The Jewel

by Amy Ewing

  Gratefully, I pull the lace back off my face. “Who were we mourning, my lady?”

  The Duchess traces the corner of her mouth with a long finger. “The Electress’s surrogate died yesterday morning.”

  The world crumples, all the breath knocked out of me like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Dahlia. She’s talking about Dahlia.

  “You saw her, remember? At dinner. Such a tiny thing. Let us hope Her Royal Grace is more careful in the future. Title does not protect you from everything.”

  I can’t speak. I can’t think. Dahlia was so young . . . she was so small . . .

  “How?” I breathe, my lips barely able to form the word.

  The Duchess smiles to herself. “I’ve always found it . . . humbling, how one tiny drop of plant extract can completely destroy a human being. We are so fragile, aren’t we? One little sip of wine and then . . . nothing. Life is so easily snuffed out.”

  My head pounds as I grasp what she’s saying. “Why?”

  The Duchess raises an eyebrow. “The Electress seems to have forgotten that I have been around much longer than she has. I am descended from one of the four founding Houses, not some shopkeeper in the Bank. She thought she could change the rules. She is a disgrace to the throne, and an embarrassment to her title, and yesterday she learned that no one is untouchable.” She glances at my dumbstruck face and her mouth curls into a smirk. “Welcome to the Jewel.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Eleven

  WHEN WE ARRIVE BACK AT THE PALACE, ANNABELLE IS waiting to take me to my chambers.

  The Duchess removes the leash, and I cringe away from her hands, so close to my neck, from the scent of her perfume, from the looming figures of her guard. Everything feels oddly distorted. Unreal. I follow Annabelle up the curving staircase in a daze.

  Dahlia is dead. The Duchess killed Dahlia.

  I am owned by a murderer.

  With a shock, I realize it could have been me. The Electress bid on me. It could have been my body being mourned by the black-clad royalty.

  I can’t make sense of the Duchess’s motivations. Dahlia’s only failing was being bought by the Electress. Wasn’t it?

  By thе time we reach my drawing room, anger has usurpеd the numb disbeliеf. I push past Annabelle and into my bedroom, tearing thе veil out of my hair and throwing it on the ground, ignoring thе sharp pain as a fеw hairs come away with it. Without pausing, I storm through my powder room and into my drеssing chambеr, fighting to unzip the black dress. Annabеlle movеs to hеlp mе.

  “No,” I say, pushing hеr away with more forcе than I’d intеndеd. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want any of this!”

  The zippеr rips, and the sound is so enticing, I rip it furthеr. It fеels good, to dеstroy somеthing of hеrs, in her own housе.

  And I havе thrеe closets, full of her clothes.

  I charge to onе and throw the door opеn, grabbing a beaded dress and tearing it along its seam, sеnding a thousand multicolored bеads cascading to the floor. I toss it aside and grab another, ripping at its lace slеeves, scratching at its silkеn skirts—I want to slash through the entire closet, mangling all thе stupid frilly, lacy, silky, ruffled dressеs, tеaring them to ribbons, shredding thеm apart until thеre’s nothing left.

  Tеars are pouring down my chееks, my brеath coming out in aching gasps, and I rеalize I sound uttеrly pathеtic, hеlpless, like a child. I sink onto thе pile of velvеt and bеaded lacе and crinolinе and cloth-of-gold and satin and I wish, morе than anything, for my mother. I want hеr to wrap hеr arms around mе, to envelop me in the reassuring scеnt of her skin, and tеll me that everything will be okay.

  The vеlvet chokеr is still tied around my neck, and I scratch at it, my fingers clumsy, but I want to get it off. I fеel a sting as one of my nails piеrces the skin on my neck, but I don’t care.

  A small hand wraps around minе, holding it still. There is a slight tug and thе vеlvet falls off.

  Annabellе strokеs my hair, gently cradling my head so that it rеsts in her lap. I look up at hеr palе, frеcklеd face.

  “Shе’s dеad,” I say, my voicе a cracked whisper. A fat tеar leaks from the cornеr of my еye and tricklеs down thе sidе of my face into my hair.

  Annabеllе nods, and in that nod, I know shе knows. That’s why her mood was so tense this morning.

  “Her name was Dahlia.” It’s suddеnly important to me that Annabеlle know that Dahlia was a person, not just some nameless surrogatе casualty. “She was from Northgatе. She waited with me in the room bеfore the Auction. Shе was . . . she was kind, she . . .”

  But my voice trails off, more tеars spilling down my cheeks, and Annabеllе rocks me tendеrly back and forth, on thе pile of dressеs.

  I REFUSE TO LEAVE MY BEDROOM THE NEXT DAY.

  I won’t get drеssеd just bеcausе the Duchеss wants mе to. I won’t bе a pretty little doll that shе can prop up and bring around with her to show off, knowing that someonе could kill mе for it.

  The thought splintеrs insidе mе like icе cracking, cold and sharp. Somеonе could kill me. I think about the dinner, the way the womеn werе divided, and with a shudder, I realize the Duchеss is outnumbered. The Electress, the Countess of the Stone, or the Duchess of the Scales could all be plotting my death at this very moment.

  Something has to be done. I can’t just sit here and wait to be murdered.

  Annabelle tries to get me to eat, or to play Halma, or use my cello, but every time I send her away. I don’t want to enjoy anything this palace has to offer me. Dahlia is dead. Something is happening to Raven, something bad, but I don’t know what and I don’t know how to stop it. I think about the pregnant surrogate, her wide eyes, her thin face, the way she cradled her swollen belly with such tenderness. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be her.

  I’d rather be breaking my back in the Farm or choking on soot and ash in the Smoke. I’d happily work as a scullery maid in the Bank, scouring dishes until my hands turned red and raw. But all the paths my life could have taken vanished with one blood test.

  I remember the wild girl, whose execution I witnessed. Maybe she had the right idea. Maybe she knew it, and that’s why she wasn’t frightened at the end. “This is how it begins,” she said. I wonder if she saw death as just another way to freedom.

  I think until my brain hurts and my eyes are sore, but I can’t think myself out of this room, or this palace, or this ruthless, glittering circle. When I finally fall asleep, I dream of Southgate, and Raven, and a time when the royalty were nothing more than pictures in a glossy magazine.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I AM WOKEN ABRUPTLY BY the covers on my bed being thrown back.

  “Annabelle!” I complain as the cold air stings my bare legs. But it isn’t Annabelle who is standing over me.

  It’s the Duchess.

  “Get up,” she orders. Annabelle hovers in the doorway, her expression both panicked and pleading. I consider mutiny, but defying the Duchess isn’t like defying Annabelle.

  Quickly and silently, I climb out of bed and stand in front of her. Even though she is shorter than me, power emanates from her small frame.

  “Sit,” she says, pointing to an armchair. “We are going to have a talk, you and I.”

  Her eyes flicker to Annabelle, who curtsies and closes the door, leaving the two of us alone.

  I perch on the edge of the armchair. The Duchess sits on the sofa, studying me.

  “There are two schools of thought concerning surrogates,” she says. “One is that your personalities are a hindrance, detrimental to the development of the fetus. The other is that they are an asset, a useful tool in creating the optimal child. Fortunately for you, I am of the second school. Therefore, I will require your cooperation during our time together. I am not an idiot—I do not expect your love, and
I am certainly not your mother. But we are in a partnership, you and I. The Jewel can be a wonderful and terrible place. I expect you’d prefer the former to the latter.”

  I stare at her blankly, unsure of exactly what she’s asking of me.

  “You saw what happened when you behaved yourself at my dinner—you received a cello. Continue to behave, and I will ensure that your life here is as pleasant as possible. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A pleasant life?”

  She smiles at me in a way that sets my teeth on edge.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  The Duchess purses her lips. “You seem like a fairly intelligent girl. The conversation at dinner the other night mustn’t have escaped your notice entirely.”

  My mind whirs back to the dinner, but mostly I remember the general snideness, Raven’s face, and the horrible moment when Dahlia was forced to perform. The Duchess looks disappointed.

  “The Electress has recently celebrated the birth of her first child, a son. He will be the future Exetor, and my daughter will be betrothed to him. It is your job to ensure this arrangement. My daughter must be beautiful, but looks aren’t everything, as my son proves to me every day. She must be smart and strong. She must have ambition, determination, and courage. I want her to be irresistible. But of course”—she waves her hand—“all of these qualities will come later. To make her truly stand out as an infant, you must make her grow. Faster than the others.”

  I shake my head, as if somehow I can rattle her words together in my brain in a way that makes sense. “I don’t . . . understand.”

  The Duchess sits up, exasperated. “Do you know how many perfect scores there have been on the third Augury, in the history of the Auction?”

  “No.”

  “Seven—one every fifty years or so. I have researched the Auction extensively. In fact, the last perfect score recorded was from the surrogate my own mother purchased, the one who bore me.” She looks proud, as if she had something to do with her surrogate’s Augury score. “Of course, my mother did not have the slightest idea how to foster the potential that my surrogate had. I do. I have been waiting a very long time for you.”

  “So you expect me to make a baby faster than everyone else, and also make her beautiful and courageous and all those other things? How do you even know I’ll have a daughter?”

  The Duchess frowns. “Perhaps you are not as intelligent as I thought. The royalty are only allowed two children, one girl and one boy. I already have a son.”

  “But the Electress . . . at the dinner, she said she was going to make her daughter succeed the throne, not her son.”

  “Well,” the Duchess says, “in order for that to happen, she’d need to have a daughter, wouldn’t she?”

  It feels like an ice cube has slipped into my stomach. So that’s why she killed Dahlia. To prevent the Electress from having a girl.

  “So what, do you plan to kill every surrogate the Electress ever buys?” I ask.

  The silence that follows presses down on me, dark and threatening.

  “Is this how you wish to begin our partnership?” the Duchess asks in a soft, menacing voice. I press my lips together. “Good. And don’t be so dramatic. Death won’t be necessary. It wasn’t technically necessary this time, since the Exetor will never consent to having a woman succeed the throne. But I did feel that Her Royal Grace’s head could do with a little deflating.”

  This woman makes me sick. She killed an innocent child simply out of spite. “But the Electress said she could convince the Exetor to change his mind,” I insist.

  The Duchess raises an eyebrow. “Did she? And how did she plan to do that?”

  I hesitate, remembering that that moment occurred when the Duchess was out of the room.

  The Duchess’s eyes harden. “Speak.”

  I grit my teeth and jut out my chin.

  She moves so quickly I have no time to react. One moment, we’re sitting across from each other, the next she is towering over me, fingers around my throat. Her grip is like an iron claw, tightening until I can barely breathe. I scratch at her hand, trying to free myself, but she only squeezes harder. Her strength is incredible.

  “You listen to me,” she says, her voice soft and dangerous. “I have allowed you to mourn for your friend. I have allowed you to destroy an entire year’s worth of gowns. I have allowed you to be self-indulgent and I have allowed you to sulk. Do not think there is a single emotion you feel or action you make that I am not aware of and that I could not change or cease if necessary. But I will not allow you to disrespect me. Do you understand?”

  I try to speak but only a strangled hissing sound comes out. Her fingernails dig into my skin and stars explode in front of my eyes, my attempts to claw at her hand becoming weaker, a tingling sensation spreads through my fingertips, and my head feels very light and everything goes fuzzy. . . .

  Then the world sharpens with painful clarity as the Duchess releases me. I collapse over one arm of the chair, gasping for breath, my throat raw. Air fills my lungs, and I gulp at it greedily, choking in my eagerness to breathe. It takes a few seconds before I can get my body back under control, to stop the shaking in my arms and legs. When I look up, the Duchess is staring at me, her face impassive.

  “Do you understand?” she repeats.

  I nod weakly. “Y-yes, my lady,” I wheeze.

  “Good. Now. What did the Electress say?”

  “She said . . . she said she could use her body to convince him.” I blush at the words.

  The Duchess’s eyes widen a fraction and she barks out a laugh. “Really? Well, I wish her the best of luck with that.” Some strange expression crosses her face, making her features oddly fragile. Then it’s gone and she laughs again. “Get your robe. We’re going to see the doctor.”

  The room tilts at an odd angle. “Now?” My voice is frail and raspy.

  “Yes. Now.”

  The Duchess doesn’t seem to notice that I’m falling apart. As I slip my robe on, it’s like my stomach has disappeared and my heart has moved to settle in its place. My body feels hollow and my pulse thrums loudly in my ears.

  I hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. I’m not ready for this.

  We make our way down the hall of flowers, and then through an open gallery filled with colorful paintings. We turn right, then left, down a short hallway paneled in oak. A gilded door sits at the end of it, carved into floral patterns like a grate, and as we reach it, I see that it’s an elevator. There was one in Southgate, though not nearly as ornate. The Duchess opens the grate and we step inside. There is a thick blue rug on the floor, and a copper lever that the Duchess pulls—the doors close and the elevator sinks down into darkness.

  I press myself against the wall and wish I could disappear. They told us at Southgate that the implantation process would be painless, but that’s not particularly reassuring at the moment.

  I don’t want anything of the Duchess’s inside me.

  Light covers my feet, then crawls up my calves and over my knees as the elevator slows and comes to a stop.

  The doors open to reveal a sterile-looking medical room. It is similar to the one at Southgate, only smaller, clearly just for one person. A tray of gleaming silver instruments sits beside a white hospital bed, and clusters of bright lights perch atop steel supports, like many-eyed silver insects.

  I can’t move. It feels like something hard is stuck in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

  “Dr. Blythe,” the Duchess says, grabbing my arm and yanking me out of the elevator. I see him, hunched over a desk on the left side of the room.

  “Good afternoon, my lady,” he says. “You are precisely on time.”

  Like most of the doctors I’ve been to, Dr. Blythe is older, with deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His skin is a rich brown, with a handful of chocolate-colored freckles spread across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a strangely youthful characteristic in such an old face. His black hair, peppered with streaks of gray
, is slicked back, though there is a crinkled quality to it. His eyes are a light brownish-green, and there is warmth in them, something I’m not at all used to in doctors. He looks at me like I’m a person, not a sample in a test tube.

  “Ah,” he says. “Hello.”

  He is smiling at me. I don’t know what to make of that. My head is spinning and I think I might pass out.

  His smile fades. “Surely, Your Ladyship, you have informed your surrogate that this is purely a preliminary exam? She looks a bit . . . pale.”

  Preliminary exam. The words dance around in my head, relief making my legs numb.

  “I did not think it necessary,” the Duchess says.

  The doctor shakes his head. “My lady, we have discussed this. You have agreed to follow my instructions and I must insist that you do.”

  Immediately, I like this man. Anyone allowed to give the Duchess instructions is okay by me.

  “Very well,” she says tightly. “I will expect your report this evening.”

  The doctor bows. “Of course, my lady.”

  She gets back in the elevator, and it slowly disappears from view—the doctor waits until it’s gone before speaking again.

  “I’m Dr. Blythe, as you have probably surmised,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll be your primary physician.”

  I take his hand—it is soft and warm.

  “What’s your name?” he asks. I hesitate. “It’s all right, you can tell me.”

  “Violet.”

  “What a beautiful name,” he says. “Who chose it?”

  “My father,” I reply. “After my eyes.”

  Dr. Blythe smiles. “Yes, they are a most unusual color. I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Which holding facility were you in?”

  “Southgate.”

  “Is Dr. Steele still the head physician there?”

  I nod.

  “What a strange man he is. Excellent doctor, but . . .” Dr. Blythe shakes his head. “Let’s get started, shall we, Violet? As I said, this is only a preliminary exam, but I will have to ask you to remove your nightdress. You may keep your undergarments on, and there is a robe for you to wear if you’d like.”