The Jewel

by Amy Ewing

  3rd tier

  “Yes, but . . .” I point at a crest in the second tier, a glittering red oval crossed with two white lines. “This one looks just like”—I point to a third-tier crest, a white oval crossed with two red lines—“that one.”

  Annabelle raises one eyebrow and shakes her head, indicating the second tier, the red oval.

  House of the Flame

  She points to the third tier, white oval.

  House of the Light

  “Fine, then,” I say. “If you know so much . . . what’s that one?”

  I point out a silver circle in the first tier, crossed with two golden feathers.

  House of Downs

  “Okay, that was easy. What about that one?” Third tier, a pale green rectangle crossed with two curved, luminescent lines.

  House of Veil

  I shake my head. “I give up. You win.”

  Annabelle smiles ruefully.

  She takes me through the stacks, showing me where the art and history books are, and the romance novels, and children’s stories. There is an entire row dedicated to music, and I search through it eagerly, discovering old favorites and exciting new pieces that I can’t wait to try.

  “Am I allowed to borrow these?” I ask.

  Of course

  I pull out a thick sheath of paper and sink to the floor, spreading pages and pages of notes across the carpet, deciding which ones I’ll take with me.

  “Who are you?”

  A thin, reedy voice startles me, and I look up to see the girl I saw in the window, the day of Dahlia’s funeral. Her beady eyes take in the scattered sheets of paper.

  “I’m—” I’m about to say “Violet,” but Annabelle holds up her slate. I imagine the word surrogate printed on it.

  “Oh.” She studies me critically, the way the Duchess sometimes does. “You better clean up that mess.”

  “Who are you?” I ask sharply.

  The girl smirks. Her chin and nose form sharp points, and her eyes are set a little too close together. “I don’t have to tell you anything. You’re just a surrogate.”

  My cheeks flush, and I go back to sifting through the music, ignoring her command. I can see the hem of the girl’s skirt out of the corner of my eye—she stands and watches me for a moment. I spread more papers out. The Duchess can order me around, but not this girl.

  The skirt disappears and I look up.

  “Who was that?” I whisper to Annabelle.

  D’s niece

  “Is she visiting?”

  Lives here

  “She’s not very nice, is she?”

  Annabelle shakes her head.

  Servs hate her

  Then she puts her finger to her lips and winks at me. I grin.

  After a few more minutes of watching me flip through sheet music, Annabelle seems to get that I might be here for a while. She points to herself and writes:

  Art books

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  When I finally have a stack of music an inch thick—and there’s still more to look at, more to discover—I put the rest of it away and head off to find Annabelle. I must take a wrong turn, though, because I come out by one of the staircases to the balcony. I turn back, down a long row of leather-bound volumes, and find myself in front of a plain door, slightly ajar. Light leaks through it, sending a long sliver of pale gold across the carpet. I hear the rustling of pages from inside. Curiosity propels me forward, and I push open the door.

  The room is small, its shelves filled with books that have ancient, crumbling spines, and piles of faded, yellowing parchment. There is a lone wooden table, and leaning over it is a very familiar figure.

  “Lucien!” I squeal.

  He looks up, his face blank with shock. “Oh my goodness,” he says. “What a very pleasant surprise. But come. You can’t be in here.”

  He takes me by the arm and leads me out of the room. I catch a glimpse of the parchment he was studying—it’s all blue lines and measurements, like a blueprint of some sort. Then we’re back in the main library and he’s closing the door behind us.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I was delivering a message to the lady of the house.”

  “From the Electress?”

  He inclines his head. “The Duchess has the most extensive library in the Jewel. She was kind enough to allow me to peruse it before returning to the Royal Palace.” His gentle eyes turn serious. “How are you faring so far?”

  I open my mouth and find I don’t know what to say. Lucien seems to understand. “Let’s sit down for a moment,” he suggests.

  I follow him to a corner of the library with a small table and two plush chairs. He pulls one out for me, the keys hanging from his belt jangling together.

  “You know, I’m perfectly capable of pulling out a chair myself.”

  He shrugs. “Habit.”

  I sit and he moves to the opposite chair, taking something off his key ring that I realize isn’t a key. It looks like a small silver tuning fork. Lucien puts his finger to his lips, then taps the fork lightly against the table and releases it. It floats an inch or two off the tabletop, hovering in midair, vibrating and emitting a faint hum.

  “What is that?” I ask. The tuning fork revolves slowly on the spot.

  “It will prevent us from being overheard,” Lucien explains. “When you’ve lived in the Jewel as long as I have, you learn to be careful.”

  “How long have you lived here?” I assumed Lucien was born in the Jewel.

  “Since I was ten.”

  “Really? Which circle are you from?”

  Lucien’s smooth face tightens. “Why don’t we talk about something a little more relevant? How are you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “All right, I guess. Better than some.” My throat swells as I think of Dahlia. “Did you get to know her at all?”

  Lucien doesn’t need to ask who I mean.

  “A little,” he says sadly. “She seemed very sweet.”

  “Yes,” I say. “She was.”

  “Was she at your holding facility?”

  I shake my head. “I only met her in the Waiting Room.”

  We are quiet for a moment.

  “It was the Duchess,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “She—she killed her.”

  Lucien nods. “Yes. I know.”

  I sit up, startled. “You do?”

  “It was not difficult to guess.” He grimaces.

  “Does the Electress know?” My heart starts pumping fast, fear flooding my veins. “Will there be . . . retaliation?”

  He pats my hand. “No. The poison used was untraceable. The Electress cannot prove anything, and to attack one of the founding Houses would lose her favor. With her lineage, she can’t afford to lose any of the alliances she’s made. It isn’t worth the risk.” His mouth twists. “Besides, she can just buy another surrogate next year.”

  “What is this place?” I say. “How does no one know this goes on?” I would have remembered hearing if a surrogate had been assassinated while I was at Southgate. The news would have spread like wildfire.

  Lucien gives me a pitying look. “Nobody cares about the death of a surrogate.” He falls silent for a second, his expression distant, his fingers tracing patterns in the grains of wood in the table.

  “I saw the doctor yesterday,” I say.

  Lucien looks up. “And how did that go?”

  “The Duchess wants her daughter to be the next Electress.”

  He sighs. “Yes, I’m sure she does. As does every other daughterless woman in the Jewel who bought a surrogate this year.”

  “But the Duchess thinks I can do something the other surrogates can’t. She expects me to deliver the baby faster—to, I don’t know, somehow speed up the whole process. Is that even possible? Have you heard of that happening before?”

  Lucien’s body has frozen, his expression unfathomable. It’s like he’s trying hard not to reveal wh
at he’s thinking.

  “Lucien?” I ask hesitantly. “Are you all right?”

  His eyes meet mine, and I notice his are a rich, deep blue. “I would very much like to help you,” he says, and there is an urgency in his tone that makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “And it seems I don’t have the time I thought I would have.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To set things in motion. To be sure I can trust you.”

  “You can trust me,” I say, sitting up straighter as if that will somehow prove my point.

  Lucien smiles. “Yes, I believe I can.” He leans forward. “I can get you out of here,” he whispers.

  The words hang in the air between us. “Out of the palace?” I whisper back.

  “Out of the Jewel,” he replies.

  Footsteps in the row of shelves make us both jump. In one swift movement, the tuning fork is back on Lucien’s key ring—two seconds later, Annabelle appears at the end of the stacks, holding a large art book. She takes one look at Lucien and quickly sinks into a curtsy. Lucien stands.

  “Ah, I see you’ve been elevated,” he says, with a bow. “You are the new surrogate lady-in-waiting?”

  Annabelle blushes and nods.

  “Your mother must be proud.”

  Annabelle nods again. My heart is pounding and I try to keep my face casual as Lucien turns to me.

  “It was nice to see you, 197.” His eyes burn with a silent promise as he says, “We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure of it.”

  I wince at his use of my old lot number, but I don’t get the chance to say anything, because Lucien is already disappearing back into the small room. The door closes behind him, and I hear a lock click.

  Annabelle gives me a questioning look.

  “He was my prep artist,” I explain. “For the Auction.” I feel disoriented by our conversation, and its abrupt end. Part of me wants to wait in this chair until Lucien emerges again and demand more information. But I’m pretty certain I’m not supposed to be talking to Lucien at all. If he says we’ll meet again soon, I’m just going to have to trust that we will. I’ll have to be patient. “I—I’ve got everything I need. I’d like to go back to my room now.”

  The walk back to my chambers is a blur.

  Out of the Jewel.

  Lucien has just offered me my freedom.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Thirteen

  I WAKE UP EARLY ON SUNDAY MORNING.

  I’ve been living in the Duchess’s palace for a week.

  Freedom. The word, teasing and elusive, has been revolving over and over in my mind since I saw Lucien in the library, like a word I made up that has no meaning, until I remember it does. I desperately want to believe Lucien, that there’s a way to get me out of here, but the thought of being disappointed tempers my enthusiasm. If I discover he was lying, or he made a mistake, or I imagined the whole thing . . .

  My mind wanders to my family. Sundays are a day of rest. Ochre won’t have to work, Hazel won’t have school. I wonder what they’re doing today. I hope, whatever it is, they’re having fun. That they’re happy. What would they think, if they could see me now, surrounded by all this luxury? They’d probably imagine I’m happy, too.

  Maybe Lucien can get me back to them. I could see my mother again, and watch Hazel grow up. I could make my own decisions. I could choose what kind of life I want to lead.

  I need to talk to Lucien again. I need him to promise me that this is real.

  I sit up and ring for Annabelle.

  “So,” I say, as she sets the breakfast tray on the table, “what does the Duchess want with me today?”

  I try to sound casual, like I don’t really care. I’m not sure I quite pull it off.

  Nothing

  “Nothing?”

  Annabelle smiles.

  Party last night D not feeling well

  “Oh.” I take a sip of coffee. “Do I see the doctor?”

  Annabelle shakes her head.

  “What should we do?”

  She thinks for a moment.

  Garden?

  “There’s a garden?”

  Annabelle grins.

  GAJ BAF ISN’T REALLY THE RIGHT WORD.

  The immense backyard of the palace is a riot of color as the leaves on the trees are changing, orange and red-gold. Fall flowers line the gravel paths interspersed with statues and birdbaths and fountains. It gets wilder as we walk farther from the palace walls, the trees becoming denser, the paths sometimes overgrown. There is a giant maze in the center of the garden, constructed out of hedges at least seven feet tall, and Annabelle and I get lost in it, playing a made-up combination of hide-and-seek and tag, laughing and chasing each other until we are out of breath. In the heart of the maze is an enormous greenhouse, where the Duchess’s gardener grows all the flowers for the arrangements in the palace. It’s warm and humid inside, and the air smells like moist earth mixed with a hundred different floral fragrances. I run my fingers along the fragile petals of an orchid, shades of lavender and magenta and cream blending into one another.

  It seems like for every time the Jewel makes me angry or uneasy or sad, I discover something beautiful in it.

  I SEE THE DOCTOR EVERY DAY OVER THE FOLLOWING week. Lucien does not return to the palace of the Lake.

  Annabelle escorts me to the medical room instead of the Duchess, which is far more preferable. Every appointment begins the same way.

  “Is it happening today?” I ask. Dr. Blythe smiles and shakes his head.

  “No, Violet,” he replies. “Not today.”

  The appointments are similar to the first, with the Auguries and the monitors, though one of them also includes an invasive exam.

  I always hated those exams at Southgate—I close my eyes, cringing at the cold feel of the speculum, and try to pretend I’m playing music, running notes and phrasing over and over in my mind.

  As the week progresses, however, the Augury tests become more difficult. Unsurprisingly, Dr. Blythe begins to focus more and more on Growth. Cut flowers are simple—their life is so weak and easy to manipulate. Smaller plants, like ferns or weeds, don’t provide much of a challenge either. Saplings are slightly more difficult. It’s really the repetition that becomes a struggle, and Dr. Blythe begins timing me, how long it takes to complete the task, how many times I can perform Growth before my nose begins to bleed, how long I can continue after until it becomes unbearable.

  “Thank you, Violet,” he says at the end of every session. “That was very impressive.”

  I never know what to say to that.

  But the Duchess is true to her word, and my life—aside from those hours spent in the medical room—is actually quite pleasant. I’m allowed to move about the palace freely, though Annabelle is at my side at all times. My meals are always superb, and I get the feeling that the kitchen knows my likes and dislikes. I search the library every day for Lucien, but it’s empty except for the occasional maid or footman, and sometimes the Duchess’s niece—Annabelle and I always avoid her. We saw Garnet once, too, but he didn’t stay very long. Annabelle was blushing so badly she made me hide with her in the romance section until he was gone.

  I tell myself to be patient. I tell myself Lucien wouldn’t have said something like that if he didn’t mean it.

  Sometimes, I sit in my favorite armchair in my tea parlor, a big, overstuffed one by the window, and watch the traffic coming in and out of the Duchess’s palace. Annabelle fills me in on who’s who. The Countess of the Rose visits often—Annabelle tells me that the Rose and the Lake are strong allies. Apparently, the Lake used to be allied with the Stone, but they had a falling-out about thirty years ago and have hated each other ever since. That goes along with what I witnessed at that first dinner.

  “Do you know what it was about?” I ask.

  Annabelle shrugs and shakes her head
.

  Happened after D’s father died

  “Oh. How old was the Duchess then?”

  16

  Something that might be pity stirs in my chest. It occurs to me that the Duchess and I have something in common, both our fathers dying when we were young.

  The red-haired Lady of the Glass is another frequent guest, though I never see her pregnant surrogate again.

  The dream of escape is so enticing and so impossible, sometimes I wonder if it’s just that—a dream. I hold on to it for as long as I can, but as each day passes without Lucien, it slips a little further away.

  ONE AFTERNOON, ANNABELLE HOLDS OUT A PALE BLUE coat for me.

  “What’s that for?” I ask. “I thought it was time for my doctor’s appointment.”

  Annabelle nods and shakes the coat a little, insisting I put it on. We don’t go down the usual path to the elevator, but instead take one of the smaller staircases to the first floor. Passing the ballroom, Annabelle leads me out a back door into the garden. We walk along the neatly trimmed paths and past the hedge maze, to where the trees begin to grow dense and wild. Some of their leaves have already begun to fall, and their branches stretch and groan in the early November breeze.

  The path ends at a massive oak tree. Its trunk is so thick, I could hide behind it easily without being seen. Its untamed canopy is just beginning to turn, the outer leaves tinged burnt orange and dull yellow.

  “Good afternoon.” Dr. Blythe steps out from behind the tree. He wears a tan suit, one hand leaning on a silver-topped cane, the other holding a small black bag. It’s strange to see him outside the medical room, and even stranger without his white doctor’s coat.

  “Why are we in the garden?” I ask. Dr. Blythe nods to Annabelle, who curtsies and hurries back down the path.

  “Well, Violet,” the doctor replies, “today we are going to begin a sort of special project. Your abilities are indeed the most impressive that I have ever seen, and we have barely begun to test them. So I would like to present you with a challenge. It’s good to have goals, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I frown, unsure of what he’s getting at. “What do you want me to do?”

  Dr. Blythe’s warm eyes move from me to the oak tree. “Make it grow,” he says simply.