by Amy Ewing
She’s shorter than me by a few inches, and her black hair is swept up and studded with diamonds. She says nothing. Her eyes drift down, taking me in. She moves slowly, circling me, and I try to keep my face relaxed. My muscles are bunched into coils; it’s a huge effort to remain rooted in one spot.
When she is in front of me again, she holds my gaze for a long moment.
And then she slaps me hard across the face with the back of her hand.
Pain shoots through my cheekbone as sparks explode in front of my eyes. I cry out and press my hand against my skin, which burns where she hit it. Tears blur my vision. I’ve never in my whole life been hit before.
For a second, I imagine hitting her back. My free hand even tightens into a fist. But the wall of Regimentals loom behind her and I only glare, clenching my teeth so hard it hurts my jaw.
The Duchess smiles, a bizarrely warm smile given that she just slapped me. “I don’t ever wish to do that again,” she purrs, in a voice like velvet. “So I hope you’ll remember how it feels.”
She folds herself delicately into one of the chairs. Her body is so graceful. I’ve never seen anyone move with such elegance. The Regimentals array themselves around her, like a red fan. I notice each of them has a tiny blue circle, crossed with two tridents, pinned to the left side of his uniform.
“Yes,” the Duchess murmurs, almost to herself. “I think you are exactly what I’ve been looking for. What do you think, Cora?”
“Time will tell, my lady,” Cora replies.
“Yes . . .” The Duchess runs a manicured finger down her cheek. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, her dark eyes fixed on mine. “For nineteen years. Your timing couldn’t have been more perfect.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I’m glad I’m not expected to say anything.
“I’m told you play the cello,” she says.
When I don’t respond, her face turns stony, and I quickly stammer out, “Y-yes.” A slight intake of breath from Cora reminds me to add, “My lady.” The words turn sour on my tongue. My cheek throbs.
The warm smile comes back, and she stands in one fluid movement. “I will see you at dinner in one hour. My own lady-in-waiting will ensure you are prepared correctly. Won’t you, Cora?”
“Yes, my lady,” Cora replies.
The folds of her skirt rustle as the Duchess moves across the carpet. She pauses at the door. “You really do have the most extraordinary eyes,” she says. There’s something in her expression I can’t understand—hope, maybe? Then she’s gone, the Regimentals trailing after her.
I feel my muscles begin to crumble, and tears prick my eyes again. The left side of my face is throbbing. I sway on my feet a little, until Cora’s strong hands grip my arm and elbow.
“You’re all right,” she says. “Let’s sit down.”
She leads me to one of the sofas and sits beside me. “Let me see,” she says, tilting my face toward her. “Oh, that’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a little bit of ice ointment.”
I stare at the massive chandelier overhead, crystals and emeralds glittering in the soft light. Suddenly, this beautiful room makes me feel cold.
A door opens and I hear Cora’s voice. “Wait in the dressing room.”
I don’t know who she’s talking to and I don’t have the energy to look. More doors open and close. When Cora comes back, there’s a pale blue jar in her hands. She unscrews it and dabs some ointment onto my sore cheek. Relief is instantaneous; my skin is cooled, the pain in my eye socket numbed.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“You did very well,” Cora says softly.
“Why did she hit me?” I ask. My voice breaks and a tear spills down my cheek.
Cora places a hand gently on the uninjured side of my face, wiping the tear away with her thumb. “This isn’t the Marsh, child. I didn’t make the rules. But there are rules. You’re her property now.” Cora’s lips press together. “She’s not a bad mistress, really. There are worse, I promise you. But you’re strong. I can see that. You’ll be all right.” Her eyes glaze a little and her brow furrows. “You’ll be all right. . . .” Then she smiles brightly and stands, holding out a hand. “What do you say we get you ready for dinner?”
I take her hand and she helps me up, but a seed of fear has taken root in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t like the look on her face when she said I’d be all right.
MY POWDER ROOM IS ABOUT HALF THE SIZE OF MY BEDROOM, but still enormous.
The sink and toilet are made of dark blue stone, with a big claw-footed copper bathtub taking up nearly an entire wall. Fluffy blue towels hang from copper rods and the plush bathmat beneath my feet is striped in navy and periwinkle. There is no tap on the bathtub, but to my shock and joy, Cora pulls a lever and water shoots from a wide spout on the ceiling, like a waterfall of rain.
I reach out my hand, mesmerized by the hot water running through my fingers. Cora smiles.
“You’ve never taken a shower before, have you?”
I shake my head. “Only baths.”
“You’re in for a treat. Go on, then, and don’t dally. We’ve only got an hour.” She eases herself into an upholstered blue armchair in a corner by the sink.
“Are you . . .” I pull my jade dressing gown tighter. “Are you staying here?”
“Don’t look so embarrassed, child. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” When I don’t move, she sighs and covers her eyes with her hand. “Pull the curtain around you once you’re in.”
I strip off my nightclothes and step into the tub. Steam sticks to my skin and wilts the last of Lucien’s curls. I pull the curtain, striped to match the bathmat, closed around me. Then I step under the waterfall.
I am in ecstasy.
Water pours over my head, dripping into my mouth and running down my shoulders, its heat relaxing the muscles in my back and legs. I let out an involuntary sigh.
I hear Cora’s laughter through the curtain. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
I pull my fingers through my hair again and again, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water as it runs over my scalp. There is a copper shelf filled with soaps and lotions and shampoos, and I can’t help myself, I try as many of them as I can, and the scents of lavender and freesia and rosewater and mint and watermelon fill the room.
“All right, that’s enough,” Cora says, though I could stay in this shower for the rest of the evening. The Duchess hitting me across the face feels like a distant memory.
“How do I turn it off?” I ask.
“Just push the lever back down.”
The water ceases as quickly as it started, and I shiver. A towel pokes through the curtain. I dry myself quickly, then wrap the towel around me and pull the curtain back. Cora has a smaller towel in her hands and she wraps up my wet hair. I follow her into my dressing room. Its walls are hung with silks of peach and cream; there is a three-sided mirror like the one in my prep room, and a vanity with makeup as well.
Standing in front of the vanity is a girl, about my age, in a dress like Cora’s, with a high lace collar, but no shaved head or topknot—her hair is copper colored and tied up in a bun on the crown of her head. Instead of a key ring, a flat black rectangle hangs from a fine gold chain on her leather belt. She is holding a dress, similar in style to the one I wore at the Auction but made of finer thread that glitters in the warm light.
“This is Annabelle,” Cora says, and the girl curtsies. “She will be your lady-in-waiting.”
“Oh.” I didn’t realize I’d have a lady-in-waiting. “Hello.”
Annabelle’s cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t say anything.
Cora sits me down at the vanity and Annabelle hangs the dress up by the three-sided mirror. Then the two of them get to work, combing out the snarls in my wet hair, using powders and creams and glosses to highlight my features, and filing my nails into even more perfect ovals. Annabelle never says a word, and Cora only speaks to give her some instruction or other.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Eight
“TIME TO GO,” CORA SAYS.
Annabelle dabs a little bit of scented oil on each of my wrists and adjusts my hair so that it tumbles over my shoulders.
“Thank you,” I say. She smiles shyly.
Cora escorts me to the dining hall. We walk down a small flight of stairs to a door that opens out into a hallway decorated with paintings of flowers. We turn down another hall lined with massive gold-framed portraits—their eyes seem to follow me as I go—and then down a plain, carpeted staircase lit with glowglobes. I catch a glimpse of a room filled with marble statues before I’m distracted by a massive foyer with a glass ceiling, a fountain sparkling in its center. We leave the foyer behind, turning down a different hallway, and I’m just about to ask Cora exactly how much farther we have to go when she stops at a door with a silver handle.
She turns and gives me a final, appraising look, smooths out a nonexistent wrinkle in my dress, then ushers me into a small study with lots of bookshelves and a fire crackling in the grate. The Duchess sits in an armchair in front of the fireplace, sipping amber liquid from a crystal glass. She has changed into a pale blue dress of shimmering material, like water woven into silk. As I enter, she looks up and smiles.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening, my lady.”
She stands and saunters toward me. I instinctively tense. Her smile widens.
“No, I won’t hit you again.” She reaches out and traces a finger down the side of my face. Her hands are cool and dry. I see that look again, that sort of hopefulness in her expression. “I’ve learned from previous experience that it is better to start with the stick, rather than the carrot. I certainly don’t need another Garnet, do I, Cora?”
“No, my lady,” Cora says.
“I was a slave to fashion then,” the Duchess says with a sigh. “I won’t be making that mistake again.”
A different door opens, and an old man in pinstripe trousers and a black jacket with tails bows his way in. I can hear the low murmur of voices coming from the room behind him.
“All of your guests are here, my lady,” he says in a wheezy voice. “The Electress has finally arrived.”
“Thank you, James,” the Duchess says. “I shall be with them shortly.”
The old man bows again and closes the door.
“This dinner is tradition,” the Duchess says, turning back to me. “All around the Jewel and the Bank tonight, dinners are being held, just like this one. For a few close friends”—her mouth twists when she says the word—“and their newly purchased surrogates. So we may all see who bought whom.” She pauses to sweep away from me and set her glass down on a small table. When she turns back, her eyes are like black fire. “You are not allowed to speak. You may not eat more of any dish than I do. You may not communicate with the other surrogates in any way. Is this clear?”
I swallow. “Yes, my lady.”
The strangely warm smile returns. “Good. Prove you can be trusted, and you will be rewarded. Break any of these rules and I will be very disappointed. And I don’t think you wish to suffer my disappointment.”
A chill runs over my skin, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
“Now,” the Duchess continues brightly, “let us greet our guests.”
Cora opens the door that the old man, James, went through, and I follow the Duchess into the dining room.
It is cavernous, lit with candles perched on every available surface, lining the polished oak table and dripping from the chandelier. Their light reflects off the walls, papered in maroon, and the furniture, dark wood polished to a high sheen. Ornate flower arrangements are interspersed among the candles, giving off a light, pleasant fragrance. But all these things I notice only in my peripheral vision. It is Raven’s face that has my full attention.
Raven!
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to run across the thick carpet and throw my arms around her. She wears a kimono-like robe, similar to the one she wore the last time I saw her, and her makeup and hair are much more subdued—she looks beautiful. My stomach flip-flops when I see who she’s standing next to. It’s the fleshy woman from the Auction, the one with the cruel eyes. Her ample figure is stuffed into a dark gray dress, her chestnut hair fashioned up into a strange sort of square-shaped bun. She’s in deep conversation with a much smaller woman, and as the two turn to greet us, I see it’s the Electress. She still looks impossibly young, her dress a vibrant, almost shocking, shade of pink.
And standing behind the Electress, so small I almost didn’t see her, is Dahlia.
She looks so different than she did in the Waiting Room. A soft, golden gown is draped around her wiry frame, and her hair is piled up in brilliant red curls. It feels wrong, too old for her, like a child wearing her mother’s clothes. The tattered pinafore felt more fitting, somehow.
“Good evening, ladies,” the Duchess calls to the room at large. There are five women and five surrogates in total, including me and the Duchess. I also recognize the lioness and the iced cake.
It’s a hard thing, looking at these girls. We have all clearly been given the same instructions—no communication with one another—and we are all trying to follow them while not entirely succeeding. I can’t quite conceal my smile as I look into Raven’s eyes, and she can’t totally hide her frustration at not being able to talk to me. Dahlia looks at me with hope and excitement. The lioness’s eyes flicker between us suspiciously.
“Your Royal Grace,” the Duchess says to the Electress, “I am honored you chose to attend my small dinner. I know you had many invitations.”
With this, the Duchess sinks into a low curtsy. The other royal women follow suit, sinking low to the ground, their skirts bubbling out around them. A few seconds too late, we follow as well. Only the lioness and the iced cake really get it right. I was never very good at all the etiquette stuff, and my balance is a little off, but I’m the picture of grace compared to Raven. Watching her try to curtsy in that kimono, combined with the expression on her face, is enough to make me double up with laughter. I bite down hard on my lip, keeping the giggles inside.
“It is my pleasure,” the Electress replies. Her voice is just as childlike as her face. “I couldn’t pass up a dinner with the ladies of the four founding Houses. Shall we sit?”
A flash of annoyance crosses the Duchess’s face before she smooths it into a welcoming expression. “Of course,” she says, gesturing to the chairs set around the table. They are in pairs, one large with curved wooden arms, the other plain and straight-backed. Footmen, standing like silent statues against the walls, spring to life, hurrying forward to pull out our chairs. I sit and stare at all the silverware lined up beside my plate—I’ve definitely learned what each fork and spoon is for, but at the moment I can’t remember which goes with what. I glance at Raven, who looks just as puzzled as I do.
I study the women instead . . . the four founding Houses. These women are descendants of the original families who founded the Lone City. Obviously, one is the Duchess of the Lake. And one House was a flower, I remember that, too.
“I must admit, Pearl, I’m surprised we’re here at all,” Raven’s mistress says to the Duchess. “How long has it been since you last bought a surrogate?”
The Duchess’s answering smile is venomous. “Why, Ebony, don’t pretend as if you honestly don’t know the answer to that.”
“Not since your son was born, isn’t that right, Pearl?” the Electress pipes up. “Nineteen years is a long time to wait. What admirable patience you have!”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the Duchess replies.
The first course is served, a salad of wilted greens, radish, pear, and asparagus, with a crea
my dressing. It is so delicious I want to gobble it all down, but the Duchess only takes two bites before pushing her plate away. The tang of the dressing and the sweetness of the pear linger in my mouth after my plate is cleared.
“Tell me, Alexandrite,” the Electress says to the iced cake’s mistress, as the next course of roast duck with frisee and figs is laid in front of us, “how did you enjoy the Auction? I know it was your first time.”
“Oh, it was marvelous,” the woman gushes. Her skin is the color of dark brewed coffee and she is young, nearly as young as the Electress. Her dress is made of glittering bronze silk—and then I remember her, holding up the set of bronze scales. “The Duke of the Scales was so pleased that I was able to return home with such an impressive surrogate. He is certain our daughter will be perfect.”
The Duchess of the Lake, the Duchess of the Scales . . . that leaves the two Countesses. I look back and forth between Raven’s mistress and the mistress of the lioness—she is old, by far the oldest woman here, with wrinkled skin and hair so gray it’s nearly white. She wears a brilliant red dress with long, elbow-length gloves. And then I recall her, too, bidding for me against the Electress. The Countess of the Rose.
“It seems as though everyone who can is having a daughter this year!” the Electress exclaims.
“No doubt the recent birth of your son has had great influence over the ladies of the Jewel,” the Duchess says wryly.
The Electress laughs. “Oh yes, I suppose that is true. And the Exetor wishes to get little Larimar betrothed as soon as possible.”
“He must, Your Grace,” the Duchess says with the barest hint of condescension. “Once he announces your son as heir to the throne—as we all expect him to do at the Exetor’s Ball—the child must be betrothed within a year. It’s the law.”