The Jewel

by Amy Ewing

  “I envy you,” she confesses. “Your . . . abilities.” She must see the incredulity in my eyes, because she laughs. “Oh, you may not believe me but it’s true. We all envy the surrogates. Do you not think that, if I could do this myself, I would? I have wealth, yes, and a title and power. But you have a power I do not. I cannot create life.”

  I remember the lioness’s words, at Dahlia’s funeral. We make their children. We have the power.

  “So we turn you into property,” the Duchess continues. “We parade you around and dress you up and make you our pets. That is how the Jewel operates. Status is our sole occupation. Gossip is our currency.” She gives me a piercing look. “You can do this, you know. I read the doctor’s report, I saw the results of the stimulant gun. Your abilities are far beyond what I had even dared to dream. Do you have any idea what we will accomplish together? We will make history, you and I.”

  It is so hard to hold back the retort, not to snap at her that she has absolutely no role in this process except to provide an embryo. We are not doing anything together.

  The Duchess studies me, as if she can read my thoughts. “I’ve angered you,” she says.

  I take a breath before answering. “I just don’t understand, my lady,” I say carefully. “This obsession. Being first. Why not just have a regular baby in a regular time?”

  Her eyes grow distant as she stares at the embers of the fire. It’s quiet for a long while. “I was meant to be the Electress, you know,” she says softly.

  My eyes widen.

  “I was a month old when the arrangement was made, sixteen when it was broken. The Exetor and I . . . we were very close. It was a perfect match. A founding House and the future Exetor. My life was meant for greatness.” She looks younger somehow, vulnerable, and I think I see something glisten in the corner of her eye. “My life was meant to be happy,” she whispers.

  “What happened?” I ask tentatively.

  The Duchess shrugs. “Men cannot be trusted. You are lucky you will never have to discover that for yourself.” She sniffs and plays with a charm on her bracelet. “What was your life like? Before Southgate, I mean. Was it happy?”

  I don’t want to share that with her. I don’t want her touching any part of who I was before I came here.

  “Yes, my lady. It was very happy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I look past her into the fire and pretend I’m in the sitting room at Southgate, talking to Raven. “I have a younger brother and sister. I used to take care of them when my parents were working. My sister and I liked to play tricks on my brother.” That should be enough.

  “I had a sister, too,” the Duchess muses. “Carnelian’s mother. We did not get along.”

  I frown. “I thought the royalty could only have one boy and one girl.”

  “Yes. But occasionally, twins do happen. Usually it’s the simple matter of terminating one, but my darling mother wasn’t strong enough to make that decision and my father indulged her.” Her mouth twists, like she’s tasted something unpleasant. “You loved your mother, I imagine.”

  “I still do.”

  The Duchess smiles a broken, half smile. “Of course.” She looks at me with an unfathomable expression. “All I want is for my daughter to be happy,” she says. “I will do anything to give her a better life. Is that such a terrible thing?” She laughs, and there is no edge to it, no sharpness. “I sound awfully sentimental, don’t I? My father must be turning in his grave.”

  Abruptly, she stands, and the softness falls away, replaced with the rigid mask I’m accustomed to. “I wish for you to feel at home here. As such, you will no longer require an escort while within the palace. Your new cello will arrive tomorrow. I hope you find it satisfactory.” She sweeps to the door and pauses with her hand on the knob.

  “Hope is a precious thing, isn’t it,” she says quietly. “And yet, we don’t really appreciate it until it’s gone.”

  She closes the door behind her, and I sink back against the couch, wondering what exactly just happened.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Twenty

  MY CELLO ARRIVES THE NEXT DAY, AS PROMISED.

  Though I don’t tell Annabelle about my conversation with the Duchess, she already knows that I don’t require an escort around the palace anymore. When I tell her I’m going to play in the concert hall, she simply smiles and nods, and continues changing the sheets on my bed.

  I play for twenty minutes or so, but my mind isn’t focused on the vibration of the strings or the movement of the bow. That stimulant gun made the doctor and the Duchess very happy—too happy. I should ask Lucien about it next time we speak.

  I wonder if that’s what Raven meant, when she asked me if I’d seen a doctor yet. Is the stimulant gun the cause of her hollowed eyes? Is she being tortured with it in the House of the Stone?

  I have to check on my violet. I need to know it’s still there for her.

  I leave my cello on the stage and hurry downstairs and out the back door into the garden. I didn’t bring a coat and the wind whips my hair around my face and slices through the thin fabric of my dress. I make my way to the west wall and stare up at the violet, swaying in the breeze.

  My breath catches in my throat. There’s another flower wrapped around it. A lily, but instead of white, its petals are jet black.

  Hope ignites in my chest. Raven saw my violet.

  And now, I think as I send a second violet up to join the first, she knows I’m close.

  I GET BACK TO THE CONCERT HALL AS QUICKLY AS I CAN.

  Lucien probably wouldn’t approve of me sending flower messages to my best friend, but I don’t care. No one else could possibly know what it means, or that it even means anything at all. And now I know Raven is all right.

  I set up on the stage and breathe in the scent of velvet and floor polish. The cello fits snugly between my knees, and I play a few scales, just to make sure it’s in tune.

  I start with a sarabande in D Minor, then a courante in the same key, then another sarabande in F Major. As long as I’m playing, my mind is still. I don’t have to think about the pain Dr. Blythe caused me or the demands the Duchess has put on me. As long as I’m playing, I’m not a surrogate. I can simply be.

  I remember what Ash said, the night of the Exetor’s Ball. How the royalty acted like they owned my music. As if they could ever own this.

  As I finish the sarabande, a soft clapping begins and I look around, startled.

  Ash stands offstage, just behind the curtain, and for a second, I think he might be a figment of my imagination. He stops clapping and puts his hands in his pockets.

  I should leave. I need to leave now. I cannot talk to him—not out in the open here where anyone can see.

  But my cello makes a tiny thump when I set it down, and my satin slippers whisper across the stage as I join him. The choice isn’t a conscious one—it’s comes from a place in me without logic or fear.

  It’s warm and dark behind the curtain. We are so close, it’s like someone has spiked my veins with adrenaline. I feel lightheaded. My skin tingles.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. He wears a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I have the strongest urge to run my fingers over his forearms.

  “I wanted to see you play. I thought I was invited.” He sounds nervous.

  “Oh.” My verbal skills seem to disappear when he’s around. The foot of space between us feels charged with electricity. “Right. Did you like it?”

  “Very much.”

  He takes a step toward me and I’m surprised I can’t see tiny sparks of light exploding in the air around us. This is wrong, I know this is wrong, but at the moment, I can’t seem to remember why.

  “I . . . I . . .” He shakes his head and looks down. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses quietly.

  We are
so close, the hem of my skirt brushes the tips of his shoes. “Really?” I ask.

  He laughs. “And I thought I was being obvious.”

  “I—I don’t have much experience with this.”

  “No,” he says softly. “I don’t imagine you do.”

  “None, actually,” I admit.

  “To be fair, I don’t have much experience in this particular area, either.”

  I frown. “Isn’t this what you do with Carnelian?”

  As soon as I say her name, I wish I hadn’t. A shadow passes across Ash’s face.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “I just thought—”

  “That I seduce every woman I see?” he asks wearily.

  “No,” I say firmly. “It’s just . . . I’ve seen you two together.”

  His eyes blaze the way they did at the Exetor’s Ball, like gray-green fire. “Do you ever obey an order from the Duchess even though you don’t want to?”

  “All the time.”

  “And have you ever disobeyed her?”

  I bite my lip, thinking of the ruined cello on my bedroom floor.

  “I know. There are consequences.” His fingertips dust across the back of my hand. “Do you want me to leave?”

  Be a model surrogate, Lucien whispers.

  “No,” I reply.

  A tiny smile lights up Ash’s face. “May I ask you something?”

  My heart is so swollen I think it might burst. I inhale his scent of soap and clean linen and something that must be boy. “Anything.”

  “What is your name?”

  My heart explodes into a million glittering fragments that rain down like fireworks through my chest.

  “Violet,” I whisper.

  He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like it’s the answer to a riddle or a secret key. “Violet,” he murmurs. Then his mouth is on mine.

  I feel entirely new. Ash’s lips are gentle, moving with mine in unfamiliar, exciting ways, and I discover a new Violet, a Violet I never imagined existed. How can my body contain all these feelings? It’s like I didn’t really know myself until this moment.

  Ash pulls away, tenderly cradling my face in his hands, his forehead resting against mine. “This is dangerous.”

  “Yes”.

  “It’s not safe here.”

  “No,” I agree, though whether he’s referring to the concert hall, or the palace, or the Jewel itself, I’m not sure.

  “Can you meet me in the library in fifteen minutes?”

  I feel like I could meet him on the moon if he asked me to. “Yes.”

  “Be at the last stack on the east side by the windows. Look for Cadmium Blake’s Essays on Cross Pollination.”

  I laugh at his bizarre instructions. “What?”

  He grins. “Trust me.” Then his face turns solemn. “Think about this carefully. It’s your choice—I’ll understand if you decide not to come.”

  I nod, and he disappears out the backstage door.

  To meet him in the library would not only get me in trouble with Lucien, but if the Duchess found out . . . I don’t even want to think about what would happen. Something very, very bad. I shouldn’t do it. I told Lucien he could trust me. I promised him I would behave.

  But all I do is follow orders. Whether they’re the Duchess’s orders or Lucien’s or the doctor’s, I’m never in control. And if I’m going to run away and hide for the rest of my life, well, first I’m going to do one thing for me. Call it selfish or disrespectful or stupid—I don’t care. At least I can look back on this—on being with Ash—and say I made a choice.

  I’m giddy as I take my cello back up to my chambers.

  The sky has darkened, and the fires have been lit against the cold November winds—two footmen are lighting the lamps when I arrive at the library. They bow to me before continuing with their work. Ash said the east wall, all the way toward the windows—the easiest route is to cut through the central reading area. I’m so aware of myself as I walk out into the wide circle of armchairs, the way my arms move, the length of each step.

  And then I stop short, jerked back to reality by a familiar, pungent scent that makes my nose wrinkle.

  The Duke is sitting in one of the chairs by the crest table, puffing on a cigar, a ledger open in his lap, a glass of amber liquid on the table beside him. His eyes are red-rimmed and he makes a notation in the ledger, muttering something that sounds like “frivolous woman.” I freeze. I’ve never seen the Duke in here before.

  He looks up. “Oh. It’s you.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I make an awkward curtsy.

  He takes a long pull on his cigar, blowing out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. “Well?”

  My eyes widen a fraction. Well what?

  He laughs. “You aren’t very smart, are you?” He taps the cigar against a crystal ashtray, then waves his hand in the air. “Aren’t you here to get a book?” he asks, a little too loud, like I’m a child who doesn’t understand his language.

  “Y-yes, my lord,” I stammer.

  “Get on with it, then.” He downs the rest of his drink and turns his attention back to the ledger. I curtsy again and head directly into the stacks, heart racing, eager to get away from him. Of all the days he had to come here.

  I’m shaking as I get to the east wall then follow the shelves all the way to the windows. This tiny corner of the library is deserted, and I can see why. All the books look incredibly dull, dissertations on plants and animal husbandry and methods of irrigation. I wonder why the Duchess even has books like these. I run my fingers over the titles until I find the one I’m looking for: Cadmium Blake’s Essays on Cross Pollination.

  “You’re late.”

  I jump. Ash is leaning against a shelf on the other side of the aisle. His arms are folded across his chest, a playful expression on his face.

  “Hi,” I breathe.

  He grins and pushes off the shelf, taking a few steps toward me. “You didn’t have any trouble finding the place, did you?”

  “No, I just . . .” I make a face. “I ran into the Duke.”

  “Yes, I thought I smelled his vile cigars.” Ash grimaces. “One of these days, I believe the Duchess will murder him in his bed.”

  I laugh, but he doesn’t, so I stop. Is he serious?

  “So, um . . . what are we doing here?” I ask. It’s a secluded place, sure, but still . . . there’s the Duke, and the footmen lighting the lamps, and anyone else who feels like borrowing a book to be worried about. The concert hall was actually more private.

  His mouth pulls up into a sort of crooked, half smile. “Can you keep a secret?”

  I have to laugh. “Yes,” I say. “I can keep a secret.”

  He joins me at the bookshelf and, with exaggerated care, pulls at the top of Cadmium Blake’s Essays on Cross Pollination so that it tilts at an angle. The entire shelf swings open, revealing a dark space behind it.

  Glowglobes hang from the ceiling, illuminating walls of plain, rough stone. A tunnel curves out of sight just ahead of us.

  I can feel the blank shock on my face, and quickly snap my gaping mouth shut. “Where does it go?” I whisper.

  Ash takes my hand, and I feel a jolt of excitement. “Come on,” he says, pulling me forward and closing the bookshelf behind us.

  He presses a finger to his lips and squeezes my hand, leading me down the tunnel, which winds and curves so that I lose all sense of direction—sometimes, other tunnels branch off the one we’re on.

  At some point, we begin to climb, then the light stops ahead of us, and I see a smooth wooden door with a heavy iron handle.

  Ash turns the handle and dull gray light leaks into the tunnel. He motions for me to go first.

  I recognize the parlor immediately. It’s the place where Ash and I first met. I remember the claw-footed sofa, the low coffee table, the armchair by the lone window. The window looks out onto the lake, but from a different angle than my room. Tiny rivulets of rain
run down the panes of glass.

  A quiet snap makes me turn. Ash has closed the secret door, which is hidden behind the oil painting of the man in the green hunting jacket with the dog at his side.

  I glance at the two visible doors. One I remember sneaking in through. Does that mean the other one leads to his bedchamber? My ears feel hot.

  There is an awkward silence. Ash runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks politely.

  “Um, yes, all right. Thank you.” Everything felt secret and safe in the dimness of the concert hall and the darkness of the tunnel. In the cold, gray light of this parlor, I’m not entirely sure how to act. I take a seat on the sofa as Ash pours us tea from a pot on the side table.

  “Well,” he says, handing me a cup and sitting down beside me.

  “Well,” I say, for lack of a better idea.

  The clock on the mantel ticks loudly. I take a sip of tea.

  “Perhaps we should formally introduce ourselves,” Ash says. “I’m Ash Lockwood.”

  “Violet Lasting,” I say, then I grin.

  “Is something funny?”

  “No, it’s just . . . I can remember the exact moment when I thought Violet Lasting was gone forever.”

  What am I talking about? Why would I bring that memory up now?

  “When?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “When was that moment?”

  “Oh.” I look down and speak to my tea. “At the ceremony on the train platform at Southgate. Before I came here.” That moment is so clear in my mind: the fat man with the ruby ring, the faces of all the other surrogates, the caretakers . . .

  “Before you went to the Auction?” Ash asks.

  I nod. “That morning.”

  “You must have been very scared.”

  I shrug.

  “What was it like?”

  “What do you think it was like?” I can’t keep the bite out of my voice. “They made me stand on a stage, alone. Women offered to pay money for me. They took away my name. They took away my home. They took . . . everything.”

  There is a long silence. I take another sip of tea. This isn’t how I wanted our conversation to go, and I wish I could change the subject.