by Amy Ewing
I can only see what’s directly in front of me, and the Duchess disappears from view for a moment. I struggle against the men holding me, but it only sends a sharp pain shooting down my shoulder, and the pressure on my head and ankles increases.
The Duchess returns, holding my cello and a silver-headed hammer. I feel like I’m pitching forward into nothingness, like the floor has disappeared beneath me. I am weightless with shock.
“Have you defaced any other pieces of my property?” the Duchess asks again. I try to shake my head, but the hand holding me is too strong.
“No,” I say. I can’t take my eyes off that hammer. “No, my lady. I swear I didn’t.”
The Duchess considers this for a long moment. “All right,” she says. “I believe you.”
Then she smashes the belly of my cello with the hammer. A gaping hole splinters open in the beautiful, varnished surface, and the strings make a sad, discordant whimper.
“No!” I cry, but she raises the hammer again, bringing it down over and over, cracking the bridge, ripping into the body, yanking the strings loose so they hang free and wild, pieces of wire stripped of their beauty. The Duchess beats my cello until it is unrecognizable. Then she drops the remains casually on the floor.
My vision is blurred with tears, so I don’t see what gesture she makes, but suddenly my left arm is wrenched out over the coffee table and pinned at the wrist, my fingers splayed across the wooden surface. The Duchess kneels down so that her face is almost level with mine.
“I want you to remember what I said about disrespecting me,” she says. She presses the cold face of the hammer against my knuckles. I can’t help the tiny sob that escapes my throat. I want to be brave, but I don’t know how. The fear is so potent, so real.
The Duchess raises the hammer and I brace myself for the pain.
The hammer stops less than an inch away from my fingers.
“If it happens again,” she says. “I will break your hand. Are we clear?”
My body is quivering from head to toe, my breathing ragged. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, my lady.”
The Duchess smiles, drops the hammer next to the remnants of my cello, and walks out.
THAT NIGHT, WHEN VELVETY DARKNESS BLANKETS MY room, I sit in bed, turning the tuning fork over and over in my hands.
I can’t see the clock over the fireplace, so I have no idea what time it is. Not that it matters. I’m not sure if I could fall asleep anyway. For the thousandth time, I rub the knuckles on my left hand. I can still see the raised hammer, still feel the paralyzing fear. I have to remind myself that it didn’t happen. I have to keep telling myself that I’m all right.
The tuning fork starts to vibrate. I’m so surprised I drop it—it falls onto my comforter with a tiny thud then rises into the air, revolving slowly and emitting a faint hum. I gape at it, unsure of what to do, when I hear a voice.
“Hello?”
“Lucien?” I whisper. “Where are you?” He sounds distant, like he’s speaking to me from the end of a long tunnel.
“In the Royal Palace,” he says. “Where else would I be?”
“But . . . but . . . how?”
“I call them my arcana. I invented them. They will allow us to speak in secret without being overheard or monitored.”
I examine the tuning fork closely. “So . . . we’re speaking through this thing?”
“Yes. I have the master. Yours responds to mine. They form a connection.” He pauses, then says, “But we have more important things to discuss.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
“Can I assume that you are willing, if not eager, to escape the Jewel?”
“Yes.”
“Consider this: If caught, you would surely be executed. You may be putting your family in danger. Can you accept that?”
I rub my knuckles again. Am I willing to risk my family’s safety for my own? I don’t know. But I can’t say no to Lucien, not now. “Yes,” I say in a hushed voice. “When?”
“I am currently developing a serum that will put you into a coma so deep, it will give you the appearance of death. No one will question it—surrogates often die of medical complications. Or get assassinated by a rival House, as you well know. The Duchess has plenty of enemies who would love to see you dead.”
I feel dizzy. “Is it safe?”
“Let me be clear: Nothing about this plan is safe. But if you agree to it, you must also agree to do whatever I say. Any instruction I give, you must follow, regardless of whether you like it or not. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Good. The Winter Ball for the Longest Night is being held at the Royal Palace.” The Longest Night is the oldest holiday in the Lone City. It takes place in mid-December, still several weeks away. “I will give you the serum then. The following night you will take it. Once you are pronounced dead, you’ll be transported to the morgue, where I’ll recover your body and hide it on a train scheduled to bring supplies to the Farm. When we arrive in the Farm, I will take you to a safe place.”
“Where?” I ask. I can’t imagine any place in the city being truly safe from the royalty.
“I cannot tell you that—it’s too dangerous for you to know. Now, listen to me very carefully. While you are in the Duchess’s palace, you will obey every rule she gives. Not only that, you will be a model surrogate. You will be obedient and submissive. I don’t want to hear about any more portraits changing color or shelves being smashed, is that clear?”
I open my mouth to protest, but Lucien keeps talking.
“She must believe you are on her side. You have to make her trust you. It is our best chance of getting you out as quickly and safely as possible.”
“Fine,” I say grudgingly.
“I know it’s hard, honey, but I promise you—I won’t let you down.”
“Violet,” I say.
“I’m sorry?”
“My name,” I say. “It’s Violet.”
“Violet,” Lucien repeats, and I hear a smile in his voice.
I twist the comforter in my hands. “Why are you helping me?”
There is a long silence.
“Something had to be done,” he says quietly. “No one deserves this life. No one deserves to have their choices taken away.”
I think about Raven, handcuffed at the Exetor’s Ball, promising not to forget me.
“Lucien,” I say, “I’ll do whatever you ask with no complaints, but can you do something for me?”
There is a pause before he replies. “What do you want?”
“At the ball last night, I saw my best friend. Another surrogate. And I was wondering if . . . if you could find out anything about her. Where she is or how she’s doing or . . . anything. It would mean so much to me.”
I hold my breath, waiting for a response. It takes a long time to come.
“What House is she in?”
I exhale. “The House of the Stone.”
“The House of the Stone?” Then, to my surprise, Lucien begins to laugh.
“What?” I ask, hurt.
“I’m sorry,” Lucien says, his laughter dying at once. “It’s just . . . the Countess of the Stone’s estate lies on the western border of the House of the Lake.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in. “Wait . . . are you saying . . .”
“I’m saying,” Lucien says kindly, “that your friend is living next door.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Nineteen
RAVEN IS NEXT DOOR.
That, even more than Lucien’s escape plan, is in the forefront of my mind when I wake in the morning.
All this time, she’s been so close.
“I’d like to go to the garden,” I say when I’ve finished breakfast. Annabelle nods and chooses one of my warmer dresses and a coat with a fur collar. We head outside into the N
ovember chill.
The air is cold and crisp and smells deliciously of late fall. A few dried, brown leaves still cling to the branches of the trees that line the paths, but most of them have fallen. They crunch under my feet as I walk toward the west wall, in the opposite direction of the great oak tree.
Annabelle sits on one of the benches and opens a book. I wander into the wilder part of the garden, just off the path, so I’m partially hidden but still nearby.
My breath makes a white mist in the air as I stare up at the barrier that separates me and Raven. If only there was a way I could talk to her. If we had a pair of arcana, or some kind of sign, a smoke signal, anything to show her that I’m close. If I could, I’d climb up the ivy-covered walls and shout her name.
Then it hits me. The ivy.
I wrap my hand around a slender length of it, feeling the hard knot where a leaf must have died and fallen off.
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
I feel the life of the vine, and pull at it—a tiny shoot sprouts in my hand. It pokes through my fingers, and begins to climb up the wall. The threads of life in this vine are pliable, easy to manipulate, willing to grow as I ask them to. I barely notice the sharp sting of pain as invisible needles begin to bore into the base of my skull. It is so easy to remain focused.
The image in my mind is clear, and my hand grows hot against the cold air as I push the vine farther and farther up the wall. My back begins to ache, but I won’t let go until I’ve finished.
The vine reaches the top of the wall and I force it farther still, weaving it between a pair of evil-looking spikes, concentrating hard, the image in my head so close to the surface. I make all the tiny strands of life come together, twisting and writhing and forming a flower, whose petals unfold in a rich circle of color.
I’ve created a violet.
A drop of blood falls from my nose and splashes on the ground, leaving a dark stain. The violet sways in the breeze, innocuous yet full of meaning. I hope Raven sees it. I hope she understands it’s from me.
I wander around the wilder part of the garden before slowly making my way back to Annabelle. She closes her book and stands up when she sees me, nodding toward the palace.
“Time to go?” I ask.
Time for Dr.
“HELLO, VIOLET,” DR. BLYTHE SAYS WHEN I ARRIVE IN the medical room. “How was your weekend?”
Be obedient and submissive, I remind myself.
“Fine, thank you. How was yours?”
He laughs. “Oh, typical really, nothing exciting. Now, I assume you remember our goal from last week?”
I nod. “You want me to make that tree grow.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen.” The life of the oak—it’s too strong.
Dr. Blythe shrugs. “We’ll see.” He sticks the electrodes all over my body and brings the screen down from the ceiling.
But this time, instead of handing me an object for the first Augury, he takes a syringe from the tray of instruments and attaches a large needle to it. My mouth goes dry.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“You are very talented, Violet, and I do truly believe your abilities can produce and sustain the results the Duchess and I are working toward. But we are on a very tight schedule. This will help speed things up. Please remove your robe and lie facedown on the bed.”
“What—what are you going to do?”
“Lie down, please,” Dr. Blythe says again.
I can’t swallow—it takes all my energy to make my legs move, to stand and turn around. I let my robe fall from my shoulders and lie down on the crisp white sheet that smells like lemon and ammonia. My skin shrinks away from the doctor’s touch as he places a hand on my lower back. I realize he hasn’t put an electrode there this time.
“I want you to take several deep breaths, Violet. Relax.” He must be seriously deluded if he thinks I’ll be able to relax right now. But I take the deep breaths anyway. “Good. It’s better if you stay still—I’m afraid this will hurt.”
The next second, the needle sinks into me and my lower back is on fire. I scream, and the doctor presses his hand down, trying to hold me still; instinctively, I wrench my body away and white hot agony rips down my spine.
Then the pain is gone.
“There we are,” he says. “All done.”
Tears spill over my eyelids, making dark spots on the white sheet. My body is limp, my breath coming out in shallow pants.
Dr. Blythe spreads something cool across my lower back and says, “The potential in surrogates is unlimited. But sometimes you get in your own way—doubt, anger, and fear can affect your abilities, either positively or negatively. Thanks to modern medicine, we’ve found a way to stabilize that. So today, we are going to get our first glimpse of what you’re really capable of.” The excitement in his voice makes me nauseous. “Please stay just as you are.”
I don’t think I could move if I wanted to; it’s like my limbs belong to someone else. I hear the sounds of a jar being unscrewed, the clinking of glass and metal.
“All right.” The doctor comes into view. In one hand, he holds a strange silver object, almost like a gun, but in place of the barrel, there is a glowing white cylinder. “This is called a stimulant gun. It will stimulate the auguries and help us unleash your full potential.”
He presses something into my hand and I see that it’s a seed, about the size of an acorn. “Can you feel it?” he asks. “The life inside?”
Of course I can. It’s like a tiny heartbeat, as light and fast as a hummingbird’s wings.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Dr. Blythe’s warm, green eyes turn sad. “Excellent,” he says softly.
He raises the gun and presses the glowing cylinder against my spine where the needle went in.
I think I scream. I can’t be sure.
The pain is everywhere. It consumes me. A bouquet of needles explodes inside my brain. My veins are filled with razor blades that rake through my body with every beat of my heart. My eyeballs are on fire. My skin burns.
I can feel the seed react. It breaks open in my hand and begins to grow at a tremendous rate, but I can’t see anything because my vision is blurred with tears. I hear a metallic crash and a sharp snapping sound. Something hot and wet pours out of my nose and drips into my mouth. I choke on the taste of my own blood.
Then, it stops. I gag and sputter, coughing up blood and saliva.
“There, there,” Dr. Blythe says, wiping my nose and eyes with a soft, wet cloth. “There, there . . .”
He walks away, and I hear him tapping on the screen. “You may sit up whenever you are ready,” he says.
It’s a while before my breathing returns to normal. I come back to my body little by little, feeling the sheet under my skin and my hair tickling my neck and shoulders. Very slowly, I roll onto my side, then push myself up into a sitting position.
The entire medical bed is covered in thick, green vines that outline the shape of my body. The tray of silver instruments has been knocked over, the more delicate tools snapped in pieces. Vines crawl up the pole that connects the screen to the ceiling. Part of the sheet is stained red with my blood. I can still sense the vine’s life inside me. My body feels battered, bruised from the inside out, and my head throbs.
“You did very, very well,” Dr. Blythe says, handing me the robe. I’m afraid that if I speak, I might throw up. “I just need to take a blood sample, and then we’re all done for the day.”
I barely feel the pinch of the needle in my arm.
I thought this man was sort of like a friend. How could I have been so stupid? He works for the Duchess. He doesn’t care about me at all.
Dr. Blythe finishes drawing my blood, then stares around him at the vine-covered medical room.
“Never in all my twenty-nine years as a physician have I ever seen anything like this,” he murmurs.
I want t
o wrap one of the vines around his throat and strangle him with it. But Lucien’s voice whispers in my ear. You will be a model surrogate.
Even so, I can’t stop myself.
“I hate you,” I say quietly.
Dr. Blythe’s eyes are sad again as he meets my gaze. “Yes,” he says. “I imagine you do.”
I SPEND THE REST OF THE DAY, AND THE FOLLOWING ONE, in bed.
The slightest movement hurts. My bones feel brittle, like they’ve been turned to glass. Annabelle brings me tea and soup, but I don’t have much of an appetite.
I will be obedient, I keep telling myself. I will not complain. And I will get out of here.
A few days later, I’m recovered, though my lower back is still sore. Annabelle and I are sitting on my bed, playing a game of Halma before turning in for the night, when there is a knock on the door and the Duchess enters.
I can’t remember the Duchess knocking on a door, ever. Least of all my door.
“Leave us,” she says. Annabelle collects the game and hurries out, with one quick, worried glance in my direction.
The Duchess’s dress glitters in the light of the dying fire as she moves to sit on the sofa. She looks exhausted. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, almost gentle.
“Please,” she says, resting a hand on the empty space beside her. “Sit by me.”
The sofa is so small that our knees are only a few inches apart when I sit down. The smell of her perfume makes my stomach turn.
The Duchess smooths out her skirts. “I have been trying to go about this the right way, and I am not sure . . . I am having difficulty . . .” She shakes her head and smiles. “It is not often that I find myself at a loss for words. You are very important to me. Sometimes, I have a problem with my temper. I apologize for that.”
I can’t think of anything to say. For some reason, this strange, soft-spoken Duchess unsettles me more than the cold, angry one.