The Jewel

by Amy Ewing

  My stomach tightens at the thought.

  “May I ask you a question, 197?” Lucien says quietly. I wish he’d stop calling me that.

  “Sure.”

  The silence that follows is so long, I wonder if he’s forgotten what he wanted to ask. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “Do you want this life?”

  My muscles freeze. I feel like this question is not allowed, not permitted to be asked, or even thought about in the Jewel. Who cares what the surrogates want? But Lucien asks me. It makes me wonder if maybe he’d like to know my name, too.

  “No,” I whisper back.

  He finishes my hair in silence.

  THE SECOND HOURGLASS IS SMALLER AND FILLED WITH pale purple sand.

  I stand in front of one of the three closets while Lucien pulls dresses off the racks and I squeeze myself into them. He picks ones that are a hair too tight, telling me it’s to “emphasize my curves.” Some of the dresses are outrageous things, like costumes, with wings sprouting out of them, or finlike attachments. Thankfully, Lucien gives up on those pretty quickly.

  “Definitely not your style,” he says. I don’t know what my style is, but I’m glad he agrees that it’s not that.

  I try on a series of dresses made of heavy brocade, relieved when Lucien dismisses those as well—they make me feel like I weigh a thousand pounds. There are dresses with full skirts, short skirts, long sleeves, no sleeves, made of silk, damask, taffeta, lace, in every color and pattern imaginable. Lucien’s brow furrows as I try on more and more, the pile of discarded fabrics growing higher and higher. A light sheen of sweat beads on his forehead, and he glances at the hourglass—the purple sand has nearly filled the bottom bulb. We’re running out of time.

  Suddenly, a smile breaks across his face and he gives me a look that makes me immediately suspicious.

  “You know what?” he says, tossing aside a long dress made of red velvet. “You choose.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “You choose. Just poke around in the closets and pick what you like best.”

  For a second, I’m too stunned to move. Isn’t this sort of important, what I wear for the Auction? Won’t it influence who buys me? Isn’t this his job?

  But then I wonder if he’s giving me another little gift, like closing my eyes for the makeup. I remember what Raven said yesterday, about how it was the last day we’d ever get to choose our own outfit. Lucien’s giving me one more choice.

  “Okay,” I say. I ignore the first closet, where most of the costume-y stuff is, and head straight for the second. I run my hands along the racks, seeing which materials feel best. The farther back I go, the simpler the dresses become.

  The moment I touch it, I know.

  It’s made of muslin, in a purple so pale it reminds me of the sunrise yesterday, of the sky just before it exploded with color. It has an empire waist and falls in a clean line to the floor. It has no ornamentation. It doesn’t even look expensive.

  I love it.

  Lucien laughs when he sees my choice. “Try it on,” he says, and when I do, he laughs again and claps. “I don’t think that dress has ever been used by a surrogate in the history of the Auction,” he says. “But, honey, it fits you like a glove.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Five

  “WHAT’S NEXT?” I ASK.

  “You look in the mirror again,” he replies.

  I swallow. “Do I have to?”

  Lucien takes my hand in both of his—his skin is soft, like a child’s. “Yes. It’s required. You’ve seen yourself as you were, and now you have to accept who you are, and embrace your new life and your future.” It’s like he’s reading from a script, but something in his eyes contradicts the words. Like he’s really telling me he’s sorry.

  “All right.” I manage to keep my breathing steady as I approach the mirrors. I keep my head down, step onto the podium, count to three, and look up.

  The stranger in the mirror has been transformed.

  I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile her with the image I had of myself in my head. The image of a pretty girl, slightly plump, full face, big eyes. The woman I am looking at now is stunning. Beautiful. Her cheeks seem thinner, molded to accent her high cheekbones, and her eyebrows arch delicately over luminous eyes, lined in rich purple with accents of lilac and gold. Her lips are glossed in pale pink, and her hair tumbles over her shoulders in thick curls, one side pinned up with a jeweled clip, encrusted with amethysts that form the shape of a butterfly. There is a shimmer to her skin, almost like she’s glowing. The color of the dress works perfectly and its simplicity only makes her features stand out more.

  “What do you think?” Lucien asks.

  I am speechless.

  He takes a step closer, so our reflections touch. “I wanted you to still look like you.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Lucien picks up the last hourglass—it’s tiny, and the sand inside it is dark red.

  “This one is for you,” he says. “You have this time to do whatever you want. Look in the mirror. Sing. Meditate. Just don’t mess up your hair and makeup.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He gives me a sort of sad, pitying look. “I’m going to leave, 197. A Regimental will take you to the Waiting Room when your time is up.”

  My heart sticks in my throat. “You’re leaving?”

  Lucien nods. “My apologies about the mess,” he says, his eyes lingering on the scattered clothes and smudges of makeup on the vanity. “The servants can’t come in to clean until you’re gone.” He gives me a small smile. “It has been a pleasure to prep you, 197.”

  He turns the hourglass and walks to the door.

  “Lucien, wait.”

  He stops. I’m nervous and want to chew on my bottom lip, but I’m worried about what he said about not messing with my makeup. I don’t know what I want to do, in these last minutes before I’m sold. But I do know that I don’t want to be alone.

  “You said . . . I can do anything I want?”

  He nods.

  “Okay. Then I want to talk to you. I want you to stay.”

  For a second, it’s like he doesn’t understand me. Then a slow smile spreads across his face.

  “Well,” he says, smoothing his topknot. “This is a first.”

  He sits on one of the claw-footed sofas, daintily crosses his legs, and pats the spot next to him. I smile for the first time since I woke up in this room.

  “Ah,” he says, “that’s what was missing. Now you’re perfect.”

  I sit down. There is a silence in which I can almost hear the trickle of sand through the hourglass.

  “What would you like to talk about?” Lucien asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just . . . didn’t want you to leave me.”

  Lucien’s expression softens. “When you think of something, let me know.” He brushes the silky fabric of his gown with his fingertips. I notice again how smooth his skin is.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  He bursts into laughter. “Oh, honey, you can’t start with that. You’ll never survive here.”

  I blush deeply, feeling the heat burn in my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mumble. I’ve lived so long in a place where age was always known, and limited to only a certain number of years.

  Lucien pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re already doing so much better than most of the other girls I’ve prepped.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Nine years. But I don’t prep every Auction. I’ve been doing it so long now, I get to choose who I work on.” He bats his eyelashes.

  “You chose me?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?” I can’t imagine what could have compelled him to choose me. How could he know anything about me?

  He hesitates for a mo
ment. “Your eyes,” he says.

  I’m stunned. “You saw me?”

  “We’re given photographs of all the surrogates in the Auction. Along with your measurements, of course. How else would I have three closets full of dresses in exactly your size?”

  I try to imagine Lucien flipping through stacks of photographs of girls denoted only by lot number and dress size. It makes me feel so small.

  I glance at the hourglass—already, half my time is up.

  “Are you afraid?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” The words come out on their own, and I realize they’re true. I don’t know if I’m afraid. I’m not sure if fear is the right word. I feel strangely detached, like this isn’t real, like it’s happening to someone else.

  “For what it’s worth,” Lucien says, “I think you’ll be fine.”

  I don’t really know what to say to that. The sand trickling through the hourglass is loud in my ears.

  “What’s out there?” I ask.

  But before Lucien can answer, the sand runs out. A lock clicks.

  Time’s up.

  “Lot 197.” The Regimental’s voice is very deep. He fills the entire doorway, his red military jacket tight over broad shoulders, his eyes dark and impassive. “Come with me.”

  My mouth has gone completely dry and it’s an enormous effort to stand. Lucien stands as well, and for a second his body blocks the Regimental from view and he squeezes my hand. Then he glides away, his expression carefully neutral.

  It takes me nine steps to reach the Regimental, and each one seems like an eternity. He turns smartly and walks out the door; I force myself to follow him.

  The hallway is carpeted in a dark pink rug so plush that neither my satin slippers nor his boots make any sound. The walls are painted mauve, and the same globes that were in my prep room glow on the walls. Sometimes we pass other doors, and identical hallways appear, branching off the one we’re on, but they are all empty. Silent. An uneasiness crawls up my spine.

  The Regimental stops so abruptly, I nearly walk into him. The door we’re in front of looks just like the others—simple, wooden, with a copper doorknob. He steps back and stands at attention. I wish he would talk to me. I wish he would tell me what I’m supposed to do.

  I step forward and slowly open the door.

  SOUND BUZZES AROUND ME LIKE A THOUSAND MARSH flies.

  There is the briefest pause when I enter, then the buzzing starts up again.

  The room is so full of color, it takes my brain a few seconds to process that these are girls—surrogates, not dolls. One pretty blonde stands out, taller than the others thanks to her hair, piled in curls that stretch about a foot above her head. Her pink lace dress flows in endlessly expanding folds to the floor, like an iced layer cake. She’s talking to a haughty-looking, black-haired girl, with skin the color of dark chocolate—her features are feline, like a lioness. She wears one of the costumelike dresses. It’s strapless, the top crafted out of golden plating that dissolves into a rainbow of tassels that shimmer with the smallest movement. Her hair is sectioned into multiple braids, each one threaded with silver and gold. The whole effect is quite fierce. She sees me staring at her and her eyes narrow, looking me up and down.

  I turn away, and my gaze lands on a small figure, alone in the far corner of the room. Then someone grabs my arm and I jump.

  “Finally.” Raven’s voice is so familiar that I feel my bones soften with relief. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

  I stare at her, trying to fit this new Raven into the image I have of my best friend. She is wearing a long robe, styled like a kimono but made of softer fabric, more alluring. It’s patterned in red and gold, the empire waist emphasizing how long her legs are. Her eyes are thickly lined in black, elongating their almond shape. The center of her lips have been painted bright red, so it looks like she’s constantly making a kissing face, and her hair has been slicked back, arching over the crown of her head like a fan, from one ear to the other. Teardrop earrings, rubies encased in gold, hang from her ears.

  I open my mouth, then close it. I don’t know what to say.

  “I know, I look like an idiot,” Raven says.

  I want to laugh and cry at the same time. She’s still my Raven. “You look incredible,” I say. “Those earrings must be worth a fortune.”

  “It’s not like I get to keep them. At least you still look like you. How did you convince your prep artist to do that?”

  “I didn’t. He chose to make me like this.”

  Raven’s black-lined eyes nearly bug out of her head. “He? You had a man?”

  I’ve forgotten that this news would be shocking. Lucien no longer feels like a man to me. He’s just . . . Lucien. “He’s a lady-in-waiting,” I explain.

  Raven looks incredulous. The expressions on her new face are unsettling. “What was he like?”

  “He was . . .” I try to think of the right word. “Kind. He was nice to me. What about you?”

  “Ugh, I had this ancient woman who probably singlehandedly keeps the makeup factories in business. She was awful.” Raven shudders. “Anyway. It’s over now.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe five minutes? There weren’t as many girls here then.”

  “So this is the last of us,” I say, glancing around the room.

  “Yeah. Lots 190 to 200. The jewels of the Auction.” Raven shakes her head. “We look sort of freakish, to be honest. Well, except you.”

  Suddenly, a door on the opposite side of the room opens. An older Regimental with salt-and-pepper hair steps through it.

  “Lot 190,” he calls. “Lot 190.”

  A waifish girl, in a silver dress that glitters with scales, weaves her way to the door. Her head seems oddly large compared with the thinness of her arms and shoulders. The Regimental gives her a small bow, then turns. She follows him out the door, the scales of her dress tinkling.

  I reach for Raven’s hand as she reaches for mine.

  “This is it,” she says.

  “We’ll see each other again,” I say. “We have to.”

  The door opens again. A different Regimental this time.

  “Lot 191. Lot 191.”

  A large girl in a black velvet dress and wearing an ornate headdress follows him out. I clutch Raven’s hand so hard it hurts.

  The door opens.

  “I’ll never forget you,” Raven says. “I will never forget you, Violet.”

  “Lot 192. Lot 192.”

  Raven holds her head high and walks proudly through the dwindling crowd of girls and out the door.

  And then she’s gone.

  I feel my insides collapsing and the room seems to swirl around me. I have to remind myself to breathe.

  Raven’s gone.

  My whole body shakes. I never even said good-bye to her. Why didn’t I say good-bye?

  “Was she your friend?”

  I start and look down at the girl I saw earlier, the one who was alone in the corner. She can’t be older than thirteen. Her hair is a brilliant red, her body thin and wiry, and she wears, to my intense surprise, a ragged pinafore. She has almost no makeup on, just a hint of blush on her cheeks and gloss on her lips. She looks incredibly tiny. And plain. But her big brown eyes are full of compassion.

  “Yes,” I say. “She was.”

  The girl nods. “My best friend came here with me, too. But she was Lot 131. I haven’t seen her since the train.”

  “Which holding facility are you from?”

  “Northgate. They came with me,” she says, indicating the iced cake and the lioness. “But they aren’t my friends.”

  “I’m Violet,” I say.

  Her eyes widen. “Are we allowed to tell each other our names?”

  “Oh. Probably not.” I sigh.

  The girl bites her lip. “I’m Dahlia,” she says. Then she smiles shyly. “I think you’re the prettiest of all of us. Especially your eyes. You must’ve had a really go
od prep artist.”

  “I did. What about you?” It doesn’t look like she got prepped at all.

  “She wanted me to look pathetic. That’s what she said. To intrigue the buyers.” Dahlia chews nervously on her thumbnail.

  The door Raven left through opens. Lot 193 is taken. A few seconds later, Lot 194 follows.

  There are only six of us left. The room feels cavernous. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, dripping with pink crystals and bathing the room in a rosy glow. There is no furniture. Just the dark pink carpet and mauve-painted walls. It’s like being inside a giant mouth.

  “Are you scared?” Dahlia asks quietly.

  Now that it comes to it, the hazy feelings I couldn’t identify in the prep room have sharpened to a point. Fear. It stabs at my lungs, claws at my stomach, burrows into the base of my skull. I feel it like something other, something outside of me. My palms itch, and sweat beads in my armpits.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Me too.” Dahlia gnaws at the nail on her index finger. All her nails have been chewed right down to the quick.

  “What’s your lot number?” I ask.

  Her body freezes. “What’s yours?”

  “197.”

  She scratches her nose and looks down. “200,” she mumbles.

  Before I can really comprehend this tiny, tattered girl as the most desirable surrogate in the entire Auction, the door opens again.

  It’s as if time speeds up. I watch surrogates 195 and 196 leave, one right after the other, too quickly, surely they shouldn’t be leaving quite so quickly, wasn’t there more time in between the other girls? And then the door is opening again and the Regimental with the dark eyes who brought me to this room is there and he calls my lot number but my feet are cemented to the floor.

  Dahlia nudges me. “You have to go, Violet.”

  The lioness smirks and whispers something to the iced cake, who giggles.

  I blink. “It was nice to meet you, Dahlia,” I say. Then I force my feet to move, one in front of the other, and the Regimental comes closer until he’s looming over me. Our eyes meet, and my fingertips tremble, fear and anticipation merging into a hard knot at the base of my skull. Without a word, he bows and turns, and I follow him into the dark.