Garnet's Story
Author: Amy Ewing
Date: 2016-09-13 10:39:30+00:00
Keywords: General; Young Adult Fiction; Romance; Novella; Action & Adventure; Fantasy; Fiction; Friendship; Short Stories; Science Fiction; Dystopia; Young Adult Fantasy; Young Adult; Science Fiction Fantasy; S
Description: In The Jewel and The White Rose, we follow Violet in her servitude under the Duchess of the Lake. Now we’ll hear the Duchess’s son, Garnet’s, story in this digital novella—a companion story to the New York Times bestselling Lone City trilogy. Garnet, the son of the Duchess of the Lake, has always been a spoiled playboy. But now, for the first time, Garnet is beginning to realize the horrors that his family, and the ruling community, have perpetrated. And he just may be ready to do something about it.
Publisher: HarperCollins

Contents

1. Contents
2. One
3. Two
4. Three
5. Four
6. Five
7. Six
8. Seven
9. Eight
10. Nine
11. Ten
12. Eleven
13. Excerpt from The Black Key
14. Back Ad
15. About the Author
16. Books by Amy Ewing
17. Copyright
18. About the Publisher

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Chapter 1

i
ii
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89

One

THERE IS ALREADY A SWARM OF PHOTOGRAPHERS WAITING outside the nightclub as my motorcar pulls up.

“Shall I go around to the back entrance, sir?” the chauffeur asks. He’s not as rough around the edges as some of these Bank drivers can be. One even had the nerve to ask me for my autograph.

“Back entrances are for servants,” I say. “This is fine.”

I check my reflection in the car window. I wish I could thank the surrogate who made me. Cheekbones don’t get more perfect than mine. Two top buttons on my shirt undone: check. Light touch of cologne: check. I put on my most devilish grin, smooth down my hair, and open the car door. Immediately, I’m surrounded.

“Garnet! Garnet, over here!”

“Give us a smile!”

“Is it true you cost thirty thousand diamantes of damage to the Waleford Hotel?”

“How many scandals can the House of the Lake suffer before you irreparably damage its reputation?”

That one makes me stop. I turn and give the photographer a piercing look.

“I’m flattered you think me capable of destroying the reputation of a House that’s been around since the founding of the Lone City,” I say. The man has the decency to look ashamed.

Another reporter jumps in to take his place. “Will your mother be buying a surrogate at tomorrow’s Auction?” she asks.

Someone always has to ruin everything by asking me about my mother. As if that’s the only thing I’m good for.

“My mother does not share her plans with me, especially when it comes to having more children. She has her hands full with just one, as you all are so quick to point out.” That gets a laugh as I walk inside.

They shout after me, calling out for more, but I let their questions roll off my back like raindrops, pattering to the ground and dissolving. I don’t care what the reporters in the Bank think of me.

I’m going to be the Duke of the Lake someday.

I don’t care what anyone thinks.

THE CLUB IS CALLED THE PRIZE JEWEL—NOT A PARTICULARLY clever name, but it’s new and it’s gotten good reviews.

I was invited to the big opening party, of course, but the night before the Auction is so dreadfully dull that I waited a few days so I’d have something to do that didn’t involve being around my mother. She’s always extra awful right before the Auctions, even though she never buys a surrogate. But this year she’s been an absolute nightmare.

So after she and my father left to wile away the evening at the palace of the Rose, I decided it was high time to hit the Bank. I haven’t been in a week, since the Waleford Hotel incident, and the Jewel can get so boring. Plus all the girls are either prudish or far too involved with their companions. Bank girls make for the best parties.

I don’t often feel bad for my father, but I pity him now. How many pre-Auction dinners has he gone to? What do they even talk about? What the surrogates look like? I can’t think of anything more boring than a surrogate. They rarely speak and when they do it’s all “yes, my lady” and “no, my lady.” They’re led around like little puppies, and for the most part, no one sees much of them anyway. At least the regular servants do interesting things, like lie to my mother or have affairs with each other.

Some big burly man in a long coat opens the door with a bow, and a blast of warm air tinged with perfume and sweat greets me. The lighting in this place is fabulous—one large chandelier made out of thousands of small glass balls hangs in the center of the ceiling. There are round tables surrounding the dance floor, small lamps with mauve shades and gold fringe on each one, and the bar is lit from behind so that the glass bottles gleam in greens and ambers and blues.

A brass band is playing and the dance floor is filled with bodies, the Jewel’s younger generations and the Bank’s wealthiest. One girl gives me a wink as her partner spins her out.

I make my way to the bar and people step aside, sometimes acknowledging me with a handshake or a bow. The Bank people love to pretend like they’re best friends with the royals. I don’t mind so long as I can get a drink quicker.

“What can I get you this evening, sir?” the bartender asks. He’s good—only the faintest trace of recognition flickers in his eyes when he sees me.

“Whiskey, neat,” I say, and he nods.

“Garnet!” Peri comes stumbling up to me, drunk already as usual. Peri’s from the House of the Brook, and I think he always assumed we should be friends based on that alone. As if a brook and a lake are at all the same. His full name is Peridot, and I don’t blame him for taking a nickname. I think I’d kill myself if Mother named me something so stupid.

“Easy there, Peri,” I say as he leans heavily on the girl beside him. She’s pretty but too blond for my taste.

“He’s all right,” she giggles. “Hi, I’m Lacey.” She gives me a smoldering look that I’d be willing to bet she practiced at home.

“We’ve got a table, I was wondering when you’d get here,” Peri says. “Come on.”

I take my drink from the bartender and throw a couple of diamantes on the bar. Weaving through the crowd, we come to a small booth in the back. Jasper, from the House of the Dale, has two brunettes on either side of him. A stocky guy from the Bank named Marver has a chubby blonde on his arm—he stands up quickly to shake my hand. His mother runs one of the Bank’s best companion houses.

And right next to the only empty seat is a stunner of a girl—hair like burnished copper, low-cut blue dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, lips painted dark red . . . She smiles at me in a sultry way.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask, and she laughs. It’s a low laugh and it sends a thrill of desire right through me.

“Not at all,” she says. “What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey,” I say, holding up my glass.

“Me too,” she says with another smile, clinking her tumbler against mine.

I think I’m in love.

“Garnet, have you met Cyan?” Marver says. “Her father runs the Lone City Herald.”

“So watch your tongue around her,” Peri says with an exaggerated wink. I want to throttle him. He’s ruining my game before I have a chance to start.

But Cyan just laughs. “Everything tonight is strictly off the record, I promise,” she says. Her hand brushes the top of my thigh and she stares right into my eyes as she downs the rest of her drink.

“Another?” I ask. She smiles.

WHEN I WAKE UP THE FOLLOWING MORNING, MY HEAD feels swollen to twice its normal size and my tongue is like sandpaper.

“Ugh.” I roll over and fall off my bed onto the floor. I’m still in my suit, but my shirt is fully unbuttoned. I’m wearing only one shoe.

What happened last night?

I try to recall the details but they’re all blurring together. Cyan pressing herself against me on the dance floor, bottles of whiskey and champagne arriving at our table, Cyan pulling me into a dark corner, her lips on mine . . .

My eyes snap open. We went somewhere. Alone, together. I remember her unbuttoning my shirt. I remember unzipping her dress.

Oh no. I didn’t . . . I grab my crotch like it will tell me if I broke the one royal rule I know I absolutely cannot break. I’ve broken every other one, but not this. Sex before marriage? And with a Bank girl? I’d lose my inheritance, my title, everything.

I ring for a footman. I need coffee, food. Maybe I didn’t do anything. Maybe we just went at it a little. I seem to remember promising something and her laughing and then getting teary. Was it a new car? It might have been. Or an invitation to the Royal Concert Hall?

I drag myself to my feet, head pounding, and stumble into my bathroom, turning on the sink. The warm water feels good on my face. I take in my reflection—my eyes are red and puffy and my hair is a mess.

“What did you do?” I ask myself.

There is a knock on the door. “Come in!” I call, wiping my face with a towel. “I hope Zara made the coffee strong today.”

But when I emerge into my room, it’s not a footman who has brought my breakfast. It’s Annabelle.

Even if Annabelle’s face wasn’t the most expressive one I’ve ever seen, it’s pretty clear I’m in trouble. I bet none of the footmen wanted to risk dealing with me today.

“What did I do?” I ask.

She sets the tray down on my breakfast table and scribbles on her slate.

Car

“Did I crash it?” I don’t remember driving home last night.

Annabelle rolls her eyes.

LAKE

“I drove it into the lake?” She nods. “Our lake?” Another nod. “Well. That’s a first.”

Then I can’t help it—I start laughing. The image of my mother’s face, when she wakes up on Auction Day and looks out the window to see her son’s car in her precious lake, is just too priceless.

Annabelle comes over and whacks me with her slate.

“Ow! Hey!”

Not funny

“Sorry, sorry.”

Dangerous

“I know,” I say. “I won’t do it again.”

She glares at me.

“I promise,” I say, and draw an X over my heart with my finger. That was how she always promised me she wouldn’t tell on me when we were kids and I got in trouble for doing things like writing swearwords on the ballroom walls or tying all of Father’s shoelaces together.

Annabelle gives me a small smile, and I know I’m forgiven. Then she lifts the cover off the tray. The smell of hot pastrami and fries is like a welcoming call to my stomach. Annabelle knows my favorite hangover foods.

“Pastrami for breakfast?” I say. “You are a lifesaver.”

She pushes the curtains in my room wide and I see that the light is dark gold, the sun starting to set.

“I slept all day?”

Annabelle raises one eyebrow.

What hpnd last night

“Nothing,” I say. “I don’t . . . nothing terrible.”

I can see she doesn’t believe me. I dig into my sandwich and her face falls. She leaves my room, silent as a ghost.

It’s late in the evening when William, one of the footmen, comes to deliver the news.

“What is it?” I ask irritably when he knocks on the door.

“Your mother, sir. She’s returned from the Auction.”

“And I care because . . .”

I mean, the whole reason I’m staying in my room is to avoid her. That and if I move too much I think I might throw up.

William swallows. “She’s not alone, sir. She’s bought a surrogate.”

Two

I LEAVE MY CHAMBERS THE NEXT MORNING FEELING refreshed and mildly curious.

Perhaps I should have seen this coming. The Exetor and Electress have a son, and he will have to find a match soon—the Royal Palace can’t have an unengaged child for long. And I’d heard that this year’s Auction was the largest in recent history. Mother always acts so above all the gossip and schemes, it never occurred to me that she would be right in the thick of things. A careless oversight on my part. Mother loves to scheme, more than most in this circle.

Another child. I wonder what this house will be like with a baby in it. Then I shrug off that thought, because I will most likely have minimal interaction with my little sister. I bet Mother would fear I’d infect her with my unruly ways. Which is fine with me. Babies are loud and messy.

I check to make sure the coast is clear before I leave my room, because I’m not ready to face my mother yet. I still can’t believe I drove my car into the lake.

I’m creeping down the hall when I hear the dulcet tones of my mother’s “disappointed” voice. Or maybe it’s her “infuriated” voice. They’re so similar, I confuse them sometimes.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

I turn and see her descending the staircase that leads to her private chambers. From the glint in her eyes, I’m going with infuriated.

“Good morning, Mother,” I say cheerfully. “Thought I’d take my breakfast in the dining room today. I heard you had a big night last night. Where’s the lucky surrogate?”

“Don’t speak to me as if this were any other day. Do not stand there in the clothes I provide, in the house my family built, the House that you constantly besmirch with your childish antics, and act as though you have not crossed a very serious line.”

My mother has the ability to maintain a calm exterior while shredding you apart with her words. It’s the one thing I wish I had inherited from her.

“I’m sorry about the car,” I say. “That was . . . irresponsible. If you want to take my keys away for a week or something, that seems reasona—”

“You think this is about a car?” She is practically hissing and I feel a cold dread creep into the pit of my stomach.

“Not anymore,” I say hesitantly.

“Lucien came to see me this morning. He’s in the library,” she says. She’s standing right up close to me and even though she’s short, I still feel like a little kid under that cold gaze. “I think it might be better if he explains it. If I look at you any longer, I may do something I’ll regret.”

Then she brushes past me and goes down the main staircase, so I head to one of the back ones and make my way to the library. My mind is racing, sorting through the blurred memories of the night at The Prize Jewel, but nothing new is coming to me.

I can’t find Lucien at first—Mother’s library is huge, something she takes an insane amount of pride in, and I wander through the maze of shelves until I come upon him sitting in a leather armchair in one of the back reading areas.

“Garnet,” he says, standing and giving me a bow. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“My mother didn’t really phrase it as optional,” I say. Lucien has always made me a little uneasy and not just because he’s a eunuch—there are lots of male ladies-in-waiting. He has this way about him, like he knows everything, like nothing surprises him. He’s so polite and genteel, you can’t really say he’s a jerk but . . . he’s sort of a jerk. I don’t like being around someone who makes me feel like I’m being dissected from the inside out.

Even now, he smiles this knowing smile. “No,” he says. “I’m afraid it really isn’t.”

He sits down and indicates that I take the armchair beside him. I pause for a long moment before I sit, just to prove a point—that it’s my house, not his. I don’t think he notices.

“Were you at The Prize Jewel two nights ago, with other various members of royal families and several young ladies from the Bank?”

“Yes,” I say. Like he didn’t know the answer all along. “Marver Curio was there as well.”

“Marver is irrelevant,” Lucien replies with a wave of his hand. “They are all irrelevant except one young lady, a Miss Cyan Grandstreet. Do you remember spending time with her?”

My ears begin to burn. This is not good.

“Yes,” I say again, and don’t elaborate this time.

“How much of the time you spent together do you remember?”

“Just spit it out whatever it is,” I say. “I haven’t got time for riddles.”

Lucien raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Oh, I think you’ve got time for this one.” He leans forward. “Do you remember being caught by her father on his drafting table in various states of undress?”

I feel like someone’s punched me in the gut, but the little man keeps going.

“Do you remember promising to marry her, to make her the next Duchess of the Lake?”

My head falls between my legs, the room spinning. I can’t get enough air. What did they put in the whiskey at that place? I should file a complaint. I should have it shut down. How could I have done that? I remember her smile, the faint glimmer of tears in her eyes, the breathlessness as she said, “Really? Oh, Garnet . . .”

“But that was just . . . me being me!” I cry. “She must have known that, right? She can’t have actually believed that I’d marry her.”

Lucien fixes me with such a discerning look, he doesn’t even need to tell me that, yes, she did believe it. Then he cocks his head. “It’s quite a bit like the situation with your aunt, isn’t it?”

Except I’m not like Aunt Opal. I don’t want to throw away my fame, my inheritance, my money. I’m not in love with Cyan. That’s ridiculous. Insane.

I have to put my head between my legs again.

“Though, unlike with Opal, I don’t imagine you actually love the girl,” he continues, like he’s reading my mind. “Nor that you ever intended to keep that promise. In fact, judging by the expression on your face and your difficulty breathing, I would be willing to guess you do not even remember promising her those things.”

“No,” I gasp. “I don’t.”

“I assume it would dismay you further to learn that her father plans to publish her story in his paper,” Lucien continues. My chest seizes up. This is a scandal the likes of which I could never recover from. I’m shocked my mother didn’t simply lop my head off when she saw me in the hall.

“So what are you here for?” I ask, sitting up. “To rub it in?”

Lucien’s mouth curls into a superior smile. “Oh no, Garnet,” he says. “I am here to help you. On one very large, very important condition.”

I can’t imagine what he’d possibly want from me, or that I’d be able to refuse him anything. “And what is that?”

Lucien puts a slender finger to his lips. Then he takes something off the key ring on his belt. It looks like a small, silver tuning fork. He taps it once on the table between us and it hovers in the air, vibrating slightly.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Something that will prevent us from being overheard,” he says, like that explains anything. “Listen to me very carefully. I have spoken with your mother and assured her that this scandal will never be heard about in the papers, or even in the whispers in the Bank’s back alleys. Cyan will never speak of you again, nor will her father.”

“How did you pull that off?” I hate that I’m so impressed.

“It does not matter. Your mother is appeased, and has offered me a very sizable sum of money as a . . . thank you gift.” The look on Lucien’s face tells me very clearly that the last thing he cares about is my mother’s money.

The most dangerous types of people, Mother always says, are the ones who can’t be bought. I find myself on edge again.

“Well, thank you,” I say. “For both of us.”

“I do not need your thanks,” Lucien says. “I need your help.”

“My help? With what?”

“Your mother has recently purchased a surrogate. I want you to keep an eye on her while she is under this roof.”

I stare at him blankly, uncomprehending. He could ask me for anything, anything at all, and he wants me to watch a surrogate?

“Why?” I ask bluntly.

“She is of some concern to me. You will follow her movements and report them back to me. When she sees the doctor, how your mother is treating her, if she is allowed outside, how much freedom she has, who is assigned to serve her.” He frowns. “I assume that will be Annabelle.”

“But Annabelle’s my servant,” I say without thinking. I mean, technically I’m supposed to be waited on by footmen, but Annabelle and I have known each other since we were kids—I remember when she was born, how small and silent she was. And then she threw up all over my new suit the first time Cora let me hold her. She knows what I like to eat and wear and she knows not to wake me before nine.

Lucien ignores me. “I want detailed reports once a week. And under no circumstances are you to tell your mother about our arrangement. That is imperative. Or else the whole city will know of your indiscretion and you will quickly turn from royal to no one.”

No one. The thought makes me shudder.

“You know I can’t refuse,” I say.

“I do. But I would like your word all the same.”

I’m not sure what my word is worth—no one has ever asked me for it before. Usually I just give people money, or buy them presents, or get them tickets to things. But Lucien seems to think it has a higher value than any of that.

“All right,” I say. “You, uh, have my word.”

“You will not speak of our arrangement to anyone?”

“No.”

“Especially your mother?”

“Right.” He’d have to be insane to think I’d ever tell Mother about any of this. If she knew I agreed to secretly watch her surrogate, I think she’d disown me without a second thought.

“And you will keep an eye on the surrogate? You will watch over her and report her movements to me?”

“Yeah.” I pause. “How am I supposed to report to you, though?”

He reaches into the pocket of his dress and takes out another tuning fork.

“This is called an arcana,” he says. “It is of my own design. Mine connects with yours. I can call you on it, for lack of a better word. Keep it on you at all times. And do not show it to anyone, under any circumstances, or our deal is off. Do you understand?”

I nod and take the tuning fork warily. It’s small and light and . . . unremarkable.

This is such a bizarre turn of events. I think I’ve spoken six words to Lucien my entire life. He’s always been this muted presence in the background at balls and parties and such. And now he’s given me some sort of homemade technology and I’m completely under his thumb.

He takes the floating one and puts it back on his key ring.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” he says, bowing low. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Then, with a swish of his white dress, he’s gone.

Three

I KNOW WHERE THE SURROGATE QUARTERS ARE IN THIS palace, so I decide to start there.

I should probably know what she looks like if I’m meant to be watching her all the time.

Watching the surrogate. I can’t decide if that’s creepy or just plain boring. Why couldn’t Lucien have asked me to watch over someone interesting? Another royal perhaps, or my mother?

Actually, not my mother. I don’t think I want to know what she’s up to.

I take the hall with all the stupid paintings of flowers in it and run into Cora just as she is walking down the short flight of stairs leading to the surrogate quarters.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Everyone always asks me that with a certain tone, like I’m up to something.

I shrug. “I just wanted to see the surrogate, I guess.”

Not my best excuse. I really should have thought this out more.

Cora rolls her eyes. “You know you’re not allowed in her chambers. Do you want to push your mother even more today?”

Of course, she must know all about Cyan and The Prize Jewel.

“No,” I say. “You’re right. I was just curious. We’ve never had a surrogate in this house before.”

She smiles at me gently. Cora pretty much raised me, and she’s much more forgiving than Mother.

“We certainly have,” she says. “I remember your surrogate quite well.”

“Is this one anything like mine?” I ask.

She looks thoughtful for a moment. “No,” she replies. I’m not sure if I should be offended by that. “She’s still sleeping,” she continues. “Perhaps you’ll see her this evening before dinner.”

“I won’t see her at dinner?”

She sighs. “Her Ladyship neglected to tell you—she is hosting a traditional post-Auction dinner tonight. For the first time in twenty years. The Electress is coming, as are all of the Founding Houses.”

“Even the Countess of the Stone?” I ask. My mother and the Countess hate each other.

Cora smirks. “Yes.”

I almost wish I were invited just to see the two of them snipe, but snipe with all the grace and courtesy expected from royalty. I bet it will be masterful.

“Well,” I say, not quite sure what I’m supposed to do now. “I guess you can tell Annabelle to bring my dinner to my room.”

“Annabelle will be serving the surrogate now,” Cora says. “I’ll have William tend to your dinner.”

So Lucien was right.

“Fine,” I say, like it doesn’t bother me at all, even though it does.

But Annabelle might be able to help me with this whole surrogate thing. I won’t tell her about Lucien, of course, but she could be a good source of information.

It’s just after three and I bet I know where she is. I wander down to the first floor and head out into the garden, back to the little pond with the bright fish. Annabelle is sitting there watching them dart about in the water like fireworks, and she jumps up when she sees me, dropping into a curtsy.

“I hear you have a new charge,” I say. She nods. “I bet she’ll be easier to deal with than me.”

Annabelle shrugs, and I realize she’s nervous.

“You’re going to be great,” I say. I can see in her eyes that she wants to believe me but she’s frightened.

1st time

“Aw, what am I, chopped liver?”

Not in charge of you

“Please,” I say, sitting beside her on the bench. “You’ve been taking care of me since I was twelve.”

Eleven

“See?” She blushes. Annabelle blushes a lot around me.

Wasnt official l-i-w

“Oh, so are you an official lady-in-waiting now?”

She makes a so-so motion with her hand.

“Hey, have you seen her yet? The surrogate?”

Annabelle gives me a piercing look and shakes her head. I hold up both my hands.

“I’m just curious. Don’t worry, even I’m not rebellious enough to get involved with a surrogate.” Which is true. I mean, do they even have normal parts? I’ve heard they have weird abilities. Maybe it changes their bodies or something. I picture a girl lying upstairs with two heads and webbed fingers.

Annabelle gives me another hard stare, then nods like she’s decided to believe me.

“So it’s me and William now, I guess,” I say morosely. “He always picks out pink ties for me to wear. And he never gets my coffee right.”

Annabelle chuckles silently.

George?

“Yes, George would be much better! Would you—”

She’s already nodding. I kiss her on the cheek and she blushes deeper than before. “You’re the absolute best, you know that?” I stand to leave, then turn. “Oh, can you tell me when the surrogate is on her way to dinner? I just want to see what she looks like, that’s all. Promise.”

Annabelle narrows her eyes at me. I cross over my heart again.

Will try

“Thanks.” I give her my most charming smile and head back to the palace to wile away the hours until dinner.

THE WAITING INEVITABLY LEADS TO DRINKING WHISKEY in my room and playing music on my gramophone.

I’ve been really loving this one brass band called The Jolly Rogers—their trumpet player is incredible—and I’m lost in one of his solos when Annabelle knocks on my door.

S is at din

“What?” I yelp. “Already?”

She gives me a look that plainly says that she’s not at fault and points to the clock on my wall. It’s twenty-five minutes past eight.

I stand and find I’ve drunk quite a bit more whiskey than I intended to. Nothing I can do about it now.

Annabelle hurries out of my room, probably off to the surrogate quarters to turn down the bed. I take my tumbler with me and head down to the dining room. Men aren’t invited to post-Auction dinners. I’m willing to bet Father is holed up in his smoking room.

There are no footmen guarding the doors to the dining room, so I’m guessing they’re in between dishes. I press my ear against the door, thinking maybe I can at least hear something of interest. But it’s all royals talking.

Of course. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a surrogate speak more than a few sentences, unless she had a talent for singing.

Mother is saying something in her politest evil voice, so I’m guessing she’s talking to the Countess of the Stone or the Electress. My suspicions are confirmed when the Countess’s booming voice answers.

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

Ouch. Mother is not going to like that. I hear the Electress giggle.

“Yes, how is Garnet, by the way? Staying out of trouble?”

If only she knew. I hold my breath, waiting for Mother’s response.

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

Studying? Does she honestly think anyone in that room will believe such a ridiculous lie?

Still, the opportunity is just too perfect. I know I shouldn’t, but without really even making the decision, I burst through the doors and swagger into the dining room.

Ten pairs of eyes stare at me in varying shades of surprise. The royal women seem amused, the surrogates frightened (and dare I say, intrigued), and my mother . . . I think she could freeze water with her glare.

“Mother!” I cry, raising my tumbler. There are five surrogates in attendance. But which one am I supposed to be watching? Then I realize I’d better come up with a reason for bursting in pretty quick. “I beg your pardon, ladies. Didn’t realize there was a dinner party tonight.” Mother can’t fault me for that, since technically, she didn’t tell me about it. I take in all the faces at the table again, and then I see her.

The girl seated to Mother’s right. Her hair is black and curly, her skin pale as a pearl, her dress perfectly cut and fit (that’s Annabelle’s handiwork, I’m sure of it). But her eyes . . . her eyes are a shocking purple.

“Oh, right,” I say. “The Auction.”

The Electress and the Countess of the Stone barely try to hide their laughter in their napkins.

“Garnet, my darling,” Mother says. She only ever calls me “darling” in public. “What are you doing?”

Well, I might as well play my part to the end.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Just needed a refill.”

I walk to the side table with the best booze and refill my tumbler. Mother is on her feet with an agility that belies her age.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” she says, gliding to my side and grabbing my arm. Hard.

“Ow,” I mumble as she marches me out of the dining room. The door closes behind us but we can very clearly hear the Electress declare, “And that, ladies, is why I feel this city should be left in the hands of a woman!”

That seems a little unfair.

Mother puts her face so close to mine that I can see the pale freckle she tries to hide with makeup, just under her left eye.

“Go back to your room,” she says. “Do not leave it until I give you permission to. I will have Cora lock you inside if I must.”

“Really, Mother? Am I a seven-year-old boy again?”

“I don’t know, Garnet,” she hisses. “You certainly act like one. And if you embarrass me in front of the Founding Houses again, you may find yourself following in the footsteps of my darling sister. That is not something you want, is it?”

“No,” I say.

“Then get . . . to . . . your . . . room.”

She whirls around and I stumble backward. She gathers herself together, hitches a pleasant smile on her face, and walks back into the dining room.

I feel like I’ve done enough for one day.

I take the main staircase and find Carnelian standing at the top of it, looking sullen, as usual.

“Not invited to dinner either?” she asks.

“Why would I even want to be?” I say.

“Did you see her?” she asks. “The surrogate?”

“Yeah.”

She stares at me. “Well? What’s she like?”

“She’s like a girl sitting in a dining room eating dinner,” I say.

“Now she’ll never get me a companion,” Carnelian grumbles. “Everything’s going to be about the surrogate from now on.”

“Mother can afford a surrogate and a companion,” I say. “You won’t get the latter because you clearly want it so badly.”

“It isn’t fair,” she says. “All the other girls have one, and they make fun of me for—”

“I’m not in the mood for your complaining tonight, Carnelian,” I say.

“I only meant—”

But I don’t want to hear what she meant. I push past her and stride down the hall. I slam the door to my chambers, acting for all the world like a seven-year-old boy, just as Mother said.

So far, all this surrogate has done is stare at me like a deer locked in headlights, and get me into trouble.

I hate my new assignment already.

Four

ALL I HAVE TO SAY IS, THANK THE EXETOR FOR ANNABELLE.

I assume she believes that my curiosity regarding the surrogate is pure—otherwise, she simply overlooks it in favor of excitedly telling me about her new job. Either way, it works out well for me.

I don’t see Annabelle nearly as much as I used to, but I learn a lot more than I would without her. The surrogate likes coffee. The surrogate plays the cello. The surrogate is sad sometimes. Annabelle was rewarded for her wardrobe choices once.

The second time I see the surrogate is the day of the Electress’s surrogate’s funeral. I don’t need Annabelle to tell me about that because the whole Jewel knows about it. I catch a glimpse of the motorcar leaving—Carnelian is watching through a window in the drawing room and I can see the girl’s leashed and veiled form slip into the car before it pulls away. It’s sort of weird, now that I think about it, to put them on leashes. I don’t think I’d like being on a leash very much. I wonder if that’s something I could risk asking Annabelle about.

“Have you spoken to her yet?” Carnelian asks.

“You think Mother would let me anywhere near her?” I say.

“No,” she agrees, folding her arms across her chest. “I didn’t think she’d be so . . . pretty.”

I hadn’t considered the surrogate to be pretty. She isn’t bad looking, I suppose. Leave it to Carnelian to find something to be jealous about, though.

I see the surrogate with Annabelle in the garden sometimes, and Annabelle comes to see me the day of the girl’s first doctor’s appointment, telling me she’s nervous for her. She cares about the surrogate very much already, and while the caring doesn’t surprise me (Annabelle would care about a flower being crushed by a boot), it does surprise me how much I resent it. Annabelle isn’t mine, I know, but . . . I guess I miss her a little.

Lucien calls me at random times on my arcana late at night and I tell him about the doctor visit and the garden and the cello. It’s not much, but he seems fine with that.

“What’s so special about this one?” I ask one night. “Or are you keeping track of all the surrogates in the Jewel?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs.

“I guess it would be difficult to blackmail all the royal sons,” I say dryly.

“Not as hard as you’d think,” Lucien replies, and I can hear his smug smile.

“Seriously? Who?” I want all the details. I wonder what he’s got on Peri.

“Just keep your eyes and ears open, and tell me everything, no matter how insignificant,” he says. It’s the only answer I ever get.

One morning, Mother calls me and Carnelian into the first-floor drawing room. It’s never a good sign when she wants to see us together.

“It is time that you both are to be married,” she announces.

“To each other?” Carnelian gasps in horror.

Honestly. You’d think she grew up in the Marsh not the Bank.

“Please, Carnelian,” Mother says with a delicate shudder. “I just ate breakfast. I am looking to find each of you a suitable match. It is past time you, at least, were engaged,” she says to me. I can’t think of a single royal daughter I could imagine being engaged to, much less live the rest of my life with.

“Surely I could wait a few more—”

But Mother cuts me off. “This is not up for discussion. Carnelian, I will see you back here at three o’clock to meet with the Lady of the Flame. Garnet, you and I will be having tea tomorrow at the House of the Locks.”

It’s my turn to shudder. The daughter of the House of the Locks has acne, crooked eyes, and a deep, abiding love of bird-watching.

“Oh, Carnelian,” she adds as I open the door to leave. “If we are to properly find you a husband, you must have a companion. He will be arriving this afternoon.”

Carnelian looks like the Longest Night celebration came early.

I GET MY FIRST ACTUAL INTERACTION WITH THE SURROGATE that night.

Mother has Father’s family over for dinner. The footman announces me and I swagger into the dining room, last to arrive, just the way I like it. Mother complains but she was the one who taught me the virtue of being fashionably late.

The surrogate watches me, almost as if she’s fearful. I wonder if it’s me, or if she’s frightened of everyone.

“Mother, Father,” I say, taking a proffered glass of champagne. “Am I late?”

A muscle in Mother’s jaw twitches.

“Shall we sit?” Father says brightly.

The companion Mother bought for Carnelian is very good looking, even for a companion, which says a lot. I immediately dislike him. She sits beside him with an enraptured look on her face.

Aunt Iolite wastes no time setting up jokes at Carnelian’s expense and Mother is quick to join in.

“I see you finally got a companion for her,” I say through a mouthful of beets, because Carnelian’s wounded puppy face is becoming too much to take. I wipe my mouth with a napkin and extend my hand to him. “I’m Garnet, by the way.”

I love introducing myself like that. There is no way this guy doesn’t know who I am. But I’m interested to see how he reacts.

“Ash Lockwood,” he says pleasantly, returning my handshake.

Hmph. No flicker of recognition at all. He’s good.

“He’s a looker isn’t he, cousin?” I say. “How much is he costing you, Mother?”

I only get the slightest reward of Mother’s nostrils flaring before the companion cuts in and smoothly redirects the conversation to Mother’s library. Then it’s the usual Founding House monologue from Mother, history, duty, and all that boring stuff. The surrogate seems to be interested in her food and the companion, judging by where her attention lingers most. She never speaks. Maybe because I always took that for granted, but sitting around this table with so many people—and being forced to observe her under penalty of being disinherited—I suddenly find it strange that no one finds her silence odd. Carnelian can say all the ridiculous things she wants. Even the companion can introduce himself and shake my hand.

Perhaps it’s these thoughts, or maybe it’s the wine, but when Mother and Aunt Iolite start talking about another surrogate who died recently, I find myself speaking up.

“Oh, has surrogate hunting season started?” I say. I mean, everyone knows rival Houses take out each other’s surrogates, often before they’re even pregnant. I assume this surrogate must know that. She might even be grateful she was bought by a House of such high standing. “Better watch your back, new girl. This year is bound to be vicious, what with the precious little Exetor’s hand at stake.”

The blood drains from her face, and for a second, I wonder if maybe she doesn’t know about all the rivalries, the blood sport. But she knew about the Electress’s surrogate—I mean, she went to the funeral and all.

Mother stands and slams her hand down, rattling the silverware.

“You will leave this table at once,” she says.

I drain the rest of my wine and stand. “With pleasure,” I say, giving her an overly elaborate bow before leaving. This is worse than dinners used to be. I don’t like having to focus on so many things when I’m just trying to eat my food and get drunk.

I pass Annabelle, waiting outside with Carnelian’s maid, and she sees my stormy expression. Like a little white shadow, she follows me to the library. I throw myself on one of the couches.

“Do you think I was switched at birth?” I ask her.

She gives me a half-amused, half-confused look.

“I loathe my mother. I’m nothing like my father.” I prop myself up on one elbow. “In the lower circles, children look like their parents. Doesn’t that seem . . . normal?”

She shrugs, then nods. I don’t even know where these thoughts are coming from. It’s like watching the surrogate is making me think about all sorts of things I’ve never considered before. And this surrogate has done literally nothing in my presence except eat and look frightened.

“She can talk, right?” I say.

Annabelle raises a questioning eyebrow.

“The surrogate,” I explain. “I’ve never heard her speak.”

Annabelle rolls her eyes, like she can’t even believe I’m asking this question.

Yes

“Is she . . . smart?” I don’t know what to ask. Why did Lucien give me this stupid assignment in the first place? I grope around for something specific. “You said she plays the cello, right?”

At the mention of the instrument, Annabelle presses a hand to her chest and her face turns dreamy.

“Does that mean she’s good?”

She gives me a playful slap with her slate.

Better

“Better than good?”

She nods. Well, there’s something to tell Lucien. Surrogate Excels at Cello in addition to Surrogate Eats Food.

“Is she nice?” I ask. I’m not sure if I really care one way or the other.

Annabelle’s brilliant smile is the only answer I need.

A FEW DAYS LATER, I HAVE MET WITH THREE ROYAL daughters, all of whom seem to be more than eager to marry me.

It’s the mothers who turn out to be the problem.

“Stupid cow,” Mother growls as we arrive home from the palace of the Leaf, unwrapping her silk scarf and throwing it on the floor of the foyer for Cora to pick up. “Who does she think she is, calling you a renegade, implying you are mentally unstable?” It’s surprising to hear Mother defending me, especially when she herself has called me mentally unstable on a number of occasions. I keep my mouth shut.

“Just make sure you look and act impeccable at the Exetor’s Ball tomorrow,” she says, before storming off to her private study.

Looking impeccable is second nature. Acting impeccable . . . well, I can’t promise anything.

Lucien calls that night, the arcana buzzing over my bed until I wake up.

Yawning, I tell him about the dinner, and what Annabelle said about the surrogate’s exceptional cello playing. He seems most interested in the arrival of the companion, which is weird, but I gather that he doesn’t like or trust companions very much.

“I need you to do something for me tomorrow at the ball,” he says.

“Oh, just the one thing?” I say. He ignores my sarcasm.

“I want you to bump into the surrogate and muss her hair.”

My jaw drops. “You want me to touch her? Are you insane? Mother would cut my hands off!”

“Wait until the Duchess is dancing. Pretend you are insanely drunk. Get insanely drunk, for all I care. Just make sure you ruin her hairstyle in some way.”

“Why?”

“The reason is insignificant.”

“Oh, come on. I get that you can’t tell me why I’m watching her, but if you want me to actually have physical contact with her, I need a good reason.”

There is a pause, no sound in my darkened bedroom except the arcana humming its strange buzzy-hum. I can feel Lucien deliberating on the other end.

“Fair enough,” he says finally. “I wish to give her an arcana as well. I’ve realized that is the only way I can truly keep abreast with what is happening to her.”

“Great!” I say. “So you get her an arcana and I’m done?”

Lucien chuckles softly. “No, I’m afraid not,” he says.

I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to get off so easy. “Okay, but how does messing up her hair get her an arcana?”

“That is not your concern. I will see you tomorrow evening,” he says, and the arcana goes silent and falls onto my comforter.

I collapse back onto my pillow and curse Cyan and the day I met her.

Five

I KNOW I’LL HAVE TO RIDE TO THE EXETOR’S BALL IN THE motorcar with Carnelian and her companion.

I can’t think of anything more vomit inducing. So I leave the palace early and get ready with Peri at his house.

He pours us both a drink while I adjust my bow tie, an art I have perfected since the age of twelve. Father was an absolutely useless instructor. I had to get one of the Regimentals to show me. He was a One, I think. He retired a few years ago.

“I hear you’re going to have a little sister,” Peri says. “And a wife?”

“Ugh.” Of course, the news must have spread like wildfire after all those meetings with all those girls. “Don’t remind me. About either one.”

Peri sips his drink. “Hey, maybe we can hit up The Prize Jewel again in a few days. I think Cyan had a real thing for you.”

He winks like I’m supposed to be happy to hear this. I know Cyan has a thing for me. A very, very dangerous thing.

“Maybe,” I say casually. “I’m not that fussed about her, to be honest.”

“What? You two were all over each other.”

I shrug.

Peri gets a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Is it another girl?”

If only he knew the “other girl” was my mother’s surrogate. And I am spying on her for a lady-in-waiting.

“No,” I say emphatically. “What’s the point anyway? If I’m just going to get married off.”

Peri shrugs. “That doesn’t mean you can’t still have a little fun. I know my mother cheats on my father all the time. With her Regimentals, with some of the footmen, once with a—”

“I get the picture,” I say, shuddering. I don’t want to think about the Lady of the Brook in a compromising position with a Regimental, or anyone else for that matter. Peri laughs.

“All I’m saying is,” he continues, “you don’t have to be faithful after you’re married. Just don’t sleep with any unsterilized female and you’re good.”

That should lift my spirits but for some reason it leaves me feeling like I need a shower.

“How romantic, Peri,” I say dryly.

We pick up Jasper and a couple of other guys on our way to the ball—none of us wanted to show up with our families. I see Mother talking with the Countess of the Rose, the surrogate standing docilely by her side. Father is off in the corner with Uncle Beryl, getting drunk. I have a good buzz going, but I’d better make it stronger if I’m going to pull off what I need to do. No sign of Lucien, though it wouldn’t surprise me if he was watching this whole affair from some secret room.

The surrogate has lots of pins in her hair—Annabelle did an excellent job. The style is subtle yet elegant. I figure my best bet is to pull one of them out.

Two whiskeys and four glasses of champagne later, and I am presented with the perfect opportunity. The companion asks Mother to dance, leaving the surrogate alone with Carnelian and the Countess of the Rose. I still don’t see Lucien, but I’m not waiting around. I’ll mess up her hair and be done with it.

I grab Peri and start dancing with him, cutting a path through the crowd, my friends hooting and following us. I release Peri just as I reach the Countess and in two steps, I’ve fallen right into the surrogate. She drops her champagne glass and cries, “Oh!” as I yank out a few pins and let them drop to the floor.

“Garnet,” the Countess of the Rose snaps. Jasper, Peri, and the others look down, abashed by the presence of a Founding House. But I’m a Founding House. And I did it! I touched the surrogate and no one has threatened to chop my hands off.

Besides, the Countess of the Rose doesn’t scare me.

“My sincerest apologies, Your Ladyship,” I say with a bow. I can tell the boys are impressed. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Really, is it so difficult to behave yourself?” the Countess asks. “Don’t you think your mother has enough on her mind?”

“You mean my impending nuptials? Or lack thereof?” I let out a jolly laugh. “Who would have thought that this”—I gesture to my face—“would be so difficult to sell?”

Jasper chortles behind me. Even Carnelian has the good sense to grin.

“You are a pig,” she says.

“And you, cousin, are a public relations disaster, but who’s counting?” A waiter passes with a tray of drinks and I grab another glass of champagne. I have to admit, I’m riding a bit of a high. No one suspects I fell into the surrogate on purpose! I feel quite the Master of Espionage. “I will bet you ten thousand diamantes that she finds a match for me before she finds one for you.”

Carnelian’s face goes sulky again. “I don’t have ten thousand diamantes.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of white. Lucien has finally made his appearance. It’s time for me to get away from my family and just enjoy the party. As far from the surrogate as possible.

“True.” I turn to my friends. “Let’s get out of here before Her Royal Ladyship gets off the dance floor. There’s a garden out back.”

“Garnet,” Jasper says with a quick nod at the one person I don’t want to look at anymore. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”

The surrogate stands there, wide-eyed. I’m willing to bet she’s wishing I’d just go away, too.

“For what?” I say, looking at her as if I barely remember who she is. Lucien is closer now, I can see his topknot. “Oh, that’s just my mother’s surrogate. Come on.”

I feel the weirdest sensation, almost like guilt, as I dismiss her like that. But I shrug it off and lead them across the ballroom, not stopping until we are outside in the cool night air. The boys start horsing around, making some rude gestures at a statue of a naked woman, but I pretend the booze has gone to my head and sink down on a bench.

What did I do to deserve this? It’s sort of fun, but also dangerous and exhausting. Parties are supposed to be relaxing affairs, without thought or care.

I lean my head back against the palace walls and stare up at the stars, blanketing the sky like so many diamonds.

THE ONLY OTHER TIME I SEE THE SURROGATE THAT NIGHT is for the performances.

Royal women are always showing off their surrogates right after they buy them. The Duchess of the Scales’s surrogate is a dancer. Yawn. Then Mother volunteers for hers to play the cello and we all get dragged over to where the orchestra is.

I guess I’ll finally get to see what Annabelle was talking about.

She seems nervous as she walks up the steps and takes a seat with the cello. Lucien hid the arcana well because I sure can’t see it.

Then I forget about the arcana, I forget about Lucien, and everything, because the girl is playing and it’s . . . I don’t know. I’m not a particular fan of stringed instruments but this is like listening to something at once haunting, uplifting, and devastatingly personal. The girl doesn’t look frightened or intimidated—it’s like she’s forgotten her audience completely. I watch her on that stage, surrounded by royalty with eyes glinting like birds of prey, waiting for her to fail, to misstep, to be mocked. I feel like I’m seeing a sparrow in a cage, something young and innocent trapped by grasping hands.

And I think that perhaps my own cage is simply larger than hers, so large I have never been fully aware of its edges.

She finishes to thunderous applause and the spell is broken, and I come back to myself, embarrassed at the surge of emotions brought up inside me. I see her make a small gesture, fingers over her heart, and I wonder what it means.

Then I turn away from her, because I don’t want to know, I don’t want to care, so I just clap along with everyone and roll my eyes and nod when Peri makes a face that says how many more surrogates are we going to have to watch before we can start the party again.

And I wonder how many times I’ve made that face myself.

I make it a point to ignore the surrogate for the rest of the night.

Six

I DON’T SEE THE SURROGATE AT ALL OVER THE NEXT FEW days, but I do get to see Annabelle more.

She tells me Mother has given the girl permission to walk about the palace freely. That goes on the list for Lucien. There’s something she doesn’t tell me, too—I always know when Annabelle is hiding something or has been forbidden from saying something because she purses her lips and scratches just under her right ear. I don’t push it, though. I have no interest in getting Annabelle in trouble.

I do see a new cello being delivered, though, so I wonder if something happened to the first one. A punishment and then a reward, perhaps? That sounds like Mother.

I’m lounging in an upstairs drawing room one afternoon when she finds me.

D wants you

“I haven’t done anything,” I protest.

She only half smiles, and I see that my jacket is draped over her arm. Immediately, I’m on alert.

“What?” I ask.

She shrugs, her eyes downcast.

“Another potential wife?” I ask with trepidation.

She shrugs again.

Don’t be late

“I know, I know,” I say. If I am, Mother will likely blame Annabelle. She holds out the jacket and slips it on my shoulders, brushing a piece of lint off the lapel.

Be nice

“Aren’t I always?” I say, batting my eyelashes. That gets a full smile.

I pass the concert hall on my way downstairs. Strains of cello music can be heard clearly through the closed doors. I pause, wondering if I should peek in. But the music stops and I come to my senses and head down the main staircase to the foyer.

“Where to this time?” I ask Mother as the motorcar trundles down the gravel driveway.

“The House of the Downs,” she replies curtly.

“Coral?” I say. I’ve seen her at all the balls and some parties, of course, and she isn’t terrible looking. But she doesn’t seem all that interesting either.

“I will not tolerate complaints. Not today,” Mother snaps. Then she rubs her temples.

“Father giving you a headache again?” I ask. “Or is it the surrogate now?”

“Both.”

I’m startled I get an actual response to that. I decide to press my luck.

“How’s it going? With all . . . that?” I don’t know what to call it. Baby-making? That sounds disgusting.

Mother levels me with a piercing gaze. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I say quickly. “Just . . . it’ll be strange to have a baby in the house.”

To my utter shock, she smiles. A real, actual smile, not the kind she usually gives me, where you can sense the poison dripping behind it.

“Yes,” she says. “I imagine it will.”

There’s something unsettling about her sincere enthusiasm.

“So, is she, um, pregnant?” I ask.

“She will be,” Mother says. “Very soon.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence.

The palace of the Downs has a lake in front of it filled with swans, gorgeous, snow-white creatures that float around peacefully, unaware of my personal torment. How I envy them. They aren’t forced into marriage at the tender age of nineteen.

Everything in the palace of the Downs is bird related. Everything. Lamps, vases, paintings, candlesticks, throw pillows . . . even the chandelier in the dining room is in the shape of hundreds of swallows in flight. The ends of the forks are crafted to look like mallard heads.

The Lady of the Downs greets us effusively, kissing Mother on both cheeks and mercifully only shaking my hand. Coral looks very pretty in a pale pink gown, her blond hair curled and falling freely down her back and around her shoulders.

Lunch is going well, better than I expected, mostly because it’s Mother and the Lady who do most of the talking. Also because they are serving roast pheasant, one of my favorites, with a plum sauce and truffle mashed potatoes, so as long as I’m allowed to eat and not speak, I’m perfectly content. Coral takes tiny, dainty bites and wipes her mouth with her napkin between each one. I keep glancing over at her, wondering what it would be like to kiss her. I can’t seem to conjure up any strong emotion at the thought besides mild curiosity.

“But Pearl, his reputation cannot be overlooked,” the Lady of the Downs is saying.

“Your daughter has a reputation as well,” Mother shoots back.

“I love it when they talk about us as though we weren’t here,” I say jokingly to Coral. Her eyes widen and she quickly puts a perfectly proportional bite of pheasant and potato in her mouth and then dabs her lips with a napkin. “You missed a spot,” I whisper, and you’d think I’d told her a wart had sprouted up—she starts wiping her mouth with a singular fury. “Sorry, it’s gone,” I say, turning my attention to my own plate.

I suppose I can take sense of humor off of her list of potential qualities.

“And what reputation might my daughter have?” the Lady of the Downs demands.

“She is a simpleton,” Mother says casually, taking a long drink of wine. “She is not . . . unique in any way.”

“She is beautiful.”

“Oh, please. So is my son.”

“She is agreeable to be around.”

“Is she?” Mother raises an eyebrow and glares at Coral, who shrinks a few inches in her chair. I can’t blame her, having not grown up around that glare. “I see nothing particularly pleasing about her company. She is as mute as those birds you have swimming around in that pond outside.”

“She is—”

“Lapis, let us have no more of these tedious discussions of whose offspring is more appealing. We both know I would win such an argument. My House is a Founding House. An alliance would be beneficial for you, not for me. I have chosen you to unite with my family. Your grandson or daughter will be the next Duke or Duchess of the House of the Lake. What more is there to discuss?”

‘The Electress,” the Lady of the Downs says. “You are aware of her . . . feelings toward you.”

The Lady of the Downs is braver than I gave her credit for. I would never bring up the Electress in front of Mother. Coral is frozen in her chair, only her eyes moving, darting back and forth between the two women.

Mother laughs, a high cruel laugh. “Do you think I am afraid of that piece of Bank trash?”

Coral drops her fork and gasps. Mother turns to her.

“Yes,” she says. “I called her Bank trash. Because she is Bank trash. She does not frighten me. Do I frighten you, child?”

Coral nods mutely. Mother grins.

“Good.” She turns back to the Lady of the Downs. “I am satisfied with this match if you are. It will strengthen both your House and”—she clearly hesitates—“mine.” She addresses Coral again. “What do you think, my dear? Would you like to be the next Duchess of the Lake?”

“Oh . . . oh yes, Your Ladyship. Very much so, Your Ladyship.” Coral’s head is bobbing up and down like it’s on a string.

“Do I get to express an opinion on the matter?” I ask.

“No,” Mother replies without looking at me. She stands and I shove a last, delicious bite of pheasant into my mouth before she grabs my elbow and pulls me to the door.

She stops in quite the dramatic fashion and says, “We will await your response to our proposal until eleven o’clock this evening. Any later and the offer will be rescinded.”

I give Coral a sort of apologetic half wave before Mother drags me out the door.

“You and your damned reputation,” she mutters as the chauffeur opens the door to the motorcar. I know she’s thinking the same thing I am—this could be so much worse. As far as the Jewel knows, I am an overly enthusiastic royal party boy. If any of them got their hands on Cyan’s story . . . I’d be finished. Not even the daughter of the House of the Locks would want me.

“Lucien has kept his word,” I point out as we pull onto the main road.

“Thank the Exetor for that.” Palaces flash past as Mother takes out her compact and dabs some powder under her eyes. “If Lapis doesn’t agree to this, we’ll have to start trying the second-tier Houses. So let’s hope you made a good impression.”

“I barely said anything.”

“My point exactly.”

I DECIDE TO TAKE MY DINNER IN MY ROOM THAT NIGHT.

I’ve had enough meals with Mother for one day. But when the door to my parlor opens it isn’t George who brings in my tray. It’s Annabelle again.

“Hey,” I say, my mood lifting. “Are you off surrogate duty this evening?”

She nods. Then I see that her eyes are a little watery.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Annabelle places the tray of food on my breakfast table and hands me a thick, cream-colored envelope. The wax seal is broken, but I can see the feather printed on it clearly, signifying the House of the Downs.

My darling Pearl, it reads. Coral would be most happy to accept your son’s proposal. Thank you again for your visit this afternoon. I look forward to the day when our Houses are joined by this beautiful marriage. Sincerely yours, Lapis, Lady of the Downs.

I sink onto the sofa, barely aware of Annabelle sitting beside me. The room is spinning. I can’t get enough air. This can’t be happening.

I half hoped it was merely some design on my mother’s part to punish me. I thought it would take longer to find someone who wanted me. I thought . . .

I don’t notice Annabelle has taken my hand until I feel a warmth in my palm. She doesn’t need to use her slate—I can read her eyes quite clearly and they are telling me how sorry she is.

“I . . . is this real?”

Annabelle nods. I read the letter again. It’s not even from Coral. We didn’t even speak to each other, not in any significant way. I don’t know anything about her. And now I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with her?

“I don’t want this,” I confess in a small voice very unlike my own.

Annabelle leans her head on my shoulder, like she did when I was ten and I cut my hand and the doctor had to stitch it up.

“I can’t get married,” I say, standing abruptly and pacing around the room. “Not to her. Not to anyone. I’m only nineteen!” Not that that matters in the Jewel—Jasper’s mother has been trying to arrange his engagement for a year, and I know Mother married Father when she was only sixteen. But there’s a difference between knowing something is going to happen in the future and having the future stare you right in the face. “She can’t make me do this. She can’t.”

She can

I know. Of course I know. She can do whatever she wants. She’s the Duchess of the Lake.

“I could pretend to have some terrible illness,” I say, wild ideas springing into my head. “Something very contagious. Maybe then—”

But Annabelle gives me a stern look.

Won’t work

“I have to do something,” I say. “She’s taking away my freedom, Annabelle!”

Annabelle sighs and hunches over her slate. She scribbles furiously for several moments then holds it up.

What freedom? Never had freedom. Always your fate to marry

“Well, at least I had the illusion of it,” I grumble.

She gives me a sad smile.

“Want to trade places?” I suggest.

That makes her laugh, though a tear falls onto her cheek. She brushes it away, embarrassed.

You make terrible l-i-w

I have to smile at that. I sit down beside her and look at the envelope again.

There’s a long pause.

“So . . .” I say, turning it over in my hands, “can we burn this?”

Annabelle eagerly sets about building a fire in my fireplace. She takes the envelope and I take the letter. When the flames are rising high in the grate, we toss the expensive paper in and watch it curl and smoke.

I sigh. Burning the letter doesn’t change its intent.

“Can you stay for a while?” I ask.

She smiles shyly and nods. Then her eyes brighten.

Halma?

I groan. “Okay, fine. But I’m going to crush you this time, I swear. So watch out.”

Annabelle just smirks.

Seven

OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS, THE HOUSE IS IN AN UPROAR preparing for my engagement party.

Thankfully, Mother lets me stay in my room and doesn’t ask me for opinions about china or flower arrangements or any of that. She is far more excited about this party than I am. The whole palace is buzzing. I bet the entire Jewel is drooling over the news.

The one time I don’t want to be the center of attention.

Annabelle must be busy with the surrogate because I don’t see her again. Though I’m not getting out much.

George brings me my lunch the day of the party and tentatively asks, “Would you like to take a walk in the garden, sir? Get some fresh air?”

I glower at him and he retreats swiftly, back to the safety of the kitchen, where I’m sure all the rest of the servants are having a delightful time gossiping about me. The rogue royal son, finally pinned down and forced to follow the rules.

There’s been no communication from the House of the Downs since the letter. What am I even supposed to say to Coral? Usually when I’m with a girl, she’s from the Bank and the flirting comes naturally because I already know I am wanted. Coral must want me, right? I’m Garnet of the House of the Lake. I’m rich, I’m good looking, I have the title . . . Even still, I feel nerves squirming like little caterpillars in my stomach. I splash some water on my face and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“You can do this,” I tell myself. “It’s just one night.”

But it’s not just one night. It’s my whole life.

I pour myself a little whiskey, to calm my nerves. It doesn’t really help. By the time George comes to help me dress, I’m sweating.

He secures my cuff links and slips my tuxedo jacket on without a word, brushing away any stray hairs and bits of lint. I tie my own tie. I appreciate George’s silence, because I don’t feel much like talking at the moment. I don’t feel like talking at all tonight. And I’ve got to go downstairs and smile and laugh and pretend that this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, when all I want to do is hide out here for maybe the rest of my life.

“All set, sir,” George says. We both look at my reflection in the floor-length mirror.

“Well done,” I say. My throat feels tight. “Thank you, George.”

He hesitates then says, “I’ll give you a minute alone, sir.”

I nod. Once he closes the door, I take a few deep, steadying breaths.

“Don’t be such a coward,” I say out loud. I hitch a brilliant smile on my face and leave my room.

George is waiting for me, so I suspect Mother instructed him to escort me to the ballroom, ensuring I wouldn’t bolt. The Lord and Lady of the Downs are already there, with Coral, of course. Her blond hair is extra curly this evening. She blinks up at me with wide blue eyes and I’m reminded of a porcelain doll.

“Good evening,” I say, bowing to her. “My lord, my lady.”

Mother looks satisfied. I don’t know what she was expecting. I do have some manners.

It appears that neither Coral nor I is expected to talk much. Mother and the Lady of the Downs discuss where and when the wedding should be, and who should cater it; I try to block out their words and think of something else. But there’s nothing else to think about. My future wife is standing right next to me and I can’t come up with a single thing to say to her.

Guests begin arriving, so Mother’s attention is drawn elsewhere. Coral and I stand together as a small receiving line begins to form. It’s all variations on “Congratulations,” and “I’m so happy for the two of you.” Empty words from empty people. Half of them only care that they were invited at all. The other half are probably hoping I’ll do something gossip worthy.

Carnelian comes up with her companion.

“I guess I owe you ten thousand diamantes,” she says with a smirk, clutching the arm of her escort. She must be enjoying this. It’s unusual for her to be the happy one while I’m the miserable one.

“I won’t hold you to it, cousin,” I say. “Wouldn’t want you to lose all of your money in one go.”

Her face falls slightly and I feel a little bad. But she can’t insult me and expect me not to retort.

“I wish both of you every happiness,” the companion says, and it takes a lot of effort not to roll my eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Lockwood,” Coral gushes. How does she know his name? I don’t remember his name and he lives in my house. Then I notice that many of the women in this room keep glancing over at him.

I really don’t understand the appeal of companions at all.

They move along to let others come with their fake pleasantries. I overhear snippets of conversation while smiling woodenly and shaking hands.

“. . . seen her tonight yet.”

“Do you think she’s pregnant?”

“No, we would have heard.”

“I hear the Electress is growing nervous.”

“Nonsense. The Electress has nothing to worry about.”

“But if the Duchess wishes for her daughter to marry—”

At that moment, the Exetor and Electress arrive. Everyone bows low and all conversation stops. The ladies I was eavesdropping on move to fawn over the Electress. It sounded like they were talking about Mother’s surrogate.

I feel a pinch of guilt as I see Lucien. I haven’t told him about the new cello or what Mother said in the motorcar the other day. But I don’t really care about the surrogate at the moment.

I don’t notice her arriving, but at some point, I see her in the crowd. She stands next to Mother, who is speaking with the Lady of the Downs and the Electress. Lucien hands the Electress a glass of champagne and his eyes light on mine for a moment.

My chest seizes up, an unpleasant sensation gripping me. I feel trapped, helpless. Everywhere I turn, there are expectations and demands being made on me. I want to rewind time, to go back to when my life revolved around parties I actually enjoyed attending, to when surrogates were just little pawns on a chessboard, silent things at their mistresses’ sides. A bead of sweat trickles down the inside of my thigh and I scratch my crotch, not caring that I’m in public. What more can Mother do to me?

“So,” I say to Coral, when at last the receiving line dwindles to nothing. “That was fun.”

I mean it sarcastically, but she smiles up at me with enthusiasm.

“Wasn’t it? I’ve never had so much attention from so many people before. And doesn’t everyone look lovely? I can’t believe this is all for us!”

I’m so taken aback by her sincerity that, for a moment, I’m speechless. Does she not understand that we are entertainment for them? No one is here because they care about us or our marriage. Mother didn’t even invite any of my actual friends. We are the current circus attraction. In a few days, we’ll probably be replaced with something else.

The saddest part is, I used to really enjoy being the current circus attraction.

“Yeah,” I say, because I have a feeling if I told her what I was really thinking she might start to cry. The music swells and the dancing begins. Carnelian takes her companion out onto the floor, moving awkwardly in his arms. Mother dances with everyone, the perfect image of a perfect hostess, laughing and cheering with her champagne, looking for all the world as if she were truly happy for her son.

The lies, the falseness of it all . . . I grew up surrounded by it, but it never truly made me sick until this evening.

“Ash Lockwood is a very desirable companion,” Coral says, nodding to where my cousin is stepping on his feet. “Carnelian was lucky your mother bought him for her.”

“Mm,” I say.

“I had a lovely companion,” Coral says dreamily. “His name was Rye. He was very funny.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. Fortunately, now that we are freed from the restraints of our mothers and the duty of the party, Coral doesn’t seem to require an active participant to keep a conversation going.

“I collect miniature tea sets, you know,” she says. “I’ve got almost two hundred of them. The largest collection in the Jewel.” She lifts her chin proudly. “Some of them even date back to the time of Diamante the Great.”

Miniature tea sets? She couldn’t just read books or do needlepoint like a normal girl? Isn’t that what normal girls do?

She’s in the middle of describing one set in particular, light blue with tiny detailed paintings of a flock of birds in flight, when I’m rescued by Mother and Father coming over to us. Mother calls for silence.

“Thank you all for joining me in celebrating this very special occasion!” she exclaims. It doesn’t escape my notice that she leaves Father out the picture. “Let us raise a glass to the happy couple—Garnet, of the House of the Lake, and Coral, of the House of the Downs.”

Glasses are raised and people cheer.

“And now,” Mother continues, “my surrogate will perform a short program for you. Shall we proceed to the concert hall?”

I see her getting whisked away by William and then Mother is leading me out of the ballroom, Coral on my other side, and the entire party follows us up the main staircase and into the concert hall.

“Your mother’s surrogate played so wonderfully at the Exetor’s Ball,” Coral says. “I didn’t know she was playing for us tonight!”

“Me neither,” I say.

We take our seats in the middle of the front row. I notice the Electress makes sure that the Exetor sits on her left, as far away from Mother as possible. A chair, a music stand, and the cello are already onstage. There are some whispers among the audience, and I see Carnelian murmur something to her companion that makes him frown a little.

Then the surrogate walks on and the whole theater erupts in applause. I hope she plays that song she played at the Exetor’s Ball again. At least something good will come of this evening.

She seems less nervous, maybe because she’s already done this before, and in front of a whole lot more people. She sets the cello between her knees and looks out over the sea of faces, like she’s Reed Purling or some other famous musician, like she’s been paid to be here. As if she is in command of this stage, at least for the moment.

I have to respect her for that.

She turns a page on the music stand, picks up her bow, and begins to play. To my delight, it is the same song from the Exetor’s Ball. I let the notes wash over me in a waterfall of sound. I think of my own cage again, of the course my life is on, and what I could do with it if I wanted, if I were free to decide. Who would I choose to marry? I think about all the girls I’ve ever kissed or smiled at or flirted with, and not one of them makes me feel anything. Aren’t you supposed to feel something? Or is that just an antiquated notion that got into my head from reading too many fairy stories as a child? There is certainly no love between my mother and father, or any of my friends’ parents, for that matter.

It just never occurred to me how sad that is.

The song ends and I applaud loudly along with everyone else. I glance down the line and see Mother looking smugly satisfied and Father looking bored. Carnelian is sulky as always, but her companion is frowning deeper, which is strange. I didn’t think they were allowed to frown.

The surrogate reaches out to turn the page for the next piece and winces a little. She begins the next piece and something is clearly off—she seems to be sweating and her mouth is pressed into a hard line. Suddenly, her bow screeches across the strings and falls to the floor. She looks down at her lap in horror.

The cello falls with a jarring crash, and everyone jumps. We can all see now why she faltered.

Blood has seeped through her dress, bright red, and it keeps coming, sinking into her skirt, dripping to the floor. Her hands are sticky with it. I see her mouth something, and I think it might be “help.” I stand without thinking. She falls, and before I can even move, a white blur flies in from offstage.

Lucien catches her before she hits the ground.

“Get the doctor!” he shouts. Women start screaming, everything becomes confused.

“What’s happening?” Coral asks.

I don’t know. What is happening?

Mother runs up to the stage, followed quickly by the Exetor, and I hurry after them as the crowd swells up around me. I hear the surrogate moan as Lucien lays her down gently. Blood has pooled on the stage, and her skirt is more red than green. Mother looks terrified.

“The doctor is in the Bank,” she says.

It occurs to me then that the surrogate could die. I know surrogates get killed all the time, but it’s one thing knowing it and another thing seeing it.

“We’ll send for someone immediately,” the Exetor says.

“There’s no time, we have to stop the bleeding.” Lucien is frantic. The calm exterior he does such an excellent job of maintaining has cracked and beneath it I can see a jagged slice of utter panic and fear. And I realize that Lucien loves this girl.

“My lady, where is your medical room?” he asks. Mother can only stare. I’ve never seen her so undone. “My lady!”

She starts. “This way,” she says.

Lucien lifts the girl up carefully, as if she were made of glass, and carries her past Mother, past me, through the throng of royals looking both shocked at the turn of events and eager to spread the news of Garnet’s Bloody Engagement Party.

Then Lucien and Mother and the girl disappear out of the hall. Father looks at a loss.

“Well,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “shall we . . .”

He nods out at all the guests.

“I’ll do it,” I grumble, because Father can be so useless at formal events.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I call, and the hall falls silent. “Thank you so much for coming to my engagement party. I apologize for cutting the festivities short, but clearly, my mother’s surrogate is unwell. This is a time for family privacy.”

“Of course,” the Electress says, not looking particularly disappointed at the evening’s turn of events. Then she addresses the room like this is her house and her party. “Let us leave the Duchess in peace and hope that her surrogate will survive this night. I know the loss of a surrogate all too well, and I would not wish it upon any of my fellow royalty.”

That statement is ridiculous on several levels—first of all, she isn’t really royalty, and secondly, she would absolutely wish for a surrogate death to befall a rival House like ours. But it gets everyone to leave and for that, I’m grateful.

“Shall I stay?” Coral asks, gripping my elbow.

“What?” I say. “No.” Then, realizing that came out harsher than I intended, I add, “You should go home with your mother. I will . . . inform you of the surrogate’s status tomorrow.” I smile for good measure.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She beams at me as her mother comes to take her away.

Slowly, the concert hall empties. I don’t know if I’m supposed to stand by the doors and see everyone out, but I don’t have the energy, and what’s the point of having a rebellious reputation if I don’t put it to good use when I need to?

I stand on the stage, alone. The surrogate’s blood spreads out over the polished floor, surrounding her cello like a red lake, and that seems wrong, because she clearly loves this cello. I slip out of my tuxedo jacket, pick up the instrument, and start wiping the blood off of it. But my hands are clumsy and I end up smearing it around rather than cleaning it.

There is a loud bang as the offstage door flies open. Annabelle rushes toward me, her eyes filled with tears as she takes in the blood on the floor, the cello in my hands. She looks up at me, her face full of terror and with a trembling hand writes:

Dead?

“No,” I say. “She’s in the medical room. I think Lucien is taking care of her. It didn’t . . . look good.”

She claps a hand over her mouth and the tears spill over and fall down her cheeks. Then she rushes forward and yanks the cello out of my hands.

“I was just trying . . . trying to clean it,” I say, but she can’t write with one hand full of cello. So she glares at me with a heated intensity, and then points fiercely at her own chest and I know she’s telling me that’s her job. There’s a protectiveness to the gesture, something that reminds me of Lucien’s face when he stared at the girl’s bleeding figure on the ground. Annabelle loves this surrogate, too.

She whirls around and carries the cello out of the concert hall, and I stand onstage alone, until Mary and some other maids arrive to clean up the blood.

Eight

I STAY UP ALL NIGHT, SITTING IN MY PARLOR, STARING AT the arcana cupped in my hands, willing it to buzz.

Is she okay? What happened? Am I in trouble? Should I have foreseen this? Was I too busy sulking about my engagement to notice something was wrong? Will Lucien release the details of my tryst with Cyan? Does Annabelle hate me?

Questions repeat themselves over and over again, a revolving circle of the same thoughts and fears.

How did this happen to me? Here I am, completely frazzled over the welfare of a surrogate. I don’t think I could even tell you what any other surrogate I’ve ever seen looks like. Blond, brunette, redhead . . . they are like dolls, dolls with blurry faces who don’t matter because who are they anyway? Nothing. Property. But Lucien’s face. And Annabelle . . .

I don’t even know her name. Do they have names? I think they’re given numbers for the Auction. Maybe they’re born with numbers. Are they even born in the normal way? I’ve never seen them as truly human until I heard the girl cry out in pain tonight.

Am I a terrible person?

Pale gray light seeps under the curtains, the sign of a new day beginning. I rouse myself and am just about to give up and get into bed, when the silver tuning fork buzzes and rises up out of my palm.

“Is she okay?” I ask, before he has a chance to speak.

There is the faintest pause on the other end, and I think maybe I’ve surprised him in some way.

“Yes,” he says, and he sounds impossibly weary. “She will live.”

I exhale, and it feels like a breath I’ve been holding all night. My head buzzes with relief.

“That’s good,” I say.

“It is.” Again, there’s a hint of surprise in his voice.

“What?” I demand, too tired and frazzled to be polite. “Did you think I didn’t care? Do you think I’m not human?”

“No,” he replies. “I think you are royal.”

I sense a veiled insult but I don’t understand it.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you do not see the world the way most of the people in this city see it.”

I frown. “This city loves the royalty.”

Lucien chuckles through his weariness. “Oh, Garnet,” he says. “You know nothing of this city. You know the Jewel and the Bank. The Jewel tolerates you because of your high status and the Bank loves you because you sell papers.”

No one has ever, ever, spoken to me this way. I open my mouth to set him straight and let him know who is who in this relationship, but then all the air seeps out of me and I realize he’s right.

I’m nothing. I’m a very fancy, very expensive waste of time.

“Why did you even ask for my help, then?” I say.

He sighs. “I did not ask you. I blackmailed you.”

Right. I dig my knuckles into my eyes.

“Lucien, what is so important about this girl? Why do you care about her so much?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Besides the fact that you have me shadowing her every movement?”

“You have done a mediocre job of that, at best. And having someone followed or watched does not mean I care about them. I keep tabs on more people than you could ever conceive of. Why do you think this girl is any different?”

“Your face tonight,” I say bluntly. “When she was bleeding and . . . and crying. It was obvious.”

Another pause. This one stretches so long, I grow impatient.

“Do they have names? The surrogates, I mean,” I say. “Where do they come from?”

“They come from the Marsh,” he says curtly. “Surely you know that. And yes, they have names.”

“All of them?” I wish I hadn’t asked as soon as the question leaves my mouth.

“All of them.”

“Well, what’s hers, then?”

Lucien huffs. “Why do you care, Garnet of the House of the Lake, heir to the Duchess, member of a Founding House?”

“Don’t throw titles at me. That’s not who I am.”

“It isn’t? Then please, enlighten me. Tell me who you are. Tell me why you are worthy to know her name.”

“Worthy?” I stand up, my pulse racing. “Are you telling me I’m not worthy to know the name of some surrogate?”

“That is exactly what I am telling you. You split people into two groups; those who are royal and those who are not. Have you ever stopped to consider what the ‘nots’ feel about you? That they are human beings in their own rights, with hopes and dreams and feelings? And that they outnumber you ten to one at least?”

I don’t know what to say to that. Because he’s right.

“Do you know what happens to surrogates, Garnet?” Lucien continues, and his voice drops to a snakelike whisper.

“They . . . they make royal babies,” I stammer.

“And then?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“They die. Every. Single. One. Childbirth is lethal to them.”

I have to repeat that last sentence over three times in my head before I understand it.

So every single girl I’ve ever seen on a leash, or at a ball, or sitting mutely at a dinner table . . . they’re all dead.

“That—that can’t be right. Why would . . . how could that happen?”

At this, Lucien laughs outright. “Did you even think about the surrogates until I asked you to watch one? Could you describe one for me, besides Violet?”

“Violet?” I say.

Silence.

“Is her name Violet?” I ask again, in a more commanding tone.

“Yes,” Lucien replies grudgingly.

“Oh.” Violet. Violet plays the cello. Annabelle cares about Violet. These sentiments seem different when I put them together like this. The surrogate is Violet.

If Violet has my little sister, Violet will die.

“So . . . what’s the plan? Are you trying to figure out some way for her to have a baby and survive?”

“No.”

“Then what? Come on, Lucien. Please. Trust me.”

The wait for him to answer feels interminable.

“Can I?” he asks finally. “What possible promise could you make that I would be certain of?”

I think hard for a moment. Lucien doesn’t care about money or jewels or anything like that. He seems to care about people.

“I’ll swear on Annabelle,” I say. “If I do anything to get the surrogate in trouble, she’ll be punished tenfold. And I’d never do anything to hurt her.”

“Hm.” Lucien sounds impressed. After a moment, he says, “I accept this promise.”

“Great, so what’s the plan?”

“The plan,” he says dramatically, “is to get her out of the Jewel.”

Nine

HIS PLAN IS CRAZY. IMPOSSIBLE.

It’s Lucien, so obviously he didn’t tell me any specifics, but there’s no way he could get her out of my mother’s house. Still, I keep looking for ways he might be able to do it. Sneak her out through the servant tunnels? Kidnap her at the Winter Ball? Hide her in a delivery crate?

And he won’t tell me where he’s taking her or what he plans to do with her once he gets her there. He might be the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.

Violet stays in bed for several days after the miscarriage—Lucien does tell me about that, about why she was bleeding so much. I didn’t know being pregnant could be that dangerous. When she does leave her room, I only ever see her when she goes out into the garden. I watch her wander through the neat rows of shrubs from one of the upstairs windows. She seems to like the west wall, or at least she always sets out in that direction. Then she’ll disappear into the wilder parts of the garden or into the hedge maze.

Meanwhile, my opportunities to watch her grow more limited. My wedding plans are in full force. Mother has decided that now I should be involved in every stage of the process, as if getting married weren’t punishment enough. I’m forced to sit through endless china showings (Coral would probably faint from delight), and food tastings (those actually aren’t so bad), and Mother insists I help her with the ever-changing seating chart.

Coral and I are forced to attend various lunches and tea parties and dinners, sometimes with our mothers and sometimes without. It’s nice to get to know her a little before I marry her, but it’s also awful because she’s just not that interesting.

Mother makes arrangements one afternoon for a tailor to come and begin work on my tuxedo. Obviously I wander around the library for a little while first, just to make sure I’m not on time. As I meander through the rows that hold all the dull histories of the various Electresses and Exetors, I hear two voices; Carnelian and another girl. My pulse speeds up and I move closer.

“I’m not up to anything,” the other girl says, and I know it must be Violet. I’ve never heard her speak before, but something about the voice sounds like her. “I just . . . like books.”

I hear Carnelian snort. “Right,” she says. “We’ll see.”

I’m not going to let an opportunity to speak to the girl I’ve been watching for almost two months slip by.

“Is there a problem here, ladies?” I ask. They both look startled as I emerge from the stacks.

“What are you doing here?” Carnelian asks. “I thought you were supposed to be getting measured for your tuxedo.”

I put on my best surprised face. “Am I? Why, it completely slipped my mind.” I look Violet up and down. She seems jittery, though anyone cornered by Carnelian would be. “Are you tormenting the surrogate, cousin? Better not let Mother catch you.”

It feels strange calling her the surrogate now that I know her name.

“I’m not afraid of her,” Carnelian says, jutting out her chin.

“Yes, you are,” I say. “Hey, where’s that companion she bought you? I heard you never leave his side.”

Her face turns red and she looks like she might cry. She shoots Violet a scathing look, as if it’s Violet’s fault the companion isn’t around, then turns on her heel and storms off.

Somehow I’ve managed to speak to Violet alone. I’m quite proud of myself even if it was accidental. I wonder if she knows her fate, that she’s supposed to die giving my Mother what she wants. I wonder what she thinks about Lucien, if he feeds her only bits and pieces of information, too.

But I can’t say any of that out loud.

“She always was a little sensitive,” I say, staring after Carnelian and shrugging. “Oh, I’m Garnet, by the way.”

“I know,” she says, and I have to laugh.

“Of course you do.” I give her one of my most elaborate bows. “Shall I escort you back to your rooms?”

“Oh, um, that’s all right,” she says. She looks even more frightened of me than of Carnelian.

“I insist,” I say, taking her elbow. It feels just like any other girl’s elbow. I hate that these sorts of things keep surprising me. As if I previously assumed surrogates were monsters in human skin, or mechanical, or made out of glue and string.

“Tell me,” I say as we make our way out of the library. “Who do you hate more? My father or my mother?”

I’m pretty sure she’s had no contact with Father, but I’m dying to know what she thinks of Mother.

“Excuse me?” she says, shocked.

“I’d have to go with my mother,” I say. Three is patrolling the halls and he stands at attention as I pass, the buttons on his Regimental coat gleaming. “My father is as dull as a post, so at least he’s easy to overlook. But there’s just no ignoring my mother.”

Violet doesn’t respond, and I find myself rambling, saying anything that pops into my head, hoping to get some reaction, some sense of who this person is and why Lucien cares about her so much.

“She’s gotten even worse since Carnelian came to live here. Poor kid. First her father dies, then her mother commits suicide. Very shocking. Scandalous for the House of the Lake.”

“Carnelian’s mother killed herself?” she gasps.

I nod as we take one of the back staircases up to the second floor. “She was a strange woman, my aunt. Strange and sad. I never really got to know her well—my mother despised her. I think Carnelian hates her and misses her in equal measure. It makes her a very unpleasant person to be around.”

I think this is the most I’ve spoken about Aunt Opal since she died.

“Why does she hate her?” Violet asks.

“Because her mother left her all alone,” I say. In the light of this conversation, I actually find myself feeling bad for Carnelian.

“Why did the Duchess despise your aunt?”

Is she serious? My aunt was in the news long before she took a rope and wrapped it around her neck.

“Because she left,” I say. “You do get the papers in the Marsh, don’t you? Aunt Opal was not House of the Lake material. Especially not after she turned her back on her royal lineage and ran off with some newspaper man from the Bank.” I grin, because I can’t believe Mother acts like I am the most disgraced member of this family. “Really, my mother has had it quite hard. A crazy sister, a broken engagement—to the Exetor, of all people—and . . . me. Ah, here we are.”

We’ve arrived at her chambers and I knock on the door. Annabelle opens it and looks very surprised to see me with her charge.

“Annabelle,” I cry, wrapping an arm around her, so Violet will see that we are friends and I’m not all that scary. Annabelle blushes and tries to curtsy but I’m in the way. If Violet weren’t here, she’d probably whack me with her slate for being so improper.

“I’ve returned the surrogate safe and sound,” I say, and she ducks her head in thanks. “It was lovely meeting you,” I say to Violet. “Officially. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon. And stay out of Carnelian’s way if you can help it,” I add, giving her a wink. “I think she’s got it in for you.”

My words ring truer in my ears than I thought they would. Though they haven’t interacted all that much, I do get the strong feeling that Carnelian detests Violet. But then I shrug it off and head to my tuxedo fitting, because really, what could Carnelian possibly do?

Ten

“THE TIME IS ALMOST COME,” LUCIEN SAYS TO ME, THE morning of the Winter Ball.

I’m surprised, not only because he rarely calls me in the morning, but because he usually doesn’t freely offer up information like that.

“She will be leaving tomorrow night,” he continues. “The reason I’m telling you this is because I will likely not be able to contact you again until the plan is executed. However, should anything go wrong, or should I be delayed in any way, I will need your help. One last favor.”

“Favor,” I snort. “Right.”

“Fair enough. You will do this one last thing for me. You must make sure she gets to the Jewel’s morgue.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask. “Take her to the morgue? Why? I thought you were trying to help her not kill her.”

Lucien does that thing where he sighs like I’m the stupidest person in the world. “It does not matter why,” he says. “All that matters is she get there. The servants’ wing. The entrance is never locked. Down the farthest alley on the right.”

I feel like I should be writing all this down.

“How do you expect me to sneak a surrogate out of my mother’s house and to the morgue?”

“I don’t,” Lucien says sharply. “I expect that she will be delivered there by the morgue attendants. I am telling you this only as a precaution. Ideally, you will not have to take her anywhere at all.”

“The morgue attendants only come to pick up dead bodies,” I point out.

“Precisely.”

I open my mouth, then close it, then open it again. “I’m confused.”

There’s a pause. I can sense him pondering what to tell me, and how much. As if I haven’t proved myself trustworthy enough by now.

“I have created a serum that will make her appear as though she were dead,” he says in a hurried, clipped tone, as if he makes death-defying serums every day.

“Wow,” I say. “That’s . . . really?”

“Yes. However, if she is not able to take the serum, or for some reason it fails to work as I anticipate, I must have your word you will help get her to the morgue.”

“I’ve given you my word once already,” I say. “And I haven’t broken it or taken it back yet, have I?”

“No,” Lucien agrees. “You have not.”

“Good. So. Morgue. All right.” Not sure how I’d ever make that happen, but hopefully, like Lucien said, I won’t have to.

“One last thing.” There’s another pause, a longer one. “Your arcana,” he says finally. “It can connect with the one I gave her.”

“It can?” I yelp. “How?”

“Tap it on something metal and speak her name into it. And when you wish to sever the connection you need only squeeze it with your hand. But under no circumstances are you to contact her unless the need is dire, do you understand?”

“Dire need,” I say, marveling at the creation hovering in front of my eyes. “Got it. How do you come up with all of this stuff anyway?”

For the first time, I hear a little smile in Lucien’s voice. “I was fortunate enough to be born with slightly above average intelligence. And I have access to a great deal of money.”

I laugh. All this is funded by the Exetor? Incredible. How much else is going on in my own circle that I don’t know about? And what else has Lucien created?

But I don’t get to ask before he says, “I have to go,” and the arcana falls to the floor. I pick it up and put it on my nightstand before heading to my closet to pick out my clothes for the evening.

THE WINTER BALL IS ALWAYS THE BEST BALL OF THE YEAR.

It takes place in a glass ballroom lit with thousands of candles—no glowglobes are lit on the Longest Night. Boughs of hellebore hang from the chandeliers and everyone wears white.

But the best part is, all my friends are here and I didn’t have to come with Coral. In fact, I barely see her all night and that’s just fine with me. We aren’t married yet, and it’s been ages since I’ve seen Jasper and Peri.

At some point I notice Violet is missing, but so is Lucien, so I assume he’s giving her the serum. Another perk—after tomorrow night, I won’t have to be his little lookout anymore and deal with all the late-night calls. I might even be done already. Lucien said himself that he probably won’t be able to contact me again until she takes that serum, and really, what are the chances that I will be responsible for getting her to the morgue? This is Lucien. He plans things meticulously. I’m sure the serum will work just as he intended and then Violet will be out of the palace and out of my life.

As Peri and I take shots of whiskey and laugh about my upcoming nuptials, everything feels like it’s shifted back to normal. Even my wedding is something to joke about tonight.

I stay up late, and we continue the party at Jasper’s house and for the first time in a long time, I feel like myself again.

Eleven

I WAKE UP IN THE AFTERNOON, TO CORA THROWING OPEN my curtains.

“What are you doing here?” I demand. Cora hasn’t gotten me up since I was about seven.

“Your mother is having a luncheon and you are expected to attend,” she says. “And I am the only one she trusts with getting you ready in time.”

She throws off my covers and marches me into the bathroom. She even waits outside the door while I shower. The hot water feels good. My head is pounding.

Cora is so much better than any footman. She has me looking and feeling impeccable in less than an hour. I’m even early to lunch, by one minute and thirty seconds. I meet Father in the dining room by the bar.

“What’s this one about?” I ask, pouring myself a large glass of whiskey.

“How should I know?” Father says, taking a long drink. His eyes are red. “I just come when I’m called.”

It’s maybe the saddest thing I’ve ever heard him say. Then Aunt Iolite and Uncle Beryl arrive and he brightens up and goes to greet them. I wonder if Father actually hates being the Duke of the Lake. Maybe he would have preferred to stay in a second-tier House.

Mother enters the dining room two seconds before Carnelian and her companion, and ignores everyone but Aunt Iolite.

“Did you have a good time at the Winter Ball?” I ask Carnelian as she comes over to get a drink.

“Oh yes,” she says. “Ash told me my dancing has improved greatly. And the Lady of the Light’s son wasn’t too terrible. Not like some of the other boys she’s tried to foist me on.”

But she glances up at the companion and I can tell she wishes he were an option. It’s so sad. As if Mother would ever allow her to marry a companion. As if companions were made for marrying at all. Six months in the Jewel and she still doesn’t get it.

The companion himself keeps quiet, which is unusual—he’s always the one smoothing everything over. Maybe he drank too much last night, too.

“The Count and Countess of the Rose,” one of the footmen announces at the door. “And surrogate.”

“Ametrine,” Mother calls, and she drags Father over to greet the Countess. Her surrogate has dark skin and long black hair that’s braided and done up on the crown of her head. She looks very thin, thinner than Violet. And sad. Or maybe angry. I find myself trying to decipher her expression.

“What’s this luncheon all about anyway?” Carnelian asks.

“No idea,” I say. “Maybe she finally found you a husband.”

Carnelian looks petrified.

Then the footman announces Violet. There’s something different in the way she carries herself today, though I never would have noticed it if I hadn’t been watching her so much. A tightness in her jaw, a strange emotion in her eyes that I can’t quite read. When she sees me, I raise my glass to her. Carnelian huffs and crosses her arms over her chest.

Mother and Aunt Iolite descend on her, the Countess of the Rose trailing behind, leaning heavily on her cane.

I hear Mother say, “The doctor agrees we won’t have to wait so long until the next attempt.”

My stomach squirms and I turn away. How many times has Mother tried to impregnate Violet?

“I don’t see why surrogates need to come to these things at all,” Carnelian complains.

“I believe your mother’s most recent attempt to have a child has failed,” the companion says. He clearly overheard the same thing I did. “Perhaps she is trying to keep her spirits up.”

“I suppose,” Carnelian says.

“You know Mother,” I say, glancing over to where Violet looks miserable, surrounded by gossiping women. “She lives to throw big parties. And she loves to show off.”

Just then, the dining room door opens.

“The Countess of the Stone,” the footman announces. “And surrogate.”

There is no way Mother would have ever invited the Countess of the Stone—unless it was to brag that her surrogate was pregnant. She must have been pretty confident in Dr. Blythe. That seems to have backfired.

Even Carnelian mutters, “What’s she doing here?”

They air kiss with fake smiles on their faces and there’s more small talk but I’m ready for lunch. My stomach gives a low growl and Carnelian giggles. I grin at her.

“I’m starving,” I say.

“That’s what happens when you wake up at one in the afternoon,” she says.

Once they’ve set up extra places for the Countess and her surrogate, we all sit. Finally. Violet must be nervous. She’s going to die tonight.

And she does look upset. They serve the first course and for a second I’m distracted by the food. But every time I look at her, she’s staring at the Countess of the Stone’s surrogate. The girl is pregnant—it’s like the Countess was trying to show off by putting her in an extra-tight dress. And she’s even thinner than the Countess of the Rose’s surrogate. In fact, the more I look at her, the more skeletal and fragile she seems. Her skin is like her dress—too tight over delicate bones. Her dark eyes are blank, almost unseeing, her shoulders hunched. I feel a twist of emotion in my stomach and realize it’s pity.

“And how are you feeling?” the Countess of the Rose asks Violet. But Violet is just staring at the pregnant girl. Maybe Lucien did tell her about what happens to the surrogates. Maybe she knows this girl is going to die.

She suddenly seems to realize everyone is staring at her and glances at Mother.

“The Countess asked how you are feeling,” Mother says sternly.

“I’m feeling fine, my lady,” she says, to no one in particular. The pregnant surrogate looks up at the sound of her voice.

A tiny hint of life comes back into her dead eyes. None of the Countess’s surrogates last very long, and I wonder how much time this girl has.

I dig into my food—filet wrapped in puff pastry, Mother’s favorite—but I find myself glancing at the pregnant surrogate more than Violet. She seems to go back and forth between being present and being somewhere . . . else. What has the Countess been doing to her? I’ve heard the rumors, of course, but this seems extreme. How are we all having lunch while there’s a dying girl sitting at the table?

Suddenly, the pregnant surrogate gasps. She grabs the tablecloth, and out from where her hand touches it, veins of color begin to spread, a deep inky blue. Carnelian screams and Uncle Beryl falls out of his chair.

“Get the doctor!” the Countess of the Rose yells. We’ve all jumped out of our chairs at this point, and then the carpet is going mad, turning a brilliant green, and I back away from it, as if the color could hurt me if it touched me.

I see Violet crouched by the pregnant surrogate and wonder if she knows how to stop whatever it is the girl is doing.

Then the girl vomits up a fountain of blood.

The Countess of the Stone grabs Violet and lifts her up by the neck.

“Get away from her,” she snarls. Everyone stops moving.

“She—she’s sick,” Violet stammers. Blood is pouring from the girl’s nose now, too, staining the front of her dress. Her eyes have gone vacant again.

The Countess of the Stone tosses Violet aside like a rag doll. She stumbles and I instinctively move as if to catch her then stop myself—out of the corner of my eye, I notice the companion has the same impulse.

“Ebony!” Mother shouts. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on my surrogate.”

The carpet has turned entirely green, but the damage is contained on only it—my shoes are still black and shiny. Mother is staring down the Countess with a look of pure hatred.

“Get. Out.”

The Countess’s mouth twists. “As you wish, Pearl.”

She snatches her surrogate by the arm and pulls her upright and out of the dining room.

“Well,” Mother says. “I think this luncheon is over.” The table is a mess. There’s blood and food and wine and strange colors everywhere. She turns to Father. “Darling, why don’t you take the gentlemen to the smoking room. Garnet, will you join them?”

She must be joking. When have I ever joined Father in his smoking room? It’s gross in there.

“Thanks, Mother, but I’d rather gouge my own eyes out,” I say.

Her face hardens. “Then find something useful to do. Preferably something that doesn’t involve a kitchen maid.”

As if I’d ever involve myself with a maid. Father is already herding Uncle Beryl and the Count of the Rose out of the room.

I bow. “As you wish, Mother.”

“Are you all right?” she asks Violet. I’m already forgotten.

“Yes, my lady,” Violet says. But she’s clearly not. Something about that other surrogate upset her. And not just the blood, I’m guessing.

Mother instructs her to go for a walk in the garden and then leaves with the other royal ladies and the other surrogate. It’s just me, Violet, Carnelian, and her companion left in the room.

I clear my throat. “Well, I’m off to find a kitchen maid. See you all at dinner.”

I’ve got to get back to my room. I need to talk to Lucien.

What was with all those colors? Did that pregnant surrogate turn the tablecloth blue? I knew they could make babies, but I didn’t know they could do things like that. Can all the surrogates do it, or just some? How much else don’t I know?

I reach into my pocket and realize—I don’t have the arcana with me. And I didn’t bring it to the ball last night. Or did I? Did I lose it?

I begin searching through every drawer, every nightstand, every cuff link box. I can’t find it anywhere.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no . . .”

I check in the clothes I was wearing at the ball and find something in my inside jacket pocket. A round ball, about the size of a marble, wrapped in paper. I unwrap it and it falls into my hand, smooth and black. On the paper, in girly, looping handwriting that must belong to Lucien, is printed: For Regimental guards. Use this and you will not be seen. Emergencies only.

I examine the marble, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it’s supposed to do—or when it was put in my jacket in the first place. I put it in my pocket anyway and continue my search for the arcana.

After two more hours, I flop down on my couch. How could I have lost it? Sure Lucien was a little bothersome, but that was an incredible piece of technology he trusted me with. I rack my brain, trying to remember the last time I saw it. I tell George I want to take dinner in my room and send him away. He looks crestfallen at the state of my parlor, given that he’s the one who will have to clean it up.

As soon as he’s gone, it hits me. Yesterday morning, I spoke with Lucien before the ball. And I put the arcana onto my nightstand. I double-check my nightstand again to be sure, but it’s not there.

When George arrives with my meal, I decide I have no other course left but to ask him.

“George, you didn’t happen to see a tuning fork on my nightstand yesterday, did you?”

“Yes, I did, sir. It looked like it needed a bit of a polish so I sent it off with some of your other things.”

“Where is it?” I demand, standing up.

“It’s downstairs, sir, with the rest of the silver.”

“Bring it up to me. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” he says with a bow, and then he’s gone. I can’t eat until I have it in my hands, but luckily I don’t have to wait long. Within minutes, George is back and handing me the arcana.

“Thank you,” I say, and my relief is palpable. “That will be all for tonight, George.”

“Shall I come fetch your—”

“That will be all for tonight,” I say again, firmly. George nods and disappears.

I stare at the arcana for a long while, willing it to buzz. Did it buzz when it was downstairs being polished? But then Lucien said he might not be able to speak to me again. Maybe I could try to contact him?

I tap the arcana against my metal tray and say, “Lucien.”

Nothing happens. I try a few other variations, tapping it on other items in my room, before I give up.

The night deepens, but I can’t sleep. I lie on the couch, fully clothed, listening to the silence of this palace, wondering if Violet has taken the serum yet. Where will Lucien take her? And how?

I guess I’ll never know. My part in his little scheme is over. I wonder if he’ll let me keep the arcana. I’ve grown sort of attached to it.

Then I hear the scream. I sit up and run to the door of my chambers. The scream comes again, louder this time and closer. Very quietly, I open the door and creep to the edge of the main hall.

“ASH!” Violet’s voice is clear and agonized, and she calls his name over and over. I catch a glimpse of two Regimentals dragging her toward her room, and then a minute later, there’s the faintest echo of a door closing.

I hurry back to my room, my heart pounding.

Ash, she said. That’s the companion’s name. And she screamed it like . . . like he was dying or something, like . . .

Oh no. I think back over the companion’s impulse to help her, over Violet’s eyes always flickering to him, over Carnelian’s pure hatred of her. Violet and the companion. The companion and Violet. They were . . . together? This whole time?

At first, I’m simply stunned to think I somehow missed this, having been instructed to watch her. Then a new thought occurs to me, a much darker one.

If anything goes wrong, get her to the morgue. That’s what Lucien told me.

And something has clearly gone very, very wrong.

Without stopping to think, I grab the arcana out of my pocket and rush back to my food tray. I tap the stem on the metal and say in a trembling voice, “Violet.”

At first, nothing happens. Then my arcana rises up and floats in the air, buzzing softly.

“Lucien?” Violet’s voice is terrified. “Lucien, is that you?”

I pause, shocked that this actually worked and, for a split second, hesitant to get more involved. Then I grit my teeth. I made a promise. I gave my word. And for the first time in my life, I’m going to make that mean something.

“Don’t worry,” I say urgently. “We’re going to get you out.”

Then I grab the arcana and squeeze it tight, hoping against hope that I’ve done the right thing.

Excerpt from The Black Key

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the thrilling conclusion to the trilogy.

One

THE MARSH REALLY STINKS WHEN IT RAINS.

Raven and I huddle under a dying tree just outside the walls of Southgate. Fat raindrops pelt down on the hoods of our cloaks, softening the rough-spun fabric, turning the hard-packed dirt beneath our feet to soft mud that sucks at our boots.

The rain doesn’t bother me. I want to lift my hood and let the water splash on my cheeks. I want to join with it and feel myself fall from the sky in a million little pieces. But now is not the time to connect with the elements. We have a job to do.

This is the third time we’ve been to Southgate over the last few months, since Hazel was taken. With the Auction date moved up from October to April, the members of the Society of the Black Key—the Lone City’s homegrown rebel force, led by Lucien—have been working overtime to gather more people to our cause, to stockpile weapons and explosives, to infiltrate royal strongholds in the outer circles.

But none of that will matter if the royalty can just stay hidden, snug behind the massive wall that surrounds the Jewel. That’s where we come in. The surrogates are stronger when we work together, and it will take every girl we can get to crumble that huge wall to pieces. To strip the royals of their main protection. To let the people into the Jewel.

Raven and I have traveled to all four of the holding facilities, along with the other surrogates Lucien saved from the Jewel—Sienna, Olive, and Indi. Northgate was the worst—all cold iron and stone floors, drab uniforms, and no personal items allowed at all. It’s no wonder Sienna hated it so much. She didn’t like going back there either, but we need a surrogate who knows the facilities, and who knows the girls.

We’ve been showing them the truth a few at a time, helping them access the elements, changing them from surrogate to something more. Raven has a unique and intangible ability—she can access a special place, a cliff overlooking the ocean, and she can bring others with her as well. It’s a dreamlike, magical spot where girls like us form an instant connection with the elements. I’ve been there more times than I can count over these past months.

So Raven and I stand here, outside our old holding facility. We have to be careful with who we choose—only girls going to the Auction, who will be on the trains heading directly inside the Jewel. Lucien got us the lists.

There is no hidden door to Southgate, like the one at Ash’s companion house, and no Regimentals prowling outside either. Southgate is a fortress in the middle of a sea of mud-brick hovels. The Marsh is even sadder than I remember it. The sulfuric smell of the mud beneath my feet, the sparse, scrubby trees, the dilapidated homes . . . it all screams poor in a way that I never quite understood until I lived in the Jewel.

Even the Smoke and the Farm aren’t as bad as this. The unfairness is like a slap in the face. A huge part of the Lone City’s population is living in squalor and no one cares. Worse, no one really knows. What do the citizens in the Bank or the Smoke know of the Marsh? It’s a faraway place where the people who shovel their coal or scrub their kitchens or work their looms live. It’s not real to them. It may as well not exist.

“Only three girls left to show the elements to here,” Raven says. “Then it’s back to Westgate in a few days.”

She’s cut her hair short again and her eyes gleam with black fire beneath her hood. She is not quite the Raven who left this holding facility with me last October for the Auction, nor is she the hollow shell the Countess of the Stone had tortured her into when I rescued her from the Jewel. She is somewhere in between. She has nightmares about her time spent locked in a cage in the dungeon of the palace of the Stone. She still hears snippets of people’s thoughts and feelings—whispers, she calls them—a side effect of the Countess’s doctor cutting into her brain over and over again.

But her laughter has returned, and her wit—especially when she talks to Garnet. And she trains each day with Ash, strengthening her once frail body until her wiry frame has become lean and hard.

She glances up at the immense wall towering over us. Climbing it was never an option. Its stone surface is perfectly smooth, no cracks or crevices for handholds. We spent hours sitting around the dining room table with Sil discussing the best ways to break into the holding facilities. In the end, it was Sienna who came up with the idea. We can’t go over the walls, or go through them (at least, not without attracting seriously unwanted attention).

But we can go under them.

The power of the elements has grown stronger in me over the last few months. Sienna is stronger, too, as well as Indi, the surrogate from Westgate. Sienna can connect with Earth and Fire, Indi only with Water. So far, no other surrogate besides Sil and I has the power to access all four elements. Olive, the little curly-haired girl from Eastgate, is the only one who still balks at using the elements she connects with, Air and Water. She’s the only one of us who still uses the Auguries. And she is the only person in the White Rose who has a good word to say about the royalty.

But Olive, Indi, Sienna, and Sil are far away in the redbrick farmhouse I’ve come to call home. They’re probably all asleep now, snuggled up in warm beds, safe in the wild forest that protects the White Rose.

“Violet?” Raven says.

I nod. “I’m ready,” I say, closing my eyes.

It is as easy to join with Earth as it would be to slip into a hot bath. I become the earth; I allow the element to fill me up until we are one unit. I can sense the layers of dirt beneath my feet, a heaviness in my chest. All I need to do is ask and the earth will respond.

Dig, I think.

The earth in the Marsh is different than in the Farm—scratchy, thin, and unhealthy. The pounding of the rain muffles the crack as the dirt before our feet opens. I reach out further with my mind, asking the earth to carve itself out, down, down, down, until I hit soft brown soil. I create a passage easily; Earth is more than happy to accommodate my needs. When I sense the scraping of stone, I know I’ve hit the bottom of the wall’s foundation. I push my tunnel farther—the wall is thick and I must make sure I clear it.

It is such a strange sensation, to be so aware of the tunnel and yet be physically standing high above on the ground. Like I have two sets of eyes, hands, ears, nostrils. I wonder if it’s a bit like how Raven feels when she hears the whispers—having someone else’s thoughts in her head alongside her own. I sense when the stone falls away and there is only light and dirt above me. My tunnel climbs, the earth and I carving out a space together until, with a little pop, we burst through the mud and out into the courtyard that lies on the other side of this wall.

Once the job is done, I release my connection with the element and open my eyes.

Raven is watching me with a wary expression. “Your face looks so weird when you do that, you know.”

“Ash thinks it’s beautiful. Haunting, he says, but beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ash thinks everything about you is beautiful.”

Of all the people we left back at the White Rose, Ash is probably the only one not sleeping right now. Even though we’ve done this so many times, at all four holding facilities, he still worries. I imagine him in our loft, staring up at the slats in the barn overhead, wondering where we are, if we made it, if we’ll get caught, when we’ll be home.

But I can’t let myself think about Ash worrying about me. I peer down into the dark tunnel.

“Let’s go,” I say.

The tunnel is narrow, just wide enough to fit us single file. It’s impossible to get a hold on the crumbling dirt, so Raven and I just slide down the sloping wall until we hit the bottom.

It’s maybe ten feet under the wall, where we are encased in absolute darkness for a minute, and then we’re on the Southgate side, staring up at the tunnel leading up to the courtyard. It looks like miles from this perspective.

We scramble up the slope and emerge into Southgate’s courtyard, muddy and out of breath.

This is where the real danger is. Outside, in the streets of the Marsh, no one would ever recognize us, except for our immediate family members. No one has seen us since we were twelve. Raven’s family is far away to the east, mine to the west, but it’s only my mother left to recognize me. My brother, Ochre, is a part of the Society now, working in the Farm. And my sister, Hazel, has been kidnapped by the Duchess of the Lake, to serve as my replacement.

No. I can’t let myself think about Hazel right now. I can’t afford to be distracted. I’m doing this for her. To save her. To save all the surrogates.

But still, it’s impossible not to worry. Lucien said the Duchess has made an arrangement with the Exetor. An engagement. Between the Exetor’s son and the Duchess’s future daughter. He said that her surrogate—my Hazel—is pregnant.

And if that’s true, then Hazel is dead. Childbirth kills surrogates.

No. I shake my head and glance at Raven. She was pregnant when I rescued her from the Jewel in December. She survived. Hazel will, too. I’ll make sure of it.

But now I have to focus on the task at hand.

The building looms up before us, a stark outline against the rain. It looks smaller than it felt when I lived here, though that probably comes from spending so much time among the immense palaces of the Jewel. Besides, Southgate is the smallest of the holding facilities. Northgate was enormous. Even Westgate and Eastgate are bigger than this. Westgate has a huge garden all around it and a solarium in its center. It’s actually quite pretty.

“Come on,” Raven whispers. We skirt around the mound of dirt I pushed out to make the tunnel—I’ll replace it after we leave, hiding our tracks—and make our way to the greenhouse.

The glass structure glistens in the rain and we slip inside and pull back our hoods. Raven shakes out her hair and glances around.

“Are we early?”

I take out Ash’s pocket watch. Thirty seconds to midnight. “They’ll be here,” I say. It’s warm inside the greenhouse, the air thick with the scent of growing things, earth and roots and flowers. The rain patters gently as Raven and I wait.

At precisely five seconds past midnight, I can just make out hooded shapes hurrying across the courtyard. Then the door to the greenhouse opens and the group of girls we’ve been waiting for floods in.

“Violet!” some of them whisper, rushing over to greet me and Raven.

Amber Lockring strides forward, throwing back the hood of her cloak, her eyes gleaming. “Right on time,” she says with a grin.

“Five seconds late, actually,” Raven points out.

Amber wasn’t one of our friends here, though she lived on our floor. Raven confessed that Amber called me a freak on my first day at Southgate and Raven bent her arm behind her back until Amber said she was sorry. They had never liked each other after that. When we got the list of girls going to the Auction, Raven immediately chose Amber as the first one to reveal this secret to. When I asked why, she narrowed her eyes and said, “She hates the royalty just the way I did. And she was the only other girl in our dorm who wore pants.”

I had to smile at that. If they hadn’t hated each other so much, they might’ve been friends.

“You brought them?” I say.

Amber gestures proudly to the figures still huddled by the door, three girls with varying expressions of fear and suspicion on their faces. “Tawny, Ginger, and Henna. They’re the last ones. This is all of us going to the Auction.”

I do a quick head count. Only nine out of the seventy-seven girls at this year’s Auction are from Southgate. And they stand before me now.

“Did anyone see you?” Raven says.

Amber snorts. “No. Obviously. I have done this before, you know.”

“Great job,” I say.

“Ready?” Raven mutters.

I step forward.

It’s time to show these girls who they really are.

Back Ad

DISCOVER
your next favorite read

MEET
new authors to love

WIN
free books

SHARE
infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more

WATCH
the latest videos

TUNE IN
to Tea Time with Team Epic Reads

About the Author

Photo by Navdeep Singh Dhillon

AMY EWING earned her MFA in Writing for Children at the New School and received her BFA at New York University. The Jewel started off as a thesis project and became her debut novel. The White Rose is the second book in the trilogy. Amy lives in New York City. Visit her online at www.amyewingbooks.com or on Twitter @AmyEwingBooks.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Books by Amy Ewing

The Jewel

The White Rose

The Black Key

Digital Novellas

The House of the Stone

Garnet’s Story

Copyright

GARNET’S STORY. Text copyright © 2016 by Amy Ewing. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

ISBN 978-0-06-238567-3

EPub Edition © August 2016 ISBN 9780062385673

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

FIRST EDITION

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au

Canada

HarperCollins Canada

2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca

New Zealand

HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand

Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive

Rosedale 0632

Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

195 Broadway

New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com