The Jewel

by Amy Ewing

  “You do not drink without my permission,” she says sharply, handing the glass to a waiter. Suddenly, there is a loud banging, and the music dies down. The Electress and Exetor stand and the crowd falls silent, the men bowing and the women sinking to the ground. My skirt billows around me as I curtsy, my corset poking uncomfortably against my hips.

  “We thank you for attending our annual ball,” the Exetor says, his voice carrying over the packed room. “You are dear to our hearts and crucial to the continued survival of our great city. We raise our glasses to you in thanks.”

  The Exetor and Electress raise their flutes—the Electress’s smile looks a little forced. The crowd straightens up and follows suit.

  “This year is sure to be a very exciting one for our family,” he continues. “May I present to you all . . . my son and heir, the future Exetor.”

  A nurse in a white cap appears in between the Exetor and Electress, holding a baby in her arms. He is dressed in cloth-of-gold with rubies and pearls sewn into the fabric. His tiny face is scrunched up, and as the royalty begin to clap and cheer, he starts to wail, one long sustained note. The Exetor gives the nurse a sharp look, and the baby is whisked out of the ballroom, his cries fading into the applause.

  “Now, let us have some entertainment!” the Electress says. “There are so many new surrogates here this evening. Shall we see whose is the most talented?”

  It’s amazing, the royalty’s ability to ask a question without it really being a question at all. Maybe this is why the Duchess gave me the cello—not as a gift or a reward, but in preparation for some sort of surrogate competition. I glance at her, worried she’ll volunteer me, but her eyes are fixed on the Exetor.

  “Mine is a dancer, Your Grace,” the Duchess of the Scales calls out. “The best I have ever seen.” The iced cake, beside her, turns pale.

  The Electress laughs gaily and claps her hands. “Wonderful! Clear the floor.”

  I feel pity for the girl as she is escorted to a section of the dance floor just in front of the royal podium. The crowd surges forward to get a better view. The iced cake’s blond ringlets tremble, her eyes darting to her mistress, who nods sharply. I don’t want to think about what might happen to her at home if she doesn’t perform well.

  The girl stops at the edge of the dance floor and removes her shoes. Then, to a chorus of gasps and cries of shock, she unties her skirt and lets it fall to the ground, standing in only her petticoat and bodice.

  “Oh my!” the Electress exclaims.

  The Duchess of the Scales seems pleased by the attention. “It’s the only way she can dance, Your Grace,” she says. “Otherwise, the skirt is too long.”

  The Electress giggles. “I see. Does she require any particular music?”

  “No, Your Grace,” the Duchess replies with a superior smile. “She can dance to anything.”

  The Electress calls to the orchestra. “Play a nocturne.”

  A lone violin starts, a string of melancholy notes quickly joined by a second violin, viola, and cello. I can’t help noticing that the viola is just slightly out of tune, the A string a hair sharp.

  The iced cake closes her eyes, lifts her arms above her head, and begins to dance.

  She is beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone move with such graceful fluidity—it’s like her bones are made of rubber, able to bend and stretch and create shapes that surely no normal body is capable of. I feel like she’s telling me a story with every spin and jump. In a strange way, it reminds me of how I feel playing cello.

  The song ends, and the iced cake curves into a delicate final position. The Electress begins to clap. Quickly, the crowd joins in and I can’t help clapping myself—watching the iced cake was like being in a dream that wasn’t quite my own, and I enjoyed it immensely.

  The iced cake sinks into a curtsy, then quickly collects her shoes and skirt, and joins her mistress.

  “That was stunning,” the Electress says, and the clapping stops abruptly. “Wasn’t it, my darling?”

  “Stunning,” the Exetor agrees.

  “I can’t imagine anything more pleasing.” The Electress smiles at the Duchess of the Scales, who flushes with pleasure and curtsies. “Alexandrite, I think you may have acquired the most talented surrogate in the entire Auction.”

  “I would have to disagree with that, Your Grace.”

  A large intake of breath comes from the crowd, and a cold shiver of fear creeps up the back of my neck. The Duchess of the Lake is still staring at the Exetor, her black eyes glittering in the light of the chandelier. I see the hint of a smile form on his lips.

  If the Electress notices this subtle exchange, she doesn’t show it. On the contrary, she looks delighted. “Really? You think your surrogate can outshine Alexandrite’s?”

  The Duchess is practically radiating smugness. “I am certain she can.”

  “Oh, I do love a good competition. She must perform at once, don’t you agree, my darling?”

  The Exetor taps a finger against his wineglass. “What is her skill, Pearl?” he asks.

  Something flickers in the Duchess’s eyes. “She plays the cello, Your Grace.”

  The Exetor nods. “Take her to the stage,” he commands to his footmen. An iron claw grips my arm.

  “Do not disappoint me,” the Duchess snaps, and then, almost as an afterthought, adds, “please.”

  I’m marched toward the orchestra, sensing the crowd’s eagerness at the challenge, their twisted desire to watch me fail. The stage comes closer, and I trip on my skirts as I’m pulled up the stairs—I hear a smattering of laughter and my cheeks burn.

  A man with a gray mustache passes his cello to me with reluctance. I take it, wrapping my fingers around its polished wooden neck, and hold out my other hand for his bow.

  I take a deep breath and turn to face my audience. The Exetor and Electress have left their podium—they stand at the foot of the steps, no more than ten feet away. The Duchess is just behind the Exetor’s right shoulder, the Duke at her side. Carnelian and Ash stand together close by. And behind them, a mass of faces, all turned toward me, all eyes in the room watching my every movement. The bow trembles in my hand. I’ve never played in front of this many people before. My imaginary audiences in the Duchess’s concert hall were always friendly and encouraging. Gingerly, I sit on the edge of the chair, adjusting my skirts so that the cello rests comfortably between my knees. Its shape relaxes me a little, and I lean its neck on my shoulder.

  “Do you have a preference for composer, Your Grace?” the Duchess asks, though whether she’s talking to the Exetor or the Electress, I can’t tell.

  The Electress answers. “I should very much like to hear whatever she enjoys playing the most.”

  There is some murmuring from the crowd, and I see a few women smirk, but I don’t know how that’s meant to be offensive, and at the moment, I don’t really care. I have to play my best. I take another deep breath and think.

  Whatever I enjoy playing the most . . .

  In a flash, the entire scene before me changes, because I know exactly what I want to play and I’m not afraid anymore.

  The prelude in G Major. The first piece I ever learned. I’m sure the Duchess would rather I play a more modern, complicated piece, something to impress or intimidate. But the prelude reminds me of Raven, and Lily, and all the girls who came with me on that train. It reminds me of the dining hall at Southgate and my tiny bedroom and a cake with Hazel’s name on it, of a time when laughter meant something, and of friendship and trust.

  I draw my bow across the strings and begin. The notes fall effortlessly over one another, a waterfall of sound, and I leave this ball and float away to a simple music room that smells like wood polish and the only faces watching me are those of girls who wish nothing more than to hear me play. And not because I’m gifted, not because it makes me different or special in any way, but because I love it. The memories burn inside me like a candle flame, and the bow flies across the strings, the notes climbi
ng higher and higher and I feel free, really free, because no one can touch me in this place, no one can hurt me, and as I draw the bow across the final fifth, a chord that reverberates throughout the cavernous room, I realize that I am smiling and a tear trickles down my cheek.

  The room is silent.

  I look up and meet a pair of gray-green eyes, no longer soft but blazing. Ash doesn’t look away, and neither do I. His gaze is fierce, and open, and it makes me feel alive. He isn’t looking at a surrogate—he’s looking at me.

  Then the Exetor begins to clap. The applause is picked up, and soon the noise is deafening, but I feel oddly removed from the situation; the clapping is muffled in my ears, because a glint of gold has caught my eye, and I see the only face that could pull me away from Ash’s.

  Raven.

  She stands out so clearly among the sea of faces, her gold-chained hands pressed against her chest, and she looks happy, truly happy. Our eyes meet, and I cross two fingers on my right hand, and press them against my heart, the symbol of respect from the surrogates of Southgate and a sign that, no matter what, I will never forget her.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Eighteen

  THE BALL GETS WILDER AS THE NIGHT GOES ON.

  Champagne flows, the dancing becomes more energetic, and the laughter and chatter reach deafening levels.

  The Duchess receives many congratulations on my performance, which is ridiculous since she didn’t do anything. Every time I see Raven, she is firmly attached to the Countess of the Stone’s side, head down, chained hands clasped in front of her.

  The heat from all the dancing bodies, combined with the champagne, begins to make me dizzy. The Duchess is on the dance floor with the Duke. I’ve lost track of Carnelian and Ash, and Lucien is involved in conversation with several footmen. Garnet and his friends are laughing and eyeing a group of girls. I need some air, see a door by the wall of windows, and slip through it.

  The cool air makes my skin prickle, and I inhale deeply—or as deeply as I can in this stupid corset. I run a hand across my forehead. It is so nice to be alone for a moment.

  I’m in a little garden with a fountain at its center. Two shadowy figures are on a bench on the far side, twined around each other. A tall hedge juts out on my right, and I quickly slip around it, out of sight of the couple and away from the noise and laughter of the ball.

  The moonlight sparkles off a small pond, with a gazebo behind it. It is so quiet here, so peaceful. I crouch by the water, careful not to get my skirt wet, and tap the glassy surface with my fingertip. The moon’s reflection dances as ripples spread out in a circle, growing wider, almost lazy, until the water is smooth again.

  “Hello,” a voice says.

  I nearly fall into the pond. Scrambling to my feet, I see him, Ash, sitting in the gazebo, half illuminated in pale silver, half in darkness—he’s taken off his tuxedo jacket, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up.

  “Hi,” I breathe.

  For a few seconds, we just stare at each other.

  “What are you doing back here?” he asks.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I was hot. It’s loud in there.”

  “Yes. It is.” He looks down. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “No,” I say. “Probably not.”

  But he doesn’t tell me to leave. And he doesn’t move.

  “That was incredible,” he says, his eyes meeting mine again. “I’ve never heard music played like that before.”

  “Oh,” I say. Too late I add, “Thank you.”

  “They don’t understand,” he says, glancing in the direction of the ballroom. “They think your music is owed to them. As if their money gives them a right to it.”

  “Doesn’t it?” I say wryly.

  He stares at me, his expression hard to read. “No,” he says.

  “Well, I’m no Stradivarius Tanglewood,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Or Reed Purling, either, I guess.”

  Ash looks away, his face turning thoughtful. “I’ve never done that before, you know. Disagreed with a client. It’s not permitted.”

  “Then why did you disagree with me?”

  “I’m not sure. I just . . .” He sighs. “I felt like telling the truth, I suppose.”

  “You make it sound like such a terrible thing.”

  “In my profession, it is.”

  “My profession seems to entail not talking at all,” I say. “So you can tell me the truth whenever you want. I can’t tell anyone anyway.”

  “A good point.” Ash grins. “The truth is . . . I hate avocados.”

  I laugh. “What?”

  “Avocados. I hate them. They’re slimy and they taste like soap.”

  “Avocados do not taste like soap.” I laugh again. “I hate this corset,” I say, poking it hard with my finger. “Why aren’t the men all forced to wear stupid contraptions like these?”

  “I don’t think the Duke would pull it off as well as you,” Ash replies.

  I blush. “I don’t pull it off half as well as most of the women in there.”

  “Don’t compare yourself to them,” he says sharply. I freeze, startled. He blinks. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry, I—”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I wasn’t.” I stare back at the palace. “I’m nothing like them,” I murmur.

  “No,” Ash agrees. “You’re not.” His words sting like an insult until he adds, “And I mean that as the highest form of compliment.”

  “How many times have you been here?” I ask.

  “To the Royal Palace? This will be the twelfth occasion in which I have had the honor of an invitation.”

  I can’t help smiling. “You don’t have to sound so polite. I’m just a surrogate, remember?”

  Ash smiles back. “Habit, I guess.” He pauses. “That did sound pretty ridiculous, didn’t it. Sometimes I don’t think I even hear myself anymore. I’m not sure anyone really listens to me anyway.”

  “I do,” I say quietly.

  Silence falls. And still, he doesn’t move.

  “What were you thinking about?” he asks. “When you were playing. It was like you were somewhere else.”

  “I was imagining that I was back at Southgate—that was my holding facility—and I was playing for the girls there. They liked to listen to me practice.”

  He stands up. I feel like our moment is ending, and I don’t want it to. Suddenly, words start pouring out of my mouth.

  “If you ever want to listen, you know, to music, well . . . sometimes I play in the concert hall. Not, I mean . . . just for amusement, not an actual concert or anything but . . .” My voice trails off.

  Ash runs a hand through his hair, his expression frustrated. He leaves the gazebo and walks toward me until he is standing so close that the heat from his body radiates against my bare skin. My fingers itch to touch him, to trace the lines of his face and run my hands over his chest. I want him to touch me, too, to press his lips against mine and bury his hands in my hair. The desire is overwhelming and irrational, and I love it.

  “Why were you in my room?” he demands. “What were you doing there?”

  “I—I got lost,” I say.

  “You got lost,” he repeats, but the way he says it, it’s like he means something else. His eyes burn into mine, then he shakes his head, and without another word, turns and leaves me breathless and alone.

  I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING WITH A POUNDING HEADACHE.

  “Oh,” I moan, pressing a hand gingerly to my forehead. My mouth is dry, and tastes terrible. I shouldn’t have drunk so much champagne.

  Before I ring for Annabelle, I rifle through one of the drawers of my vanity and take out a small, enameled jewelry box, where I hid the tuning fork last night while Annabelle was hanging up my gown. It has a secret, second compartment, and I dump out the earrings and bracelets and pendants and pop the bottom out. T
he tuning fork is nestled against the velvet lining—I reach out and stroke it with one finger. I don’t know what is going to happen tonight at midnight, but I’m eager to find out.

  I put the bottom back in, replace the jewelry, and bury the box in my drawer. Then I ring for Annabelle.

  I feel better once I’ve eaten breakfast. Annabelle and I spend a quiet day in my rooms. She beats me at Halma a few times, and I pretend to read for a while, but my mind keeps bouncing back and forth between the memory of Ash at the gazebo and the promise of the tuning fork at midnight.

  Suddenly, the door to my tea parlor is thrown open so forcefully that it smacks against the wall. Annabelle and I jump as the Duchess walks in, flanked by her guards.

  “Get out,” she orders Annabelle, who wastes no time leaving the room.

  The Duchess glares at me.

  “I have treated you well, haven’t I?” she asks.

  “Y-yes, my lady,” I stammer.

  “And your life has been pleasant, as I promised, hasn’t it?”

  I nod, trying to figure out what I’ve done wrong. Does she know about Lucien? Did she see me talking to Ash?

  “So please explain to me why one of the maids found this.” She tosses an oval object onto the coffee table.

  It’s the portrait I changed with Color. The painted Duchess’s skin is still a sickly green. Everything inside me shrinks and tightens, and when I look up, I can feel the guilt on my face.

  “I . . . I . . .” I have no defense.

  “You what?” the Duchess purrs. “Did you think this was funny?”

  I shake my head.

  “Have you defaced any other pieces of my property?”

  She’s so calm. Sweat beads in my armpits.

  “No, my lady,” I whisper.

  The Duchess raises an eyebrow. “Let’s find out if you are telling the truth.”

  I’ve been so focused on her, I haven’t been paying attention to the Regimentals. Two of them yank me out of my chair and force me to my knees, while another one pushes my head onto the coffee table next to the painting and holds it there. There is pressure on my ankles, like someone’s stepping on them. I’ve been incapacitated in less than thirty seconds. It is entirely disorienting.