by Amy Ewing
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Six
THE DOOR CLOSES BEHIND ME AUTOMATICALLY, AND FOR one terrifying moment, all there is is darkness.
Then I hear a low hum, and a narrow hallway is illuminated on either side by a path of small square floor lamps. Their yellowish-green light shoots straight up, showing me the way without revealing where I’m going. The Regimental is a black outline in front of me, his pace slow and even. A weight presses harder against my chest with each step I take, the invisible walls closing in around me. I hear Lucien’s voice in my head, telling me I’ll be fine, and Raven’s, too, saying she’ll never forget me. I hold on to them, like talismans, trying to keep the fear at bay.
The hallway curves to the left. Then the floor lamps end abruptly and the Regimental stops. Silence.
“Where are we?” I ask. My voice is hushed and tiny. For ten long seconds, the Regimental says nothing; then, stirred by some unseen command, he turns to me.
“I thank you, Lot 197, for your service to the royalty. Your place is marked. You must go on alone.” He bows low, and steps back so he is behind me.
A rounded, golden door engraved with the various crests of the royal families begins to glow. I have no idea what lies behind it, and suddenly panic seizes me so completely that I think I might pass out. But Raven went through this door. And so did Lily.
My fingertips tremble as they graze the ornamented metal. As if the door was waiting for my touch, it swings open, and suddenly I find myself blinded by a brilliant light.
“AND NEXT UP, LADIES, WE HAVE LOT 197. Lot 197, please take your mark.”
The voice is polite, almost pleasant, but I’m having a hard time focusing on what it’s saying.
I’m in an amphitheater, rings of seats spiraling upward, but the seats aren’t normal seats, they’re chaise lounges, and sofas, and one even looks like a throne. And in each one sits a woman, her eyes focused on me, her clothing extravagant beyond anything I saw in my prep closets. Rippling, colorful satins; delicate silks; lace; feathers; crinoline; cloth-of-gold—glittering fabrics sewn with jewels, they are nothing like the ones the dolls in the Waiting Room were wearing. These women are masterpieces, living sculptures of elegance and nobility.
“Lot 197, please take your mark,” the voice says again. I see him now, a man in a tuxedo standing to my left behind a wooden podium. He is very tall, his dark hair slicked back. Our eyes meet and he inclines his head.
There is a silver X in the middle of the circular stage. My knees shake as I approach it, this walk by far the longest of all the long walks I’ve taken today. I hear a rustling of whispers, like a light breeze running through the amphitheater. The man waits until I’ve reached the X. Then he removes a white candle from inside the podium and places it in a brass holder. His eyes scan the room once before he strikes a match and lights the candle. The flame glows bright blue.
“Lot 197, ladies. Age sixteen, height five feet seven inches, weight one hundred and thirty pounds. Unusual eye color, as you can see. Four years of training, with scores of 9.6 on the first Augury, 9.4 on the second, and a tremendously impressive 10.0 on the third. Prodigious skill with stringed instruments, particularly the cello.”
It is frighteningly bizarre to hear myself described this way; a set of statistics, a musical instrument, and nothing more.
“The bidding will start at five hundred thousand diamantes. Do I hear five hundred thousand?”
A woman in a blue silk dress, a massive diamond necklace roped around her neck, raises a silver feather.
“Five hundred thousand from the Lady of the Downs, do I hear five hundred and fifty thousand?”
A dark-skinned woman raises a tiny set of bronze scales with one hand, sipping champagne from a crystal flute with the other.
“Five hundred and fifty thousand, do I hear six hundred?”
The bidding continues. My value climbs to seven hundred, then eight, then nine hundred thousand diamantes. My brain has a hard time wrapping its head around such a sum. I can’t seem to breathe normally—my lungs feel compressed, like they’re being squeezed in a vise. The women don’t speak, they just raise an object that signifies their House; I don’t recognize them all, and the auctioneer doesn’t always address them by title. Suddenly, I wish I’d paid more attention in royal culture and lifestyle class.
“Nine hundred and fifty thousand, do I hear one million?”
A young woman, seated in the chair that looks like a throne, raises a tiny scepter with a diamond the size of a chicken’s egg perched on its tip. I feel a collective intake of breath from the other women, and notice the auctioneer’s eyes flicker for an instant toward the candle. It has burned halfway down.
“One million diamantes to Her Royal Grace, the Electress. Do I hear one million five?”
The Electress. I am shocked by how young she looks, even younger than in the photographs I’ve seen of her, almost like a child playing dress-up. Her gown has puffed sleeves and a wide brocade skirt, her lips painted a very bright red. I try to determine if there is anything particularly Bank-like about her, but she looks pretty much the same as all the other women in this room.
I notice a woman in the row above staring at her—the woman’s almond-shaped eyes remind me of Raven’s.
“One million five to the Countess of the Rose,” the auctioneer says, and I am pulled back to the present. An older woman on a chaise lounge is holding up a golden rose. A few seats away, a heavy woman glares at her—no, heavy isn’t the right word. Fleshy would be more accurate. The woman’s bulk is squeezed into a black satin dress, leaving her doughy arms bare. Her face is pudgy and her eyes are . . . cruel. I can’t think of another word to describe them.
“Do I hear two million?” the auctioneer asks.
The diamond scepter is raised immediately. Then the rose. Then the scepter. My heart slams against my ribs, the rush of my blood roaring in my ears. Could I really be sold to the Electress? It seems foolish that I’d never considered it—I guess I’d always figured the Electress would go for Lot 200. Why go for fourth best when you can have first?
The candle is burning lower now, milky wax dripping down the bronze holder, the blue flame burning brighter as it nears its end. The bidding increases, and my value soars to five million diamantes, an unimaginable sum. It’s clear that I will either be the surrogate for the Electress or the Countess of the Rose—all the other woman have stopped bidding. My chest tightens and I fight the urge to gnaw on my lower lip.
Then it happens.
“Do I hear six million diamantes? Six million?”
The woman with Raven’s eyes holds up a tiny blue mirror.
The candle goes out.
“Sold!” the auctioneer cries, and all my muscles turn to jelly. “Sold for six million diamantes. To the Duchess of the Lake.”
SOLD.
The word revolves around my brain without really making sense.
I am sold.
For a flicker of an instant, I meet the dark eyes of the woman who has bought me: the Duchess of the Lake. Then, suddenly, I am sinking through the floor.
The X is on a platform being lowered down, down below the stage, away from the Auction. This time, I welcome the darkness. It feels safe. I look up and see another platform closing over the circular space where a few moments ago I stood, like a total eclipse. And just before it closes completely, I hear the auctioneer’s voice.
“And next up, ladies, we have Lot 198.” I wonder which girl is crossing the stage—the lioness or the iced cake. “Lot 198, please take your mark.”
The Auction goes on.
“Lot 197?”
I start, aware that I’ve stopped moving. And it’s not completely dark, just dim. I’m in an empty room with concrete walls, circular like the amphitheater above it, and riddled with doors.
“Lot 197?” A woman in a simple
gray dress frowns at me. She is holding a clipboard, and her eyes scan it briefly.
I don’t think I can speak yet, so I just nod.
The woman nods curtly in response. “Duchess of the Lake. This way.”
She opens one of the doors and I follow her down a narrow hallway. There are no glowglobes here—the only light comes from a few flickering torches set in high brackets. Their flames cast strange shadows along the walls, a stark and unsettling contrast to the warm light of the glowglobes in my prep room.
The hallway ends in a plain wooden door and the woman opens it—I follow her into a small, domed room made of octagonal stones that give me the feeling of being inside a beehive. A fire burns low in the grate, casting a dim light on a simple table and chair. There’s a lumpy black cloth on the table. Otherwise, the room is empty.
“Sit,” the woman says. As soon as I sink into the chair, my muscles begin to shake, and I have to put my head in my hands and take deep breaths through my mouth.
I am sold. I am property. I will never see my family or Southgate or the Marsh ever again.
“There, there,” the woman says mechanically. “It’s all right.”
It is definitely not all right. I don’t know if I’ve felt less all right in my entire life. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, not caring if I smudge Lucien’s makeup. I want to go home.
A pair of cold hands wrap around my wrists.
“Listen to me.” The woman’s voice is different, almost gentle, and I look up. She is kneeling in front of me, her face close to mine. “Whether I agree with this or not, it doesn’t matter, you understand? I don’t make the rules around here. But the royalty says that no surrogate is allowed to see her way into or out of the Auction House.” I feel queasy as she stands and unwraps the black cloth, revealing first a blue vial, then a syringe. “I’m telling you right now, this won’t hurt you. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, it’s up to you—I know they don’t give you a choice on your way in. The easy way is, you let me put you to sleep. The hard way is, I press a button and four Regimentals come through that door and hold you down, and then I put you to sleep anyway. Do you understand?”
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat and nod.
“So, what will it be?”
I suppose I should be happy that I have a choice at all. “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll do the easy way.”
The hint of a smile plays at the edge of the woman’s lips. She fills the syringe with blue liquid from the vial, then turns my arm over to find a vein in my elbow. I wince as the needle pierces my skin—needles were a part of life at Southgate, but I never got used to them. “You’re a smart girl. Maybe smart enough to survive this place.”
Her words are ominous, but the blue liquid floods my veins, making my legs heavy and my eyelids droop, and before I can ask her what she means, darkness swallows me up and I sleep.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Seven
“SHE’S WAKING UP. GO FETCH HER LADYSHIP.”
I hear footsteps, then a door opens and closes, but it sounds far away. I shift my head and it sinks deeper into something very soft. I’m extremely comfortable, and warm. When I open my eyes, at first all I can see is a hazy yellow glow.
“How are you feeling?” a voice asks. It sounds like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. I blink and rub my eyes, and the world sharpens—hope blossoms inside me when I see a long white dress with a high lace collar and a topknot. But it isn’t Lucien. This lady-in-waiting is a woman, older, her eyes bright and scrutinizing, her topknot a rich auburn color. It’s strange to see a woman with a partially shaved head. A thin leather belt is fastened around her waist, a full key ring hanging from it.
“Where am I?” I ask, sitting up, my voice still thick with sleep.
“In your new bedroom, of course.”
At first, I think she must be joking. The room is enormous. Glowglobes cast a warm light on the walls, papered in pale green, and the furniture scattered about the room is upholstered in shades of green and gold. There are dressers, an armoire, a vanity, plush armchairs with footstools, a sofa, a small breakfast table, and a large fireplace. Dark green curtains cover the windows, gold tasseled ropes hanging at their sides—they block out the light completely, so I can’t tell whether it’s day or night outside.
It is more beautiful than any room I could have ever imagined. And this woman said it’s mine. I can’t help the giggle that escapes my lips.
The lady-in-waiting smiles, and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Welcome to the palace of the Lake.”
“This is all for me?” I always imagined my living situation would be similar to the austere conditions of my bedroom at Southgate.
“Not just this, of course. Your private chambers include a powder room, tea parlor, drawing room, and dressing room.”
“You mean there’s more?”
She gives me a condescending look. “Child, you were bought by the Duchess of the Lake. Not some merchant family.”
I try to remember what I know about the Duchess of the Lake. She’s from one of the four founding Houses, but I always get the two Duchesses and two Countesses confused. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, before there was a Jewel or a Marsh or a Farm, this island was divided into two cities—the Duchesses ruled one, and the Countesses the other, and the cities were always fighting against each other. Then an arrangement was made, and the daughter of a Duchess married the son of a Countess and became the first Exetor and Electress, the two cities became one, and the Lone City was formed—divided into five circles with the Jewel at its heart.
I think Lily mentioned the Duchess of the Lake recently, tied to some sort of scandal that I wasn’t interested in hearing about. I’m beginning to wish I’d spent less time rolling my eyes at Lily’s gossip and more time listening to it. I was so determined to resent the royalty that I never considered there might be benefits to living with them. But as I look around my room, for the first time I think maybe my life in the Jewel won’t be so bad.
“Come on, up you get,” the lady-in-waiting says. “Her Ladyship will be here shortly.”
A handful of butterflies flutter in my stomach.
My bed is so big, I literally have to crawl across it. I have a sudden, childish desire to jump up and down on the mattress, but the woman’s presence holds me back. The emerald bedspread is velvety under my hands and knees, and I brush aside the gauzy canopy that floats down from each of the four posters. I realize, as my bare feet sink into the plush carpet, that my clothes have been changed. I’m wearing a white silk nightdress, not unlike the one I wore at Southgate, embroidered with green and gold thread. The lady-in-waiting holds up a jade dressing gown, and I slip into it. Now I match this room.
My room.
A thrill runs up my spine.
“Thank you,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Cora,” she answers.
“I’m—”
“You are the surrogate of the House of the Lake,” Cora says, cutting me off. “That is all.”
It seems like Lucien isn’t the only one who can’t know my name. I’m tempted to just blurt it out anyway.
“Are you hungry?” Cora asks, and I’m immediately distracted, because now that she’s mentioned it, I realize I’m famished. She leads me to the small breakfast table, where a plate of green grapes, a triangle of soft cheese, several slices of bread, and a crystal glass of water are spread out, waiting for me. I shove grape after tart grape into my mouth, smearing the bread with liberal amounts of cheese and washing it all down with cold water.
“How long have I been asleep?” I ask between swallows. Cora has retrieved a hairbrush from the vanity and starts brushing out my curls. “Oh, I can do that.”
I reach for the brush, but she pushes my hand away. “Eat. The Duchess will be here soon. You’ll n
eed your strength.”
Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore. I take a sip of water and push the plate away.
“And to answer your question,” Cora says. “You’ve been asleep since you left the Auction last night. It is now six o’clock in the evening.”
I don’t know what time I left the Auction, but it sounds like I’ve been asleep for an entire day.
“Are you finished with the food?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, then add, “thank you.”
Cora leads me to an open space in the center of the room, the keys that hang from her belt clinking together as she moves. There are three different doors, one on my left, two on my right, all leading, I guess, to the rest of my “chambers.” “When the Duchess arrives, be sure to keep your eyes down, unless otherwise instructed. Always address her as ‘my lady.’ That is very important, understand?” I nod. “Her moods can be unpredictable, so I’d suggest that, for now at least, you say as little as possible.”
I hear the clacking sound of heels on polished wood and my breath catches in my throat. Cora hurriedly puts the brush back on the vanity and stands behind me.
The clacking stops. One of the doors on my right opens. A man’s voice announces, “Her Royal Ladyship, the Duchess of the Lake.”
Flanked by six Regimentals, the Duchess enters the room. I gape at her dress, folds of pale silver and pearls, before I remember I’m supposed to keep my eyes down. I stare at my toes, each nail polished to a shine by Lucien.
Though her heels make no sound on the carpet, I can sense the Duchess moving closer to me, until the embroidered hem of her dress comes into view. She stops. My skin prickles, and I fight the urge to look up. A hand reaches out and a finger, thin but strong, hooks under my chin. The Duchess raises my face to meet hers.
Raven’s eyes. Again, that’s the first thing I notice, their almond shape. Her skin, too, has the same caramel-honey tint as Raven’s, though maybe a shade lighter. But as she studies me, I see her eyes are nothing like Raven’s—there is no warmth, no laughter in them. They are hard and cold, and the reminder of my best friend fades in the face of this unfamiliar woman.