel away. She and Father never attended the public executions—“grotesque,” Father used to call them. But I remember being curious, wondering what they were like.

  Seeing one, though . . . I understood what he meant.

  The girl was wild, long black hair tangled around her face, framing eyes of a brilliant, almost shocking, blue. There was something fierce and untamed about her appearance. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me.

  She didn’t fight or struggle against the two Regimentals restraining her. She didn’t cry, or beg. She looked strangely peaceful. When they put her head on the block, I could swear she smiled. The magistrate asked her if she had any last words.

  “This is how it begins,” she said. “I am not afraid.” Her face saddened, and she added, “Tell Cobalt I love him.”

  Then they chopped her head off.

  I forced myself to watch, to keep my eyes on her mutilated body and not cringe and look away, like Lily and so many of the other girls did. I thought she deserved to have someone be as brave as she was, as if it would somehow validate her life and death. It was probably a stupid idea—I had nightmares for a week—but I’m still glad I did it.

  Whenever I think of her, I always wonder who Cobalt was. I wonder if he ever found out that he was the last person she thought of before she died.

  I turn my attention back to the man from the Jewel, who finishes his speech and wipes his glasses with a silk handkerchief.

  There are only twenty-two surrogates going to the Auction from Southgate this year. Most are coming from Northgate and Westgate. Our train is a plum-colored steam engine with only three carriages—much smaller and friendlier than the train my father took to work.

  Our head doctor, Dr. Steele, shakes the fat man’s hand, then turns to address us. Everything about Dr. Steele is long and gray—long chin, long nose, long arms, gray hair, gray eyebrows, grayish eyes. Even his skin has a grayish tinge. Lily once told me she heard that Dr. Steele is addicted to opiates, and it washes out all of his natural coloring.

  “And now, ladies,” Dr. Steele says in a frail, whispery voice, “it is time to depart.”

  He waves a long-fingered hand, and the doors on the steam engine open with a loud hissing sound. The surrogates begin to file into the carriages. I look back and see Mercy dabbing her eyes, and Patience looking as placid as ever. I see the rose-shaped bars on the windows of the dormitories, set in the pale pink stone of the holding facility. I see the faces of the other surrogates, the girls who will go back inside once this train leaves and never think of us again. My gaze falls on a twelve-year-old girl with bulging brown eyes. She is so thin, and clearly malnourished; she must be new. Our eyes meet, and she crosses the fingers on her right hand and presses them against her heart.

  I step into the carriage and the doors close behind me.

  THE CARRIAGES ARE AS DEVOID OF PERSONALITY AS OUR bedrooms at Southgate.

  Purple curtains cover the windows, and a bench hugs the walls of the rectangular space, lined with plum-colored cushions. There are only seven of us in this particular carriage, and for a moment, we stand awkwardly in the sparse compartment, not quite sure what to do.

  Then the train lurches forward and we break apart. Raven, Lily, and I take a spot in one corner. Raven pushes back the curtains.

  “Are we allowed to open them?” Lily asks in a hushed voice.

  “What are they going to do?” Raven says. “Shoot us?”

  Lily bites her lip.

&
nbsp; The ride to the Jewel takes two hours. It’s dizzying, how quickly the certainty in my life dwindles. I’m certain this train will take us through the Farm, the Smoke, and the Bank, to the Auction House in the Jewel. I’m certain that I’ll go to a prep room, then to a waiting room, then to the Auction. And that’s it. That’s all I have left. The unknown stretches out in front of me like a vast, blank sheet of paper.

  I stare out the window, watching the mud-brick houses flash past, dark brown against the pale gray sky.

  “It really isn’t much to look at, is it?” Raven says.

  I kick off my shoes and tuck my legs under me. “No,” I murmur. “But it’s home.”

  Raven laughs. “You are so sentimental.”

  She puts on a good show, but I know her too well. She’ll miss it. “How was your Reckoning Day?”

  She shrugs, but her mouth tightens. “Oh, fine, you know, my mother was over the moon about how healthy I looked, and how tall I was, and how excited I must be to see the Jewel. As if I’m going on a vacation or something. Yours?”

  “What about Crow?” I ask. Crow is Raven’s twin brother.

  She untucks her hair from behind her ear, letting it fall to cover her face. “He barely spoke to me,” she mumbles. “I thought . . . I mean, I didn’t . . .” She shrugs again. “He doesn’t know how to talk to a surrogate, I guess.”

  I try to remember what I thought about the surrogates, before I knew I was one. I remember thinking that they were something other, that they were special. Special is just about the last thing I feel right now.

  At that moment, Lily begins to sing. Her small hand wraps around mine, her eyes bright as she watches the Marsh pass by us. Her voice is sweet and she sings a traditional Marsh-song, one we all know.

  “Come all ye fair and tender ladies

  Take warning how you court young men . . .”

  Two other girls join in. Raven rolls her eyes.

  “It doesn’t really suit the moment, does it?” she mutters.

  “No,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t.” Most of the Marsh-songs are about girls who either die young or get rejected by their lovers—they don’t really apply to us. “But it’s nice to hear it, all the same.”