The Jewel Page 8

  “I’m well aware of the laws of this city,” the Electress replies sharply.

  “And yet, you bought a surrogate,” the Countess of the Rose points out. “Why have a daughter so soon?”

  “Well,” the Electress says. “It is my husband’s wish to see his line continue through our son, but I have always hoped for my daughter to rule when I am gone. I feel a woman would possess more sensitivity to the needs of her people. And I’d like to give some young man from the Bank the same opportunity I was given by our beloved Exetor. It only seems fair, to give back in some way to the circle I was raised in. Wouldn’t you agree, Pearl?”

  This comment doesn’t seem to go down well with any of the royal women at the table. The Duchess of the Lake is gripping her fork so tightly that her caramel skin has turned white across her knuckles. “Whatever Your Grace thinks is best.” She turns to Raven’s mistress. “And what about you, Ebony? Will the House of the Stone be welcoming a daughter along with everyone else? Or will we be seeing you again at next year’s Auction?”

  The Countess of the Stone. That’s it. Lake, Rose, Scales, Stone. Lily would be proud. I bet Raven isn’t even paying attention. The Countess of the Stone pops a fig in her mouth and chews it slowly.

  “Oh yes, I believe I will start with a daughter,” she says. “Boys can be so terribly difficult, don’t you think?”

  The Duchess’s cheeks flame pink and her eyes narrow.

  The Electress giggles. “Yes, how is Garnet, by the way?” she asks. “Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

  “He is in his room at the moment, Your Grace. Studying.”

  Suddenly, the doors to the dining room burst open, and a young man staggers in. I haven’t seen any boys my age since I was twelve, except Ochre and he doesn’t really count. This boy is . . . well, he’s beautiful. His blond hair is slicked back, except for a few locks that have escaped and fallen over his forehead. He is tall, with broad shoulders, and his white collared shirt is partially unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. My cheeks burn, but I can’t stop staring at him. In one hand, he grasps an empty crystal tumbler.

  “Mother!” he cries, raising the glass like he’s toasting the Duchess of the Lake. This is the Duchess’s son? He looks nothing like her. His slightly unfocused gaze takes in the rest of the room. “I beg your pardon, ladies. Didn’t realize there was a dinner party tonight.” His bright blue eyes land on me, and something seems to click. “Oh, right. The Auction.”

  The Electress and the Duchess of the Scales are practically in tears, laughing into their napkins. A satisfied smile spreads across the Countess of the Stone’s pudgy face. The Countess of the Rose looks politely embarrassed.

  “Garnet, my darling,” the Duchess says, a steely edge to her voice. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “Just needed a refill.”

  He swaggers to a side table and uncorks a dark glass bottle, filling his tumbler. The Duchess is on her feet in an instant.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment?” she says, gliding to Garnet’s side and grabbing his arm. I hear him mumble “Ow” as she walks him out of the dining room.

  “And that, ladies, is why I feel this city should be left in the hands of a woman!” the Electress exclaims. The Duchess of the Scales and the Countess of the Stone explode with laughter.

  For a second, I meet Raven’s eyes. She raises an eyebrow, as if to say, “What is wrong with these people?” I press my lips together, fighting a smile, and give her a tiny nod.

  “But that decision is not up to you,” the Countess of the Rose interjects. She is the only one not amused by Garnet’s bizarre entrance. “It is the Exetor’s choice, since the line passed through him.” She takes a small bite of frisee. “Of course, you are only a recent addition to the Royal Palace. Perhaps the subtleties of royal succession have not fully been explained.”

  The Electress stiffens. “Clearly it has been too long since there has been any pleasure in your bedchambers, Ametrine, but there is no more powerful weapon of persuasion than a woman’s body. I am quite capable of changing my husband’s mind.”

  I blush at the turn the conversation just took. Footmen come in to clear our plates, and I take advantage of the Duchess’s absence, shoveling a few extra pieces of duck into my mouth.

  “I meant no offense, Your Grace,” the Countess of the Rose says. “But remember that surrogacy is a very strange thing. You never know precisely what you are going to get. The Augury scores only tell you so much. Perhaps you will end up preferring for your son to succeed to the throne.”

  “Doubtful,” the Electress replies. She beckons to one of the footmen. “Fetch Lucien. Now.”

  My ears prick and I sit up straighter.

  The servants begin serving the next course—smoked salmon with capers and candied lemon—and the Duchess returns.

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” she says with a low curtsy.

  “Oh, no need to apologize. It was rather exciting,” the Electress says. “In comparison, dinners at the Royal Palace are positively dull.”

  The Countess of the Stone’s wide mouth curves into an unpleasant smirk. I take a sip of wine and wait for the Duchess to sit down. I’m starving, and I hope she likes the salmon more than the other dishes, so I can actually eat a substantial amount of something.

  Then I see a white dress and a topknot and my heart somersaults. Lucien glides into the room, holding a walnut and a silver bowl.

  “Thank you, Lucien,” the Electress says. “Wait here.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Lucien places the walnut and the bowl on the table and moves back to stand against the wall. Dahlia’s eyes are wide with fear, almost pleading, as she looks back and forth between the bowl and the Electress. I hold my breath, wondering what the Electress is going to make her do. Across the table, I see that Raven’s expression mirrors mine. The iced cake and the lioness watch intently.

  “She was showing me the most magnificent trick earlier,” the Electress says. She turns to Dahlia eagerly. “Go on.”

  Dahlia’s lower lip trembles as she picks up the walnut in her small hand. Nothing happens. The Electress’s eyes harden.

  “Go on,” she repeats in a sharper tone.

  Dahlia’s fingers close around the walnut, and when she opens them, it has a slightly transparent look, like it’s been turned to brown glass—she’s using the second Augury, Shape. Her eyebrows knit together as she concentrates, and suddenly the walnut ripples, shifting and stretching like it’s made of water.

  I expect her to turn it into a simple shape, like a star or a flower, but instead she molds it into a miniature statue of the Electress. It’s an incredibly difficult feat; Dahlia must be in an extreme amount of pain.

  As if in response to my thought, Dahlia cries out and drops the statue—she grabs the silver bowl, coughing up a mixture of phlegm and blood.

  The Electress holds up the statue, stunning in its detail, a perfect replica of herself. The royal women clap.

  I feel sick. How could the Electress make her do that in front of all these people? These women are actually applauding the suffering and humiliation of a young girl.

  “Isn’t it marvelous?” the Electress says gaily. Lucien glides forward and takes the silver bowl from Dahlia. I see him slip her a handkerchief, so that when she looks up again, her mouth and nose are clean and free of blood.

  “That will be all, Lucien,” the Electress says dismissively.

  “Yes, my lady.” Lucien turns to leave and his eyes rest on me for half a second; the shadow of a smile passes across his face. I smile, too.

  “An impressive exhibition,” the Duchess of the Lake says, cutting into her salmon. “Though you may want to keep your best linens away from her.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t happen every time,” the Electress says.

  I blanch. How many times has the Electress made Dahlia perform an Augury? It’s barely been a day.

  The Duchess swa
llows a bite of salmon and dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “You may want to warm her up a bit before forcing her to sprint.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” the Electress says, patting the top of Dahlia’s head. The action is degrading to watch; two red spots appear on Dahlia’s cheeks.

  “Does she have any special skills?” the Duchess asks. “They don’t always, you know. But I do prefer a surrogate with a bit of talent.” She takes a sip of wine. “Mine plays the cello.”

  My fingers tighten around my fork, and my shoulders tense. Everyone is looking at me, except for Raven, who is glaring at the Duchess.

  “That is something I would very much like to hear,” the Electress says. I glance at the doors, petrified, waiting for some footman to appear with a cello.

  But the Duchess only smiles. “I am certain, Your Grace, that someday you will.”

  The conversation continues about the surrogates’ unique abilities—the iced cake is a dancer; the Countess of the Stone brags about Raven’s skill with mathematics—then shifts to our Augury scores. They talk about us like they are discussing a pet or a prized racehorse. Like we can’t hear them. Like we’re not even there.

  At long last, the dinner is over and the women are kissing one another’s cheeks (or, not quite kissing; they all seem reluctant to touch one another), and the ladies-in-waiting are coming in with their cloaks. The Countess of the Stone also has a male lady-in-waiting—he looks just as unpleasant as his mistress, with a large, beaked nose and a mouth that turns down.

  Raven is staring at me, her face set, determined, as if to say “I will see you again.” I try to smile at her with my eyes.

  The Electress is the last to leave. Dahlia glances at me, terrified, and I do my best to give her an encouraging look, pressing my lips together, the corners of my mouth barely turning up. I hope she knows what I mean. I hope she’ll be all right in the Royal Palace.

  The Duchess traces a circle slowly around the rim of her wineglass with one finger, watching her guests leave like a cat with its prey. Then she sighs.

  “That will be all for tonight,” she says, and though she doesn’t look at me, she has to be talking to me. There’s no one else in the room. Then she drifts through the door to her study, leaving me confused and alone.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

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  Nine

  CORA COMES TO GET ME A MOMENT LATER.

  I follow her silently back through the halls and up the stairs, the palace taking on a dreamlike quality in the dimmed light of the lamps, like I’m lost in a gilded maze. She opens the door to my chambers, where Annabelle is waiting for me.

  “She goes straight to bed,” Cora says. Annabelle nods.

  “Where are you going?” I ask Cora.

  “To attend to the Duchess,” Cora says, as though it should be obvious.

  “Oh. Well, good night.” The caretakers always said good night to us at Southgate, and Cora feels very much like a caretaker.

  Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “Good night.”

  I follow Annabelle through another door into my bedroom, my head swimming with scenes from the dinner. There seemed to be two teams at play: the Electress, the Countess of the Stone, and the Duchess of the Scales versus the Duchess of the Lake and the Countess of the Rose. Being royal seems exhausting—why invite people to a dinner party if you don’t even like them?

  I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, I don’t notice that Annabelle has removed my jewelry and is unzipping my dress. A silken nightgown is laid out on my bed.

  “Oh!” I say. “I can get ready myself.”

  Annabelle shakes her head.

  “Are you not allowed to speak to me?” I ask, my heart sinking.

  Annabelle picks up the flat rectangle hanging from her waist and removes something small and white from a pocket on her belt.

  It’s a piece of chalk.

  The rectangle is a slate, I realize, as she scribbles on it and holds it up for me to see.

  Can’t speak

  “What, not at all?” I ask stupidly.

  She shakes her head.

  “Did something happen to you?”

  As soon as the words are out, I realize they’re rude. Annabelle holds up her slate.

  Born this way

  “You’ve never been able to talk? Ever?”

  I remember a girl in the Marsh who couldn’t speak, but she couldn’t hear either. Obviously, Annabelle can hear just fine.

  Annabelle shakes her head and taps the slate once with her finger—the writing is erased.

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s a pretty neat device.”

  She nods halfheartedly, and finishes unzipping my dress. I step out of it and she slips the nightgown over my head.

  We go to the powder room, where Annabelle washes the makeup off my face, then it’s back to the bedroom. She sits me in front of the vanity and starts brushing out my hair. I study her reflection in the mirror. Her skin is paler than mine, and dusted with freckles. There’s a frailty about her, in her thin wrists and shoulders, and a tenderness in the way she runs the brush through my hair.

  “Do you ever wish you could?” I ask, and she looks up, surprised. “Speak, I mean.”

  Annabelle bites her lip and for a second I think I’ve been rude again. Then she puts down the brush and picks up her slate.

  Every day

  I try to imagine what that would be like, not being able to express myself with my voice—with a jolt, I realize it sort of happened to me tonight. And I didn’t like it at all.

  Annabelle finishes with my hair and moves to the bed, pulling back the covers for me. It feels like I’ve been sleeping for most of the last two days, but I’m still tired. I crawl under the velvety comforter, my head sinking into the feather pillows. Annabelle points to a long strip of patterned fabric hanging down the wall over the nightstand. She motions pulling on it, then points to herself.

  “If I ring that, you’ll come?”

  She nods.

  “Where do you sleep?”

  She points down, then scribbles on her slate.

  Good night

  I am suddenly gripped with fear of being left alone in this unfamiliar, extravagant room.

  “Annabelle?” I say. “Will you . . . could you sit with me for a little while?”

  She hesitates and I remember Cora’s instructions that I was to go right to sleep. But then she nods, and perches herself on the bed beside me. I smile.

  “Thanks.”

  Must be v. strange

  I realize that v stands for very. Of course. It would be a pain writing everything out longhand. I’d use abbreviations, too.

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask.

  Whole life

  I run my fingers along the embroidered edge of the pillowcase. “It’s certainly beautiful.”

  Annabelle nods without much enthusiasm.

  “At dinner tonight,” I say hesitantly, unsure if I should be talking about the dinner at all, “the royal women . . . they didn’t seem . . . I mean, they weren’t very nice to one another. Is it always like that?”

  Annabelle grimaces, and I take that for a yes.

  “The Electress is very young, isn’t she? Even younger than she looks in her photographs.”

  Annabelle nods.

  “The Duchess didn’t seem to like her much.”

  Annabelle fidgets, and her cheeks turn pink. I hastily change the subject.

  “I saw the Duchess’s son.” A blush creeps up the back of my neck at the memory of the handsome boy and his disheveled appearance. “He doesn’t seem anything like his mother.”

  Annabelle smiles a very private sort of smile, like my words have amused her in a way I don’t understand.

  “What’s his name?”

  Garnet

  “Right. Garnet.” I remember the Duchess’s words in the study, saying how she did
n’t need another Garnet.

  “Have you done this before?” I ask. “Looked after a surrogate?”

  Annabelle shakes her head no.

  “I’ll try not to make your life too difficult.”

  She smiles and squeezes my hand. It’s very warm and comfortable under the covers, and a yawn escapes my throat.

  Sleep

  “All right,” I agree.

  She gets up and starts extinguishing the lamps. I roll onto my back and stare at the pale green canopy overhead. My mind flickers to my family. I imagine them in that tiny house, my mother preparing dinner, Hazel at the table doing her schoolwork, Ochre out back chopping firewood. I picture them sitting around the table, eating a meager meal, laughing and talking freely. I wonder if they thought about me at all. A lump swells in my throat.

  “Good night, Hazel,” I whisper. “Good night, Ochre. Good night, Mother.”

  I think I hear the scratching of Annabelle’s chalk on her slate, but I’m already sinking into oblivion.

  THAT NIGHT, I HAVE A DREAM. I’M BACK AT SOUTHGATE, in the music room, trying to play a duet with Lily.

  But I can’t seem to hold my cello correctly. It keeps slipping to one side and my bow screeches against the strings. Lily lowers her violin and gives me a condescending look.

  “You should have listened to me, Violet,” she says. I look down and see that my stomach is huge, swollen with the Duchess’s baby.

  I scream.

  I WAKE IN THE MORNING IN A COLD SWEAT, THROWING off my covers and pressing my hands against my stomach.

  I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant. I repeat the words in my head over and over, a hopeless mantra.

  I walk to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. My eyes are wild, my hair tangled with sleep, my skin paler than usual. I look awful. Is this what I look like every morning? Ugh.

  I soak a facecloth with cold water and run it over my forehead and the back of my neck. My stomach growls. I tie my hair back with a ribbon and head into the bedroom, pulling on the fabric that rings for Annabelle. I wonder how breakfast works—do I go to the kitchens? Do I eat in the dining room, with the Duchess?

  I swallow hard and my hand moves to my stomach again, the image of my pregnant self looming in my mind.