The House of the Stone
Author: Amy Ewing
Date: 2015-07-07 10:08:07+00:00
Keywords: General; Young Adult Fiction; Romance; Novella; Action & Adventure; Fantasy; Paranormal; Teen; Fiction; Friendship; Short Stories; Young Adult; Science Fiction; Dystopia; Social Themes
Description: In The Jewel, we followed Violet in her servitude under the Duchess of the Lake. Now we'll hear Raven's story and her time as a surrogate for the Countess of the Stone in this digital novella from Amy Ewing. When Raven is bought at the Auction, she knows immediately that things will not go well. And when she arrives at the Countess's palace, Raven quickly discovers that the Countess is much less interested in having a baby than experimenting with Raven's mind and body. Raven can only hope for an escape . . . and to see Violet again, all the while reminding herself that she is Raven Stirling, a
Publisher: Harper Collins

Contents

1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Excerpt from The White Rose
9. Back Ad
10. About the Author
11. Books by Amy Ewing
12. Copyright
13. About the Publisher

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Chapter 1

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ii

One

I AM RAVEN STIRLING. THEY CANNOT OWN ME.

“Lot 191,” the Regimental calls. “Lot 191.”

The heavyset girl who came in after me walks unsteadily toward the door. I don’t blame her awkward gait—it looks like she’s wearing a chandelier on her head. Violet is squeezing my hand so hard, her fingernails are going to leave marks.

I’m next, but I won’t let her see how scared I am. She’s scared enough for the both of us.

The door opens again.

“I’ll never forget you,” I say. Her eyes look purplish black and I wonder whether it’s the lighting or just fear that makes them seem so dark. “I will never forget you, Violet.”

“Lot 192. Lot 192.”

I turn and jut my chin out, marching across the room and away from my best friend before she has a chance to say anything. I don’t want her wasting one second worrying about me. I can’t face the fact that I might not see her again.

I don’t even glance at the Regimental who came to collect me from that awful prep room. I walk straight past him, fully prepared to storm out onto a stage, except that the door closes and I’m engulfed in darkness.

Panic seizes my throat, but I swallow it down before it has a chance to take over. There’s a faint hum, and a series of lights switch on, framing the sides of a long hallway. Their greenish glow shoots straight up, so I can’t see the end of the corridor. The Regimental is a black outline in front of me.

“Where are we going?” I ask, without any hope of an answer. I asked him the same thing when he took me from the prep room. I wonder whether that’s part of their training—ignore the surrogates.

He walks forward and I have no choice but to follow. I keep my shoulders rigid and my chin lifted, and repeat out loud what I’ve been saying to myself ever since I got my lot number two nights ago.

“I am Raven Stirling,” I say quietly. “They cannot own me.”

The hallway seems to go on forever, but I just focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I am grateful for how hard Violet squeezed my hand, because I can still feel the tiny half-moons of her fingernails marking my skin.

“I am Raven Stirling,” I say again. “They cannot own me.”

The Regimental stops so abruptly, I nearly walk into him. His frame is tense, and I get the impression he’s waiting for something. There’s nothing but darkness ahead of us.

“What?” I say aggressively, because it’s easier to be angry than frightened.

For a full twelve seconds, he says nothing. Then he turns to face me.

“I thank you, Lot 192, for your service to the royalty. Your place is marked. You must go on alone.” He bows to me, as if I deserved some sort of medal for being sold to a complete stranger, and then moves to stand behind me. Presumably so I can’t run.

A rounded, golden door, covered in all the stupid royal crests, begins to glow in front of me. My hands tremble, but I won’t show weakness.

I take a deep breath and push the door, which swings open as if it’d been waiting for my touch. Bright lights blind me for a second, and I blink until my eyes adjust.

“And next up, ladies, we have Lot 192. Lot 192, please take your mark.”

The scene fits together in my brain quickly, like puzzle pieces falling into place. The auctioneer, a pale man in a tuxedo, stands off to my left. Rings of seats spiral upward, where women in outlandishly expensive dresses sit sipping equally expensive drinks. There is a silver X in the center of the stage.

The tuxedoed man opens his mouth, probably to instruct me to stand on the mark. But before he gets a chance, I stride across the stage, shooting him a glare. I’m not an idiot. And I’m not a number. I am Raven Stirling.

I make sure to look at each woman, preferably in the eye, as I stand there in this ridiculous dress with ridiculous makeup on my face and a stupid hairstyle. I won’t let them make me feel any less like me.

There’s one woman, so fat I’m surprised she can fit into the tight black satin dress she’s wearing, who smiles ever so slightly as I meet her eyes.

That one smile is enough to send a cold shiver down my spine.

All right, I think. Anyone but her.

“Lot 192,” the auctioneer begins, and I see that he has lit a thin white candle and placed it on his podium. The flame glows bright blue. “Age seventeen, height five feet eleven inches, weight one hundred and thirty-one pounds. Five years of training with scores of 9.5 on the first Augury, 9.8 on the second, and 9.6 on the third. Skilled in mathematics, with outstanding scores on all diagnostic tests since the beginning of her time at the holding facility. The bidding will start at two hundred thousand diamantes. Do I hear two hundred thousand?”

If I was drinking anything at the moment, I’d spit it out. Two hundred thousand diamantes? That could probably buy Southgate. What is wrong with these people? Don’t they know there are children starving in the Marsh? I think about my visit home yesterday—my father wasting away, both my sisters and their husbands and their children all squeezed in under one roof. Crow, my brother, so thin, his face permanently darkened with soot from the Smoke. And my mother, treating me like the Electress herself. Which only made everything worse.

“Two hundred thousand to the Lady of the Pine.” The auctioneer’s voice brings me back to the present, as a middle-aged woman in the third row raises a copper fern. “Do I hear two hundred fifty?”

My stomach shrivels as the fat woman with the cruel smile raises a silver block on the end of a thin rod.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand to the Countess of the Stone, do I hear three hundred thousand?”

The bidding continues. I stop listening to the numbers, only focusing on who is doing the actual bidding.

The fat woman, the Countess of the Stone, is fighting hard for me. There is a lazy confidence about the way she flicks that rod in the air and it makes my skin itch.

I allow my vision to soften, to blur these women together in a haze of colors, and try to pretend I’m somewhere else. I think about Violet. I bet she’d be fine on this stage if she could have her cello with her. I remember the first time I saw her. She was such a small thing with wild black hair and big purple eyes, and Amber Lockring called her a freak, so I twisted Amber’s arm behind her hard until she took it back. I don’t know if I ever told Violet about that. She was so scared, like all the other new arrivals, and I didn’t want her to feel even more different. We all felt different at first. Southgate may as well have been an entirely new universe compared with the rest of the Marsh. I saw her and knew I wanted to protect her. I knew we would be friends.

But I can’t protect Violet from this. I can’t even protect myself. “Sold!” the auctioneer cries and I’m yanked back to the present. “Sold for three million five hundred thousand diamantes. To the Countess of the Stone.”

No. I almost can’t believe it. Of all the royals in this room, why did it have to be her?

But the last thing I see as the X I am standing on sinks below the stage is the Countess’s eyes, alight with a sick pleasure.

“I am Raven Stirling,” I say, but I may as well be talking to the wind. No one hears. No one cares.

The platform I’m standing on travels down deep below the stage. I look up and see a circle of light where my X used to be. Then another platform eclipses it until the darkness around me is complete. But not before I hear the auctioneer announce, “And next up, ladies, we have Lot 193. Lot 193, please take your mark.”

I wonder who Lot 193 is. Maybe that blond girl with the hair that looked like she’d stuck her finger in an electrical socket.

I stop moving. I’m in an empty room with bare concrete walls, circular like the stage above it. Doors are scattered around, all closed, all leading to who knows what or where. I’m clenching my jaw so tightly my head is starting to hurt.

Suddenly, a woman in a gray dress is standing in front of me. “Lot 192?” Her eyes dart between me and a clipboard clutched in her hands.

I nod.

“Countess of the Stone,” she says. “This way.”

I follow her through one of the doors and down a hallway lit with flickering torches. We enter a small, domed room made of octagonal stones. The only furniture is a simple table and chair. A fire burns in a grate to my left. A lumpy thing on the table covered in black cloth holds my attention.

“Sit,” the woman says.

“I’ll stand.” I hate the tremble in my voice. Reality is clawing its way to the surface and I push it down. This is just a room. With a table and a fire. Nothing to be afraid of.

The woman frowns.

“Very well,” she says. She unwraps the cloth to reveal a blue vial and a syringe. “The royalty says that no surrogate is allowed to see her way into or out of the Auction House. I promise this won’t hurt you.”

“Right,” I say, making sure I’m heavy on the sarcasm. I’ll take even the illusion of control at this point, because I can’t stop staring at that syringe.

The woman does not seem particularly surprised or offended. Instead she just looks at me, like a parent waiting for a toddler to stop throwing a tantrum. I clench my jaw tighter and my head throbs.

When she’s satisfied that I’m not going to speak again, she continues.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, it’s up to you—I know they don’t give you a choice on your way in. The easy way is, you let me put you to sleep. The hard way is, I press a button and four Regimentals come through that door and hold you down, and then I put you to sleep anyway. Do you understand?”

I understand.

I am sold.

Sold. I can’t ignore it anymore. I am someone’s property. And for all my mantras and all my false bravado, I am just one of two hundred. I don’t have any control over what happens to my life or my body after this moment; and I am so scared and I don’t want to be scared, I want to be mad.

This woman can take her easy way and shove it.

“I’ll take the hard way,” I say.

Then I wind up and hit her hard in the face.

It feels so good, my hand connecting with her jaw, even as it sends a shooting pain through my knuckles. She falls back against the table and lunges forward, and at first I think she’s going to hit me, but she pushes me aside and presses something by the door.

I don’t know where those Regimentals were hiding—I didn’t see any trace of a door on my way here—but they burst into the room like they were waiting outside the whole time. I recognize the man who took me from prep.

One grabs my neck as I kick out, my foot connecting with a knee. But the Regimental may as well be made of stone for all the good it does. They wrestle me to the floor, holding my legs and arms down, my cheek pressing against the cold cement ground.

“Get off me!” I shriek.

“Keep her still,” the woman says, and she sounds almost bored. I fleetingly wonder whether she gets punched in the face often, before I feel a needle sink into my arm. And then the world goes black.

Two

“SHE’S WAKING UP. GO.”

I hear a door open as my brain swims out of a drug-induced sleep. My eyelids feel like they’ve been glued together. I try to sense where I am. I’m not wearing that awful kimono anymore—there is a breeze on my arms and legs, and whatever I’m dressed in is light, like cotton. Hard floor beneath me. Stale scent in the air. I would have thought the Jewel would smell better.

“I know you’re awake, so don’t bother pretending otherwise.”

The voice has a strange quality—too high for a man’s, but too low for a woman’s. I peel my eyes open.

The first thing I see are the bars. Thin golden bars curve around me, forming a point above my head. I sit up.

I’m in a cage. Or, more accurately, a human-size birdcage.

It’s about as long as I am tall, but not nearly high enough for me to stand up. The gold bars are engraved with delicate, swirling patterns and occasionally studded with gemstones. There is a gilded padlock on the door at one end and a bowl of water at the other.

A bowl. Like I’m a dog.

“Welcome to the palace of the Stone.”

My head whips around, locating the source of the strange voice. He sits in a chair several feet away from me, wearing a long white dress with a high lace collar. His head is shaved except for a circle on the crown of his head, which boasts a dark-blond topknot. He has an unpleasant face—beaked nose, small dark eyes, and a mouth that turns down.

A lady-in-waiting. I wonder if he was the one Violet had as a prep artist.

For several long minutes, we watch each other. Then my stomach growls loudly. A dull flush creeps up the back of my neck.

“Hungry?” he asks.

I don’t reply.

“Why don’t you have a drink of water,” the lady-in-waiting says, nodding toward the bowl.

I look away. My mouth is parched, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me drink like an animal. Unfortunately, looking away from him means taking in the rest of the room.

It’s devoid of furniture except the one chair that the lady-in-waiting occupies. There is a single, circular window set high up in the wall opposite me. It’s crisscrossed with thick iron bars, unlike the ones on this cage. The light is a dark yellow, so the sun must be close to setting. And I can see little spiky things poking up at the bottom of the window. Grass maybe?

Am I underground?

But whatever unease I have about being kept in some psycho royal’s basement pales in comparison to the sharp slice of fear that cuts through me when I see the wall to my left.

The wall itself is made of cold gray stone, like the floor. Everything in this dungeon is dark and dank except for the cage I’m stuck in, and the row of instruments lining that wall.

There are a series of four glittering rods, hung up in decreasing length. The longest has a metal circle fashioned on the end of it, engraved like the bars on my cage. The shortest one has a blade. Next, there are three delicate chains, hanging by artfully wrought silver circles that also decrease in size. Then two lengths of rope, made of a silky white material. Last, and worst, some sort of helmet, beautifully crafted out of gold and copper and adorned with jewels.

“Do you like my collection?” the lady-in-waiting asks. I try to keep my expression neutral, but honestly, my heart is pounding in my throat. When I meet his eyes, I know he sees I’m scared. His mouth curves up, which is even creepier than when it curves down. “I made them all myself.”

“Was that before or after you got your balls cut off?” I snap.

His eyes widen a fraction, but he doesn’t look upset or insulted. In fact, his smile becomes even wider. I can see his teeth. His gums are bloodred.

“Oh, my lady chose wisely this year,” he murmurs. “Very wisely indeed.”

As if on cue, the door opens and the Countess of the Stone saunters in. She is a woman who I imagine can really make an entrance in any situation, but she is particularly impressive when entering a dungeon. She wears a bright yellow gown, tighter than I think it needs to be. Flesh bulges out at her waist and on her thighs and arms. It reminds me of the time my sister Sable tried to teach me how to make bread—the Countess’s skin has the same color and consistency as the dough.

“How is it doing so far, Frederic?” she asks, after a cursory glance in my direction.

My spine stiffens at the word it.

“You will be very pleased, my lady. I think you may have finally found what you are looking for.” Frederic bows low.

“Good. When I saw it onstage, I knew I had to have it. Tell Emile it must look stunning for tonight.”

I can’t stand being called it one more time. I grab the bars and hoist myself up on my knees. An emerald digs into my palm.

“My name is Raven Stirling!” I shout. “And I am stronger than you!”

I regret that last part immediately as I say it. It makes me sound as pathetic as I feel.

The Countess turns her formidable gaze on me, but I won’t shy away. She can put me in a cage, but she can’t take away who I am.

She walks forward slowly, enjoying every step, and when she gets close, she bends down so our eyes are level.

“You have no name,” she says in a voice so soft it’s almost like a mother’s coo. “You have no strength. You are mine now.”

“I belong to no one,” I say.

Frederic chuckles. But the Countess just shrugs and turns away. “Time will tell,” she says as she walks to the door. Then she stops and turns. “Just a pinch, Frederic.”

He bows again. “Of course, my lady.”

I catch a glimpse of white fabric in the hall outside before the door closes and Frederic turns to me. “Let us see how strong you really are.”

He walks to the wall of torture—I really shouldn’t call it that, even in my head; it just makes it worse—and carefully selects the third-longest rod. There is a tight barb on the end of it, about the size and shape of a large pea, nestled in a ring of diamonds. My heart is pounding everywhere now, not just in my throat, but my stomach and my toes and between my eyes. I scoot away from him, as far back as I can go, which isn’t far.

Frederic smiles that awful, bloody-gummed smile. “Nowhere to run, poppet,” he says.

And just like that, I freeze. Running makes him happy. Fear gives him power. Fine. I become a statue, only my eyes moving, as he circles around to the right-hand side of the cage. The tunic I’ve been dressed in barely covers my thighs, but this is no time for modesty. I force myself to remain still and calm.

Still and calm.

I will be brave.

He studies me, and for one brief second I think I can taste victory because I feel how badly he wants me to fight or cry or beg or plead. He runs his fingers along the rod, a frown creasing his smooth skin.

He cannot own me. He can’t make me frightened if I choose not to be. I still have that power, as fragile and delicate as it might be.

And just to play with him, I smile.

The rod flies through the bars, quick as a whip, and the barb burrows itself between my big and second toe. I can’t control the shriek of agony that bursts out of me. Blood gushes, hot and wet under my foot.

Then the barb is ripped out, taking a chunk of flesh with it. My shriek becomes a howl and I roll on my side, grabbing my injured foot. My toes are on fire.

Frederic hangs the rod back on the wall without even cleaning it.

“Just a reminder,” he says lightly. And without another word, he turns and strides out the door.

I bite my lip so hard I’ll probably break the skin, but I don’t want to let another scream out. I press my face hard against the cold floor, my hands slippery with blood.

I won’t cry. I won’t.

But the tears come anyway.

I try to control my breathing, to focus on my lungs taking air in and pushing it out. My heart beats in time with the throbbing of my foot.

It occurs to me then that this might be happening to Violet.

This might be happening to Lily.

Lily was always more Violet’s friend than mine. She was too open, too excited about being a surrogate for me to truly like her. But she wasn’t a bad person. Is someone somewhere stabbing Lily in the foot? Slicing through her skin? I imagine she’s in the Bank, what with her low lot number. Will that be enough to save her?

The door opens again, and I selfishly pull my thoughts away from my friends because no matter how brave I want to be, I am terrified that Frederic will hurt me again. I grit my teeth and prepare for pain. I won’t look at him. This time, he won’t hear me scream.

“Hello.” The voice is hesitant, but musical. Again, I can’t tell if it’s a man’s or woman’s. But it’s definitely not Frederic.

There is the clang of metal on metal and the click of a lock.

“Come,” the voice says. “Don’t you want to get out of this cage?”

That makes me lift my head.

A boy, maybe my age or a few years older, is crouched at the now-open door of my cage. His skin is several shades darker than mine, but his eyes are blue and shaped like sideways teardrops. He has thick, kinky black hair that is tied up in a bun on top of his head, but he wears the garb of the ladies-in-waiting, a long white dress with a high lace collar.

He frowns at my bleeding foot.

“Oh dear.” He glances at the vast array of silver instruments hanging on the wall and I get the sense he is familiar with them and that that barb means something to him. Then he smiles and holds out a hand. “My name is Emile. I won’t hurt you, I promise. That’s not my job.”

I don’t trust him. I can’t. I can’t trust anyone here.

But I don’t want to stay in this cage.

I don’t take his hand. “Back off,” I say.

He nods and moves away, leaving the cage door open so I can crawl through it. Each movement is like glass slicing between my injured toes.

I hoist myself up to stand, my joints creaking. I’m taller than he is. He smiles at me.

“I can fix that when we get to the powder room,” he says, nodding to my injured foot. “Would you like me to carry you?”

He doesn’t look that strong, but it’s not fear of being dropped that makes me shake my head.

As long as I can still make choices, I can still be me.

“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth.

I thought he might be impressed by my grit. Instead, his face falls in a look of resigned disappointment.

“All right,” he says. “But my arm is here if you need it.”

“I don’t,” I mutter.

Three

BY THE TIME WE REACH THE THIRD STAIRCASE, MY HEAD is spinning and my vision is getting fuzzy. There is a light ringing in my ears. I so desperately want to grab Emile’s arm, to beg him to carry me, because the stairs are agony. So many of them, a mountain that never ends, and my foot screams at me to let him help, to just ask for a break, to beg him to make it stop.

But I don’t.

When we reach a spiral staircase, Emile turns to me.

“Last one,” he says.

I don’t know how, but I manage to nod. That one simple movement makes the world tilt.

One foot in front of the other. That’s all I think about.

When Emile opens the door at the top of the stairs, I want to cry with relief. But I’m brought up short by the room that spreads out in front of me.

It’s decorated in onyx and gold, large columns sprinkled throughout. There is a thick gold carpet on the floor, and an enormous bed with a white canopy and rich copper bedspread. Circular windows line the walls, though the room itself is shaped like a box. There is a gold-and-white-striped sofa and a polished mahogany table with matching chairs. A fireplace with a hearth of dark stone sits cold and empty off to my right. Gilt-framed paintings are interspersed among the windows, women in various gowns, some holding books, others seated at writing desks, one reaching into a silver dish of grapes.

As I stare at the paintings, I realize it’s the same woman represented over and over again.

I don’t realize that Emile has left my side until he comes back, holding a jar in one hand and a vial in the other.

“Why don’t you sit down right here,” he says.

“I’m fine,” I gasp. But my legs don’t listen. They slip out from under me, and suddenly I’m staring up at a ceiling painted with stars. Their points seem to wave at me. I want to wave back.

“You’ve lost a bit of blood,” Emile says.

The most wonderful sensation travels through my foot and up my leg, a cool numbness that dulls the pain instantly. I can’t help the grateful moan that escapes my lips. Strength floods back into my limbs, and I prop myself up on my elbows.

Emile has the vial in his hands. He opens the space between my toes and carefully administers one drop of black liquid on my wound. It’s like I can feel my skin knitting together. He applies another round of whatever the amazing cool stuff is in the jar, and the pain is gone. My skin is smooth and unblemished. As if there were never a wound in the first place.

My senses sharpen. I sit up. But the absence of pain makes me uneasy. It vanished too quickly, too completely. Almost like it wasn’t real.

“What is this place?” I ask, looking around at the room. Its beauty is making me uncomfortable. I don’t trust it.

“These are the surrogate quarters,” Emile says.

“Then . . . why was I in that cage?”

“Let’s get you ready for dinner,” Emile says, ignoring my question and standing up.

“I’m not having dinner with the Countess.” Though I have to admit, I am starving. But I’d rather starve than spend a meal with that woman.

Emile smiles. “You’re having dinner with the four Founding Houses and the Electress, actually.”

With everything that’s happened since I woke up, I’d sort of ignored the fact that I was bought by a Founding House. I wonder if there’s some sort of correlation between how high up in the royal hierarchy you are and how cruel you are to your surrogate.

I should have kept failing my Augury tests. I should have strived to be Lot 1.

“Is there any point in asking if I can just wear this?” I ask, tugging at the black tunic.

“No,” Emile says.

He turns and walks across the room, sliding open a panel I had mistaken for a wall to reveal rows and rows of glittering fabric.

I can’t help thinking about what Patience, the head caretaker at Southgate, said on Reckoning Day, when I hoped whoever bought me would let me wear pants.

I wouldn’t get your hopes up, dearie.

Wearing a dress is the least of my problems.

I don’t bother to look at what Emile pulls from the closet. I stare out the nearest window, where I can see curving spires of gold shooting up from behind a wall topped with spikes.

“This way, 192,” Emile says.

He’s standing in the doorway to a lavish powder room, all white marble embellished with gold and silver.

“My name is Raven,” I say, marching past him because honestly, I am dying for a bath. But the tub is too small to lie down in, and there is no curtain around it. Just a large tap hanging from the ceiling. It looks like a lamp. Emile pulls a lever and a waterfall explodes out of it.

“I assume you’ve never taken a shower before, 192?”

“No,” I say, not missing the fact that he’s ignored my name.

“I think you’ll enjoy it.”

I stand there awkwardly for a moment, waiting for him to leave. He hangs the dress I’ll be forced to wear tonight on the wall of the powder room, then turns back to me. He seems surprised to find me dry and still clothed.

“Aren’t you going to get in?” he says.

“Aren’t you going to leave?” I ask.

His mouth tightens ever so slightly. “No.”

I don’t know what to do. The only man I’ve ever been naked in front of is Dr. Steele, and at least then I had a robe and it was only for a few seconds.

My hands shake as I pull the tunic over my head. The cool air sends a flurry of goose bumps across my stomach. I force myself not to look at Emile as I step into the shower. The water runs through my hair, down my shoulders and back, over my breasts and waist and thighs and knees down to my feet, a constant reminder that every inch of me is exposed. I don’t know how to be brave like this. I face away from Emile because it’s the only way to protect myself, but I am naked in every way, because this is private and he should not be here watching me. I feel violated, like my skin has been opened up and my insides are laid bare for all to see.

I can’t enjoy the heat of the water or the scent of the soap. I just want this to be over.

As soon as my hair is rinsed, the shower turns off and Emile appears in front of me holding a towel. I wrap it around myself as tight as I can, tighter than it should be, so that it’s almost hard to breathe. My legs tremble as I step out of the tiny tub. He has a smaller towel that he rubs my head with until my hair is reasonably dry. Then he hands me the dress. It’s similar to the one I wore at the Auction, but not nearly as costumelike. The material is silky and it fits my body as if it were made for me.

I’m just grateful to be wearing clothes again. My breathing slows. The muscles in my shoulders relax a fraction.

“Time for hair and makeup,” Emile says, beckoning me to follow him.

It takes forever to get me ready because, like in the prep room, I’m just not very good at sitting still. At least Emile doesn’t threaten to tie me to the chair like my prep artist did. And he doesn’t make me look like some sort of carnival creature. His touch is quite light, gold on my eyes, a pink flush to my lips, and it’s really not so bad just sitting in this opulent room. By the end of the session I finally feel recovered from that horrible shower. When I see my reflection I grudgingly have to admit that I look pretty good.

“Done,” he says. I sigh with relief just as the door opens.

All my muscles tense back up as Frederic enters the room. He is carrying what looks like a long silver necklace in one hand and a piece of black ribbon in the other.

“Is it ready?” he asks.

Emile simply bows low and extends one hand in my direction. Frederic sniffs.

“It will suffice,” he says.

He moves forward, like he’s examining me closer. Then in one swift motion, he’s fastened a collar around my neck.

“What—” I pull at the collar as Frederic hands a thin chain to Emile.

“Hold it tight,” he says.

I’m on a leash.

“No!” I cry. I scratch at the metal around my neck, yanking hard as my nails cut into my skin.

“I said hold it tight, Emile,” Frederic snaps and suddenly my neck is jerked backward and I can’t breathe. In the same moment, I feel something cold lock around one wrist, then the other. The pressure on my neck disappears and I gasp for air. My hands are shackled with probably the most artfully crafted handcuffs in the world. Engraved silver fish swim in a sea of sapphires.

“Are you going to be a good girl now?” Frederic says. His repulsive beaked nose is only inches from mine.

I’m not anyone’s good girl. Least of all his.

I spit in his face.

He chuckles and takes a handkerchief out of the pocket of his dress to wipe it off. “If I didn’t know better,” he says, “I’d think you enjoy being punished.”

There is something lecherous in his tone, something that makes me feel more naked than showering in front of Emile.

He holds his hand out and Emile takes the black ribbon from him. The last thing I see before it loops around my head, covering my eyes, is Frederic fingering the delicate leash.

Then my sight is gone. There is a sharp tug on my neck.

“Let’s get going,” Frederic says. “We don’t want to be late.”

I AM LED THROUGH THE COUNTESS’S PALACE, BLINDFOLDED, on a leash.

I thought the doctor’s appointments at Southgate were bad. Or the Augury lessons. Or the prep room. They were nothing compared to this. How many more humiliations do I have to suffer? I’ve only been here a day.

To counteract my blindness, I have to keep my hands out in front of me to make sure I don’t hit anything, which makes me look and feel stupid. Stairs are especially treacherous. I don’t trust Frederic one iota, so with each step I feel like the floor might just vanish beneath me. I wouldn’t be surprised if this palace had trapdoors or endless chasms or other awful things.

And I hear whispers. Everything will be quiet and then suddenly we’ll turn a corner and there will be footsteps and voices.

“There it is.”

“It’s taller than the last one.”

“Prettier, too.”

“Oh, look, it tripped.”

And then we’ll turn another corner and the snickers will fade away, leaving a dark blush on my cheeks and a squirming in my stomach.

It’s also unnerving that every voice I hear is male.

Suddenly, there’s a cool gust of air on my face.

“Put it in the car, Frederic.” The Countess’s voice makes my skin prickle. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I can’t see her.

Frederic tugs me along, the metal leash digging into the back of my neck. Then his hand is on my head, pushing it down. “Get in,” he says.

I reach out with my hands to keep myself from falling and they land on something smooth that smells like leather.

“This would be easier if I wasn’t blindfolded,” I mumble, stumbling on the hem of my dress as I get into whatever mode of transportation this is. A door on the other side of me opens and closes and judging by the way the seat sinks down, I’m guessing the Countess just got in. I can feel her presence next to me and shrink away from it.

“Go,” is all she says. An engine starts and then we’re moving.

It’s very different from the electric stagecoach that took me to my house on Reckoning Day. It feels like we’re gliding instead of driving. Maybe we are. I wouldn’t know.

We drive in circles for a while, until I’ve lost all sense of direction. The silence in the car is interrupted only once.

“She must be quite confident,” Frederic says. “It’s been nineteen years.”

“Her theory is flawed,” the Countess says. “We are going to prove that to her.”

Whatever we are traveling in slows and the ground underneath us becomes uneven—gravel maybe? Then we come to a stop. The door on my side opens.

“Does she require assistance?” an unfamiliar, wheezy voice asks.

“Not at all,” Frederic replies.

There’s a yank on my leash and I stumble out into fresh air.

“Watch the stairs,” Frederic says. At first, I don’t think he’s talking to me, but then my foot connects with the hard edge of a step. I count them—five stairs, but they are long, so we’re not going up very much. I walk forward over a smooth surface that makes my footsteps echo. I think I hear running water.

The blindfold is removed.

The light around me is soft, but I still have to blink as my eyes adjust. I’m standing in a large foyer with a fountain in its center. An old man in a coat with tails is taking the Countess’s cloak.

“This way,” he says. We walk down a hall decorated with large oil paintings. The old man stops in front of a closed door and turns to Frederic.

“You may wait in here,” he says.

Frederic nods and moves forward, but the old man clears his throat.

“Her ladyship requests that all accessories be removed prior to entering the dining room,” he says.

Frederic raises an eyebrow, but the Countess merely chuckles.

“Of course,” she says. “Whatever our gracious host desires.”

Frederic reluctantly removes my handcuffs and leash. I rub my neck.

He disappears into the room—I see a glimpse of more white dresses before the door closes behind him. The Countess, the old man, and I continue walking. We come to a set of double doors, guarded by a footman, who springs to attention as we approach.

“One moment,” the Countess says as the footman moves to open the doors. She turns to me. “You will not speak. You will not eat more than three bites of anything that is served. Three. I will be counting. Do not try to communicate with the other surrogates in any way. Break any of these rules and I will cut out your tongue. Do you understand me?”

I nod right away, partly because I believe she’ll actually do it, and partly because she said other surrogates. There are other surrogates here. Could I be lucky enough to see Violet so soon?

“Good,” she says.

The footman opens the doors.

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

Four

WE ENTER AN ENORMOUS DINING ROOM.

The walls are maroon and there are candles covering every available surface, as well as filling the chandelier hanging above our heads. All the wood is dark and polished to a high sheen. It’s as if the decorator were going for a look that said, “I am powerful and evil.” Which, who knows, the woman who owns this place probably is. There are lots of fancy flower arrangements, and a table with bottles of liquor, and large windows, but my main focus is on the other people in the room.

The other surrogates, really. I couldn’t care less about the royalty.

I recognize both of them from the Waiting Room. One is the blonde whose stylist felt compelled to create a giant beehive on the top of her head. She looks a lot more normal now, her hair falling down her back in big bouncy curls. The other one, the dark-skinned girl with all the braids who seems like she could kill you just by looking at you, is standing beside an old woman in a red dress. Unsurprisingly, she glares at me when we make eye contact. Or maybe not. Maybe her face is just stuck like that.

No Violet.

I shouldn’t be disappointed.

A young woman, with skin nearly as dark as Cranky Face, swoops over to the Countess and plants a kiss on either cheek. Just touching the Countess’s skin seems repulsive, but kissing her? I think I might throw up.

“Ebony,” she exclaims. “I am so glad you came.”

The Countess smiles. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you to face this dinner alone, Alexandrite.”

Ugh, where do they come up with these names?

“She must be very confident this year,” the younger royal says.

“I am not concerned,” the Countess replies.

The other woman looks me over, much the way a farmer might examine a horse. “She’s so thin,” she says. “Are you sure she can handle it?”

“Physical strength isn’t as important as mental fortification,” the Countess says. “I’m sure Dr. Falme will have no trouble with fertilization.”

The word makes me itch, like a spider crawling up my back. But I can’t help noticing this woman didn’t refer to me as it. Does no one else call their surrogates that? It occurs to me that I might have gotten the absolute worst royal in the entire Jewel. That what I’ve gone through today is, in fact, not the norm.

Or maybe it’s just not polite to call your surrogate it in public.

The door we came in through opens again and the footman practically shouts at us with excitement.

“Her Royal Grace, the Electress. And surrogate.”

In unison, the royal women sink into a curtsy. Blondie, Cranky Face, and I follow suit. This dress is really too tight to be curtsying in. And I never got the hang of all that stupid etiquette stuff anyway.

“Ebony,” the Electress says once it’s clear we’re allowed to straighten up. “How lovely to see you again so soon.”

“An honor, Your Grace,” the Countess says. “And congratulations on securing the highest lot in the Auction.”

I want to snort out loud. Right. Like it was some big competition. Who would bid against the Electress anyway?

But then I see the tiny figure hovering behind the Electress’s blindingly pink dress, and it feels like something gets stuck in my throat.

I know that girl. I saw her in the Waiting Room. She was the one who looked so plain. She was Lot 200? She can’t be more than thirteen.

The old man who led us here enters silently and skirts the edge of the dining room before disappearing through another door.

“How long do you think she’ll keep us waiting?” the Electress asks.

“She was most likely waiting for your arrival, Your Grace,” the Countess says.

The old man comes back and creeps along the wall and out the double doors. A second later, footmen file in and stand like statues at various points around the room. No one besides the surrogates pays them any attention.

“Absolutely appalling behavior at the Auction,” the Electress says.

“She likely bribed the Auctioneer,” the Countess replies.

“Well, it was very unsportsmanlike. Perhaps the rules should be tightened a bit next year.”

“One step at a time, Your Grace.”

The other royal, the young one, hovers around the edge of this conversation, clearly hoping to be invited in. The Countess and the Electress either don’t notice or pretend not to.

The door on the other side of the room opens.

A woman walks in. She wears a beautiful blue silk dress and has skin and eyes and hair like mine. Her face is pretty, but scary pretty. Like an ice sculpture or a panther.

And then I could care less about her because Violet is walking into the room behind her.

Violet!

I want to shout her name, I want to run and throw my arms around her and feel that she’s safe. Is she being kept in a cage, too? Is this frighteningly beautiful royal hurting her behind these papered, candlelit walls?

Violet sees me and her whole face lights up. She looks stunning, as usual. Like she did at the Auction but fancier. The glittering purple of her gown makes her eyes glow.

I can feel how badly she wants what I want, to talk, to hug, to laugh at the incredible chance that we get to see each other so soon. In this moment, I regret what I thought earlier, wanting to have been Lot 1. Violet and I are smart and strong and because of that we were bought by Founding Houses. We are together, at least in some way. A team, just like we’ve always been.

It takes me a second to process what I’ve been missing.

Hope.

As long as I have that, I’ll be all right. Hope is as simple as seeing my best friend.

“Good evening, ladies,” Violet’s mistress calls to the room at large. She turns to the Electress. “Your Royal Grace. I am honored you chose to attend my small dinner. I know you had many invitations.”

She sinks into a low curtsy. I barely suppress my groan, and nearly fall over as we all have to curtsy again.

I know I look ridiculous because when I glance at Violet, she’s clearly laughing inside. I grin.

Remember that time Lily tried to teach me to curtsy? I want to say. Remember how you nearly had a fit you were laughing so hard?

“It is my pleasure,” the Electress says. Her voice is chirpy, like a sparrow. “I couldn’t pass up a dinner with the ladies of the four Founding Houses. Shall we sit?”

Violet’s ice-faced mistress looks supremely angry at being ordered around in her own house, but she recovers quickly.

“Of course,” she says. Her smile is creepy; it looks so sincere and yet it is clearly not.

Honestly, I’ve ignored everything I can about the royalty, except what I couldn’t tune out when Lily went on and on about them. I failed Royal Culture and Lifestyle five times at Southgate.

There are two Duchesses and two Countesses. I remember that, but that’s about it.

The footmen surrounding us spring to life, pulling out chairs, and I sit down beside the Countess and stare at the most puzzling place setting I’ve ever seen. Who needs this many forks? One would be sufficient.

“I must admit, Pearl, I’m surprised we’re here at all,” the Countess says to Violet’s mistress. “How long has it been since you last bought a surrogate?”

Violet’s mistress shoots the Countess a look that would give that cranky-faced surrogate a run for her money. “Why, Ebony, don’t pretend as if you honestly don’t know the answer to that.”

“Not since your son was born, isn’t that right, Pearl?” the Electress chirrups. I don’t know how the Exetor can stand to listen to that voice all day. It would drive me mad. “Nineteen years is a long time to wait. What admirable patience you have!”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Violet’s mistress replies.

The footmen return to serve the first course and my stomach practically roars. It’s some sort of salad, with pears or something. I don’t care. I want to plant my face in it.

I’ve already stuffed two bites in my mouth when the Countess, very, very softly, clears her throat.

A warning.

Only one bite left.

I swallow hard and put my fork down. I’m afraid if I take another mouthful, I’ll gobble the whole thing up.

“Tell me, Alexandrite,” the Electress says to the royal who got shut out of the conversation earlier, “how did you enjoy the Auction? I know it was your first time.”

The second course is served, some slices of dark meat and fruit on frizzy greens.

I have an idea. Three bites, she said?

Very carefully, I divide the plate into three equal pieces. Then I load up my fork and shovel a giant helping into my mouth.

It’s duck, and figs, and a dressing that’s sweet and sour at the same time, and it’s amazing. My cheeks are puffed out and it’s hard to chew; there’s so much food. The Countess glances at my plate and her mouth turns down. Ha. She never specified how big my bites could be.

I swallow and lick my lips.

“Oh, it was marvelous,” the woman gushes. Clearly, she’s just happy to be included—she’s almost bouncing up and down on her chair. “The Duke of the Scales was so pleased that I was able to return home with such an impressive surrogate. He is certain our daughter will be perfect.”

I hazard another glance at Violet as I prepare my second bite. She’s studying the royals, looking back and forth between the Countess and the old woman in the red dress. Probably figuring out who is who. Unless she has already. I just can’t bring myself to care.

Something clicks behind Violet’s eyes, a look I’ve seen before when she would advance up an Augury level or master a difficult phrase on the cello. She’s figured it out. I bet she knows who everyone at this table is now.

If I could talk to her. Even for a second. If I could just hear her voice again.

“It seems as though everyone who can is having a daughter this year!” the Electress exclaims.

“No doubt the recent birth of your son has had great influence over the ladies of the Jewel,” Violet’s mistress says in a dry tone.

The Electress’s laugh is more annoying than her voice, if that’s possible. “Oh yes, I suppose that is true. And the Exetor wishes to get little Larimar betrothed as soon as possible.”

I stuff my second bite of duck into my mouth.

“He must, Your Grace,” Violet’s mistress says. “Once he announces your son as heir to the throne—as we all expect him to do at the Exetor’s Ball—the child must be betrothed within a year. It’s the law.”

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

“And yet you bought a surrogate,” the old woman in red says. Her voice has more authority than her wrinkled skin and white hair would imply. “Why have a daughter so soon?”

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

She clearly aims her little speech at Violet’s mistress, but every royal at the table looks like they’ve just bitten into a lemon. A muscle in the Countess’s jaw is twitching. I prepare my last bite of duck with a gloating sense of satisfaction.

Violet’s mistress doesn’t take the bait. “Whatever Your Grace thinks is best,” she says in a deceptively warm voice. She looks at the Countess. “And what about you, Ebony? Will the House of the Stone be welcoming a daughter along with everyone else? Or will we be seeing you again at next year’s Auction?”

Again? That sounds ominous. How many surrogates has the Countess had? And . . . what happened to them? I pause, my fork on my plate, my stomach suddenly feeling uncomfortably full.

The Countess pops a fig in her mouth and chews it slowly. “Oh yes, I believe I will start with a daughter,” she says. “Boys can be so terribly difficult, don’t you think?”

Violet’s mistress blushes and the Electress giggles.

“Yes,” she says. “How is Garnet, by the way? Keeping out of trouble, I hope?”

Garnet. Another stupid Jewel name. You can’t even tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

“He is in his room at the moment,” Violet’s mistress says tersely. “Studying.”

Suddenly, the double doors burst open and a young man staggers in. His skin is pale and his blond hair is slicked back except for a few unruly locks that have fallen in his eyes. His shoulders are broad and his shirt is partially unbuttoned. He has the air of someone who knows how good-looking he is.

“Mother!” he cries, raising his empty glass toward Violet’s mistress, so I assume he’s her son. His gaze is unfocused as it slides around the rest of the room, like he’s only just noticed there are other people here. “I beg your pardon, ladies. Didn’t realize there was a dinner party tonight.”

His eyes land on Violet and I stiffen.

He’d better keep his hands off her.

“Oh, right,” he says. “The Auction.”

The Electress and that sad, not-popular Duchess are laughing into their napkins. The Countess looks smug, an expression that only accentuates the cruelness in her eyes and mouth.

“Garnet, my darling,” Violet’s mistress says in a voice like razor blades. “What are you doing?”

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

While I don’t particularly like this guy, I have to applaud his audacity. He swaggers over to the bar cart and pours himself a generous helping of what I’d guess is whiskey. Violet’s mistress is on her feet in an instant.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” she says, gliding over to her son and grabbing his arm. I hear him mumble “Ow” as she marches him out of the room.

“And that, ladies, is why I feel this city should be left in the hands of a woman!” the Electress exclaims.

The unpopular Duchess and the Countess explode with laughter. The Countess laughing is similar to what I imagine a seal being clubbed over the head would sound like. It’s not a happy sound. It’s big and loud and painful to listen to.

Violet’s eyes meet mine. I give her a look that tries to say, “What is wrong with these people?” Her lips press together like she’s fighting a smile. She gives me a tiny nod.

That nod fills me up more than any pear salad or roast duck ever could.

The Countess can tell me not to talk or eat but she can’t take away this friendship. That is not in her power.

“But that decision is not up to you,” the old woman in red says to the Electress. “It is the Exetor’s choice, since the line passed through him.”

Ugh, are we still talking about babies? There must be other things they could discuss. Hasn’t anyone, I don’t know, gotten killed in duel recently? That sounds like something that would happen here.

“Of course,” the woman continues, taking a small bite of frizzy lettuce. “You are only a recent addition to the Royal Palace. Perhaps the subtleties of royal succession have not fully been explained.”

So, after babies, the second most popular topic is reminding the Electress that she wasn’t born in the Jewel. This seems exhausting. I thought dinner parties were supposed to be fun.

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

Violet blushes, because that’s what Violet does when sex is mentioned, but I have to give credit to the Electress. She certainly made the conversation more interesting.

Footmen come in to clear the plates, and I see Violet shovel a few forkfuls of duck into her mouth. I wonder if she was given the same instructions I was, but her mistress is out of the room, so she’s cheating. Good for her.

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

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

I’ve pretty much ignored the other surrogates, focusing only on Violet, but now I turn my attention to the young girl seated at the Electress’s side. Her vibrant red hair is piled up in curls on top of her head, and a soft golden gown is draped around her wiry frame. It’s like the Electress was trying to make her appear older, but instead created the opposite effect. She looks like a child who got into her mother’s closet.

I don’t even know her name. I wish I’d thought to ask when I saw her in the Waiting Room. I should have thought to ask.

Then I’m distracted because there’s more food—salmon this time—being put in front of me.

Violet’s mistress returns and curtsies to the Electress.

“My apologies, Your Grace.”

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

I load up my fork with salmon, raise it almost to my mouth, then put it back down. I repeat the action again. And again. Technically, this is not against the rules. I haven’t taken a bite yet. But the Countess shifts a bit in her chair. Good. She’s noticed.

Violet is eyeing her mistress with a look of strained impatience. I wonder again what instructions she’s been given as I finally eat the bite of salmon.

Then her face lights up at something behind me. I turn and see another lady-in-waiting enter the room. He’s younger than Frederic but older than Emile. And judging by the look on Violet’s face, I’m willing to bet this was her prep artist.

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

“Of course, my lady.” He places a silver bowl and a walnut on the table, then moves back to stand against the wall. I hold my breath, looking from the walnut to the girl and back again.

I hope the Electress doesn’t make her do what I think she’s going to make her do.

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

The poor girl’s lip trembles as she picks up the walnut.

Don’t do it, I think. Don’t give her what she wants.

Nothing happens and for a second I think maybe this girl has somehow heard my thoughts. Then the Electress’s eyes narrow and I understand. She’s not being defiant. She’s simply terrified.

“Go on,” the Electress says in a sharper tone, and I picture this tiny thing locked in a cage with a barb sticking in her foot. I cross my fingers under the table and hope that whatever Augury she performs, she performs exceptionally.

The girl’s fingers close around the walnut, and when she opens them, it’s turned slightly transparent, like brown glass.

The second Augury, then. Shape.

Her face wrinkles in concentration. The walnut ripples, shifting and stretching as she focuses on the shape she wants it to take. When she holds up a miniature figurine of the Electress, perfect in every detail, my mouth literally falls open. It’s an incredibly difficult feat. She must be in a lot of pain.

Sure enough, she cries out, drops the statue, and grabs the silver bowl, vomiting.

As if that weren’t horrific enough to watch, the royal women begin to clap.

“Isn’t it marvelous?” the Electress says gaily. Her lady-in-waiting glides forward to collect the bowl and the walnut figurine. As he bends down, I see him slip her a handkerchief to clean up the blood from her nose and mouth.

Kind, Violet called him. Kind, indeed.

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

“Yes, my lady.” As he turns to leave, his eyes rest on Violet and I think the shadow of a smile pulls at his lips. I find myself wishing he worked for the House of the Stone.

“An impressive exhibition,” Violet’s mistress says, cutting into her salmon. “Though you may want to keep your best linens away from her.”

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

Violet’s mistress dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “You may want to warm her up a bit before forcing her to sprint.”

It’s getting harder and harder not to scream at these people. It’s as if they had no idea what it means to be a human being.

I may not have their wealth or power or fame. I may be forced to play by their rules. But no matter how they treat me, they can’t make me less than I am.

I am a person. I am Raven Stirling.

They are monsters.

“I will keep that in mind,” the Electress says. She pats the top of her surrogate’s head like she’s patting a dog.

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

I glare at this woman, waiting for her to produce a cello and force Violet to play in front of everyone. Violet’s music is beautiful and personal and hers. It does not belong to these women.

“That is something I would very much like to hear,” the Electress says. Violet glances at the door with a petrified expression. I imagine her thoughts are in line with mine.

But no cello appears and her mistress merely smiles. “I am certain, Your Grace, that someday you will.”

As relieved as I am that Violet isn’t being forced to perform like a trained monkey, a small part of me is disappointed. Because hearing her play would feel like home right now.

The tears that well up in my eyes catch me off guard and I blink them back. This is no time for crying.

The conversation continues about our abilities. It turns out Blondie is a dancer. Cranky Face doesn’t seem to have any skills, but the Countess brags about my talent at mathematics as if she actually knew something about me besides the fact that I don’t like pain and I have a temper. They talk about us like we can’t hear them, like we’re not there.

By the end of the dinner, I don’t have the energy to be angry anymore. I’m just exhausted.

The women all kiss one another’s cheeks as the ladies-in-waiting bring in their cloaks. My heart sinks at seeing Frederic again. I keep my gaze focused on Violet and hope that the “no accessories” rule holds so she doesn’t have to see me shackled and blindfolded.

I will see her again. We’re both in Founding Houses. I will see her again.

I think she smiles at me with her eyes.

Once I’m back in the foyer, the chains come out.

The other surrogates are put on leashes, too, but no one else wears manacles and a blindfold.

I do get a glimpse of what I’ve been riding around in. It’s a sleek black motorcar, the kind I’ve only ever seen in magazines, and I have to admit, it’s gorgeous.

We drive around in circles again, and then I’m led back into the palace of the Stone, a palace I haven’t even seen yet.

Halls. Stairs. I can smell the dungeon before we reach it, the air growing stale and musty. The blindfold comes off, along with the leash and handcuffs, and I’m forced back into the golden birdcage.

I want to scream something at Frederic, but he’s out the door before I can even draw breath.

I’m so thirsty, but there’s still only the lone bowl of water inside my cage. I sigh and move to pick it up.

It’s stuck.

I pull and pull, but it must be soldered to the floor.

I grit my teeth, hold back the tears, and bend over the bowl, lapping up the water with my tongue.

Five

I WAKE TO THE SOUND OF GROANING HINGES AND A DULL ache in my neck.

I must have slept on it wrong, though I’m not sure there’s a right way to sleep on a stone floor.

“Good morning,” Emile says. I sit up and rub my eyes, slippery with last night’s makeup. I look down; I’m still in the same dress, too. Now it’s wrinkled and dirty.

Good, I think. I rub my eyes a little more, smearing eye shadow and mascara over my cheeks.

“Never mind about the dress,” Emile says. “You won’t wear anything more than once.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I say, only half paying attention.

My eyes are focused on his hands. He’s carrying a silver dish with a matching cover and it looks like food. My stomach roars. Emile hears it.

“Yes, I imagine you didn’t get to eat much at the Duchess of the Lake’s dinner party last night.”

Somewhere in my brain, I note that Violet’s mistress is the Duchess of the Lake. But most of my mind is occupied with what might be underneath that silver cover. Emile opens the top half of the door to my cage and hands me the tray. I grab it, too hungry to be embarrassed, and throw the cover off. It hits the gold bars with a dull clang.

I stare at the tray, confused. There are exactly three peas, one slice of red apple, a bowl of clear broth, and half an onion roll.

My brain wants to be angry, but my stomach just wants everything in my mouth. I start with the roll—it is hot and fresh and oniony. Then the broth, which tastes salty and thin. Then the apple, crisp and sweet.

I don’t eat the peas. They feel like a reminder of the rules last night. Screw the Countess and her rules.

Emile watches me with an impassive expression, until I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and say, “Done.”

“You haven’t finished.”

“Yes. I have.”

He purses his lips. “You aren’t making things easy for yourself.”

I bark out a laugh at that. “In case you failed to notice, Emile, I’m in a cage. I was taken from my family when I was twelve and forced to endure pain and bleeding and vomiting just so I can bear some strange rich woman’s child. Now I’m here, and a psycho stabbed me with a barbed stick, and another psycho threatened to cut out my tongue last night. My life hasn’t been easy for a while.”

But that’s a lie. Southgate was bliss compared to this.

Emile’s face tightens. “We have all suffered, 192. You are not unique in that regard.”

He walks over and opens the door to the dungeon. Four Regimentals file in, forming a circle around my cage. I press myself against the bars until they cut into my back and shoulders. Emile removes one of the silver rods from the wall, the one with the circle on the end of it. He opens the door to my cage. My eyes dart from him to the Regimentals to the still-open door and back again.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t need this,” Emile says. “But I can see you do.”

Something in his bright blue eyes tells me he’s sorry. I hate him for it.

The rod shoots into the cage, the circle opening for the briefest second before clasping itself firmly around my neck. I grab the rod and try to yank it away, but Emile is stronger than he looks. He tugs and tugs and the metal bites at my neck as I’m drawn, slowly but surely, out of the cage. Once my head and shoulders are clear, two Regimentals grab me under my arms and haul me to my feet. They march me to the wall with the window, where two iron chains hang at hip height. I try to kick at them, at the wall, at Emile, at anything, but there are too many of them and my head is being forced into an odd angle. Once I’m chained up, they release me, and the metal circle unclasps from around my neck. Emile hangs it back on the wall, next to the barb still crusted with my blood and skin.

“Let me go!” There is about three feet of chain that tethers me to the wall by my wrists. I can only get so far in any direction. I struggle against the chains, pulling on them until the shackles leave cuts on my skin.

The worst part is, everyone just lets me go nuts. I scream and curse and fight, and all the while the four Regimentals and Emile watch from a distance with impassive expressions. Finally, I give up. I didn’t realize I was crying until I taste the saltiness of my tears. I just stand there, limp and empty, waiting, because something is coming next. I make sure to look each man staring at me in the eye. I won’t let them think they beat me.

Emile waits a few seconds, probably to make sure I won’t start fighting again.

“Keep still,” he says. “Or I will have to call Frederic in.” He moves close enough to me that I can smell his skin, fragrant and floral, like a woman. “You don’t want him here,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

The thought of Frederic’s bloody gums and beady eyes is enough to keep me still.

Emile leans forward. “I wish—” he begins, but whatever he wishes I don’t hear because the door opens again and the Countess of the Stone walks in.

This time, she wears a tight satin dress in a cherry blossom print. It looks entirely out of place on her, better suited to someone like Lily or that little girl surrogate the Electress bought.

She glances at my cage, where the peas are still sitting on the silver dish.

“I told you to feed it,” she says to Emile.

“I did, my lady.”

The Countess sighs. “Mother always said,” she mutters, “if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.”

With the barest of nods at one Regimental, my head is yanked back by my hair, so that I can’t see anything but the ceiling and my mouth is forced open. There’s a clang and a shuffling sound, and the peas fall onto my tongue. I want to spit them out, but the Countess’s hand, her thick fingers damp with sweat, covers my mouth and nose until I swallow.

“You eat what I tell you to eat, is that clear?” she says, as the Regimental releases his hold on my hair.

I glare at her. Her eyes flicker to the Regimental on my left. I see a flash of silver in his hand.

It’s a pair of scissors.

The Regimental kneels and cuts a thick ribbon of fabric from my dress, from the floor to the top of my thigh. It flutters to the ground and lies there, curled and twisted like a snake’s skin.

“You will eat what I tell you to eat, is that clear?” the Countess says again.

I can’t speak. My throat is frozen.

Snip, snip, snip.

A bigger piece of my dress is cut away. Practically my whole leg is exposed.

“Yes,” I gasp. Goose bumps blossom on my skin.

“Yes what?” the Countess asks with a sly smile.

“I’ll eat what you tell me to eat.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emile bite his lip.

“Good.” She turns to Emile and the Regimentals. “Get out.”

I may have some issues with Emile, but I do not want to be left alone with this woman.

I almost cry out for him as he leaves. But something tells me that if I want to see him again, the Countess cannot know that I like him. So I grit my teeth, swallow, and force myself to meet her eyes.

The Countess walks to the wall and fingers each instrument, every link in every chain, the length of rope, the different-size rods. When she gets to the helmet, she literally claps her hands to her chest, like she’s just received the best Longest Night gift ever.

“Oh, Frederic,” she murmurs. “You really have outdone yourself.”

She walks toward me, her nose wrinkling, maybe at the way I smell—having slept on a stone floor—or my smudged makeup or my wrinkled, ruined dress. She gets so close that I can see every fold and dimple of flesh. Her fingers are like sausages. Her arms are pale and flabby. She practically has a wattle on her neck.

“You are going to bear my child,” she says.

I flare my nostrils and glare at her. It’s all I can do.

She smiles. There’s a dimple in one cheek, which gives her a mocking impression of sweetness. “You never can tell at the Auction what a surrogate will be like. Some years I have been terribly disappointed. But I saw you and I just knew. Especially after that little show at dinner last night. I hope I have just showed you how serious I am about playing by the rules.”

“I only took three bites,” I insist.

She smirks. “Yes, you did. As you might have noticed, you still have your tongue. But I did not appreciate your attitude. Didn’t you like that nice hot shower yesterday? Wouldn’t you like more showers like that? Wouldn’t you like a soft bed to sleep on?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t want to admit that I would.

There is a gleam in the Countess’s eyes that makes my stomach crawl. They travel up and down my body slowly, resting for an uncomfortably long moment on my stomach. “You are so thin,” she says. “But I think we can make you thinner. My mother always said, an accomplishment without struggle is no accomplishment at all.”

The Countess grabs my face in one giant hand, her fingers digging into my cheeks so hard my skin starts to cut against my teeth. She forces my head back again, holding my forehead with her other hand so that my jaw is wrenched open. I don’t know what she’s looking at in my mouth, but with every ounce of strength I have I yank my head to the side and sink my teeth into her thumb.

She yowls and I delight in the sound for half a breath before my head slams into the wall behind me. Sparks explode in front of my eyes, the taste of blood filling my mouth.

“Frederic!” she screeches.

The door flies open as Frederic hurries into the room. “My lady, what has happened?”

“It bit me, Frederic,” the Countess says, pouting like a little girl, but with a gleam in her eyes. I have an uneasy sense that she’s enjoying this. Frederic makes a tutting sound as he examines her hand.

“Don’t you worry, my lady,” he says. He takes out a bottle of the same ointment Emile used on my foot and applies a small amount. The cut vanishes. Frederic kisses her hand. “All better.”

“Thank you, my sweet,” the Countess says.

“Shall we punish it?” Frederic asks.

I wrap my arms across my chest, as if that would somehow protect me. The manacles clang against the chains binding me.

The Countess pretends to think for a moment, but I am spared her answer by Emile rushing back into the room.

“My lady,” he says. “An urgent message has just arrived. The Electress requests your presence at the Royal Palace at once.”

A hint of annoyance flashes across the Countess’s face, and she glances at the torture wall. Then she sighs.

“Childish imbecile,” she mutters. “Frederic, have the car brought around and send William and Bernard to my chambers. Something in my colors.” She gazes at me longingly. “And tell the doctor to be ready when I return.”

My insides shrivel at the word doctor.

Frederic is already gone, but the Countess stops at the door.

“It stays where it is, Emile,” she says, a warning in her voice.

He bows. “Yes, my lady.”

It’s only after she has gone that I realize I’m shaking. Shaking so hard my teeth chatter and my vision goes blurry. I sink back against the wall and slide to the hard, cold floor. My head throbs. I can still taste the Countess’s blood in my mouth.

I don’t even see Emile until I smell his flowery scent. He wipes the blood from my mouth gently.

“I cannot give you a blanket or fresh clothes or food,” he says softly. “But I can give you a pillow for a while.”

I nod furiously, and keep nodding as his hands press lightly against my shoulders. He moves me closer to the floor until my head hits something warm. His thigh.

He smooths my hair back from my face and I suddenly remember Violet’s first night in Southgate, after she’d spent all day trying to turn that stupid block yellow. I heard her crying and snuck into her room and rocked her back and forth, and she told me about Hazel and Ochre and her father, and how now she’d left her mother with one less family member and she just wanted to go home.

I never thought I’d look back at Southgate and think of it as home. But I want to go home.

I lie on the cold ground and try and conjure up every good memory I have about Violet. Hearing her play the cello for the first time. The look on her face when she bit into a lemon, even though I told her not to. Begging me to play Halma with her and Lily because sometimes, though she’d never admit it, she just loves winning. Brushing out her hair at night. Laughing together.

I so desperately wish she were here now. She always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. I want to tell her about this awful palace. And maybe she will hug me and tell me everything will be okay. Even if it won’t.

“What is going to happen to me?” I whisper to Emile.

I’m not expecting a response. And I don’t get one.

Six

I MUST HAVE DOZED OFF BECAUSE WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, Emile is gone.

The light in the room is different. Darker. Richer. Afternoon, I’d guess. My bones ache as I push myself up into a sitting position. My stomach growls. I hug my knees to my chest.

And wait.

I can’t hear anything except the occasional chirp of a bird or buzz of an insect from outside. But the noise is so faint I think I might be imagining it.

I meticulously examine the chains that tether me, every link, the screws that keep them bolted to the wall, the manacles around my wrists. I search for a weakness. There isn’t one. Unlike the shiny instruments of torture, these chains are old. But sturdy. I wonder how many surrogates have been tied to this wall before me.

Then I wish I hadn’t thought that because it just makes my chest sink and my stomach pinch, and it doesn’t really matter anyway. I’m here now.

When I can’t stand the silence anymore, I begin to sing quietly—the stupid Marsh song Lily sang on the train to the Auction.

“Come all ye fair and tender ladies . . .”

I sing the whole song, making up the words where I’ve forgotten them. Then I sing it again. And again.

I’m on my fourteenth time singing it when the door opens. Immediately, my body is alert, my sore muscles tensing.

Frederic walks in, accompanied by four footmen. I hug my knees tighter.

He carries a folded piece of fabric in his hand and it makes me ache with longing.

Please, I think, let that be for me.

“Stand up,” he says. I obey without hesitation. “If you fight or run or move at all, you won’t get this.”

He holds up the fabric, which unfolds into a robe. I nod once, curtly.

“Good.”

Two footmen approach and unshackle me. I didn’t realize how much the metal hurt my wrists until it’s gone.

“Remove her dress,” Frederic instructs. I try to fight the whimper in my throat. Frederic grins as the zipper is yanked down my back, and before the dress is even all the way off, I’m reaching for the robe.

Frederic holds it out and I grab it before he can take it away, afraid this might just be another trick. I slip the robe on over my shoulders, grateful for the warmth and protection it provides. Immediately, I feel stronger. More like myself.

I’m so preoccupied that I don’t see the leash until it’s fastened around my neck.

The worst part is, I don’t have the energy to fight. And even if I did, they might take my robe away.

“Come,” he says, tugging on the leash like I’m a dog. We file out of the dungeon, two footmen in front, two behind. I cross my fingers and hope against hope that we’re going back to that beautiful room I went to yesterday. I remember the bed, so soft and plush.

We walk up some stairs and turn down a corridor I haven’t seen before, not that I’ve seen much of this palace. It is lined with mirrors in all shapes and sizes, some as small as a postage stamp, others nearly reaching from floor to ceiling. Interspersed between them are bouquets of flowers, irises and roses and hydrangeas and sunflowers and daisies. They feel wrong here, too cheerful for this evil place. I catch a glimpse of myself in an oval mirror with a copper frame and shudder. I look as small and weak and scared as I feel. I’m grateful when we leave this hall behind and head up another set of stairs. We reach a pale wooden door, and Frederic opens it while the footmen stay behind.

Frederic leads me into the room, jerking unnecessarily on the leash.

It’s a medical room.

The muscles in my thighs tighten as saliva coats my mouth.

No. I can’t be here so soon.

It’s by far the most opulent medical room I’ve seen. Much nicer than the tiny clinic where I was diagnosed, and even nicer than the pristine facilities at Southgate. It almost reminds me of the fancy bedroom from last night—the medical bed is plush and upholstered in white velvet with gold trim, so it looks more like a chaise lounge. Ornate lighting fixtures hang down from the ceiling, with glowglobes attached so that they radiate a warm light. The walls are painted a friendly peach color, and there are paintings similar to the ones that lined our dormitory halls at Southgate. Smudges of color, landscapes, muted tones. There is an overstuffed armchair with a matching footstool in one corner, a mahogany rolltop desk, and a leather sofa. It looks like a very design-conscious mad scientist’s lab.

Except for the tray of silver instruments beside the chaise-bed.

But what really grabs my attention is the windows. There are two of them, big arching ones with billowing white curtains and I get my first glimpse of the world outside this palace’s walls, or part of it at least, and it’s so beautiful it makes me want to cry.

Roses must be trained on a trellis on the outer wall because I can see their leaves, rich green, slithering up the window frames, and in some places I even get a glimpse of a late-blooming flower. Beyond that is a fraction of what must be an immense garden—a multi-tiered fountain, a wooden bench, several large bushy trees, and a stone path disappearing out of sight. And surrounding it all in the distance, a massive spike-topped wall, like the one I saw from the bedroom. It must circle the entire palace.

And the sun. I can’t see it directly, but I know where it is, off to the left, its rich golden light pouring over the trees and the fountain and the path. I can’t believe I ever took sunlight for granted.

There’s another tug on my leash.

I swear, I will make it my life’s mission to see that, one day, Frederic knows what it feels like to be on the other end of this thing.

“Lay down,” he says, pointing to the bed. I climb up onto it and then, oh! I can’t be angry because it is so soft, and warm, and comfortable, and I’ve never felt anything like this. My aching legs and sore back and pounding head melt into it. It’s better than Emile’s magical fix-it cream.

But even as my body relaxes and my eyes begin to close, there a snap-snap-snapping sound, as straps appear from the sides of the bed and secure themselves over my forehead, my chest, and my waist, leaving only my legs free. Then those are hiked up as two stirrups shoot out of the edge of the bed, and my feet are strapped securely inside them. One part of my gown falls open, leaving my entire leg, including my upper thigh and my left butt cheek, exposed.

I close my eyes and swallow. I don’t know whether I want to scream or throw up or both.

I am Raven Stirling, I remind myself. They cannot own me.

But the words feel weak inside my head.

I force my eyes open and look out the window. A bird lands on the windowsill. It has brilliant yellow feathers around its eyes. It cocks its head, like it’s studying me. Then it flies away.

I have never envied another living creature so much.

The door opens.

Frederic is flipping through some papers on the desk, but sinks into a bow as my second (or first, really, I think it’s a tie) least-favorite person in this palace enters the room.

But the Countess isn’t alone. Of course not. This is a medical room.

“Your ladyship,” Frederic says. “Dr. Falme.”

The doctor wears the usual white lab coat and beige slacks. But he isn’t like the other doctors I’ve seen, either the crotchety old ones who get shipped off to diagnose surrogates in the Marsh clinics, or the opiate addicts like Dr. Steele, who work in the holding facilities.

It’s not just that we look like we could be related—same skin tone, same eyes, same hair color. It’s that he’s young. I’d guess maybe his late twenties. And he is incredibly handsome.

Not like that boy I saw at the dinner, the Duchess of the Lake’s son, whatever his stupid royal name was. That guy was pressed and perfect in a way that felt artificial. Sort of like his personality—shallow.

This doctor is maybe as tall as me, but with long, curly dark hair that falls to his jawline and deep dimples in both cheeks that pop as he smiles at Frederic. Then he turns his gaze on me and I think maybe that smile isn’t so appealing after all.

“So,” he says. “This is Lot 192.”

I futilely wriggle my arms. “My name is Raven Stirling, you bast—”

I don’t even get to finish cursing at him. Lightning zips across my forehead as sparks explode in my vision. The pain is dizzying. It’s here and then it’s gone.

“It’s not learning very quickly,” the Countess says. My body convulses in the aftermath, held steady only by the straps. “But it certainly has a lot of fight in it.”

“Ah, but that is just what we were looking for, isn’t it, my lady?”

Suddenly, the bed shifts, sinking back so that I am tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. I can’t see the windows anymore. And my open legs are sticking up in the air, exposing me for anyone to see.

Not that anyone has taken any notice of my body—not the Regimentals or the footmen or Emile or this beautiful, scary doctor. I can’t feel the lightning pain anymore and it leaves me with the same fear I had last night, that it’s scarier not to feel it.

“So,” the doctor says, walking over to me, but not looking me in the eyes. “Where shall we start?”

He reaches out and I wish I could move away, or move at all, but his fingers are on my scalp, probing my skull. They are gentle but focused, looking for something but I don’t know what.

“Not through the mouth again,” the Countess says. She’s looking at the papers Frederic was poring over earlier.

“No,” the doctor murmurs. “You’re sure we can’t shave its head?”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it almost bleeds. I don’t know what sets off the lightning, but I don’t want to feel it again.

“You know we can’t,” the Countess says impatiently. “What would people say? I can’t have an ugly surrogate, no matter how practical. And this one is too promising to screw up like last time. We’ll simply have to be more precise in our calculations. The Electress must see results. That is the only way to maintain our alliance. We cannot take any chances now that the House of the Lake has a surrogate.”

She’s talking about Violet.

“I have said it before, your ladyship. Dr. Blythe isn’t the genius he pretends to be.”

“Dr. Blythe is not your concern.” The Countess’s voice is cold. “This surrogate is. All of our previous attempts have failed because those surrogates simply did not have the mental fortitude to withstand the procedures. This one does. I’m sure of it.”

“What happ—” I don’t realize the words are out of my mouth until pain sears my skull.

“A very difficult learner,” the doctor says with a chuckle.

He actually chuckles.

Oh, Violet, I think. I hope, wherever you are, this is not happening to you, too.

The Countess and Dr. Falme make strange parts in my hair, and I hate the feel of their hands on my scalp. I don’t know what they’re doing or why, because aren’t they supposed to be interested in other parts of my body?

The doctor makes notes using numbers that don’t make sense, like “Quadrant five, line twenty-seven, three inches?”

Always like a question. Like he’s asking himself.

“Can we try one time?” the Countess asks.

“So soon, my lady?”

“I want to see how it reacts.”

The doctor smiles indulgently. I clamp my mouth shut. I have no idea what reaction she wants. I won’t give her any, if I can help it.

The doctor pulls on one of the hanging lights, which stretches down like it’s on a spring. There isn’t a glowglobe inside—instead it looks like a helmet with golden hooks all around it. And it’s coming right at my head.

There’s nothing I can do as the helmet settles around my skull. The hooks pinch when they catch on my skin.

“Where shall we start, my lady?” the doctor asks.

There’s a pause while the Countess thinks.

“Not too young. Ten maybe? No, seven. Seven is perfect.”

In an instant, there is a sharp sting in my neck and in three seconds, I can’t feel my head anymore. It’s gone completely numb. Which is honestly a relief. I don’t want to feel anything.

I hear a buzzing sound, like the drills the dentists used on us at Southgate—pretty much everyone has to get serious work done on their teeth when they arrive. It’s a sound that sets me on edge, that makes my skin prickle and every hair on my body stand up.

The buzzing gets louder as the drill or needle or whatever it is gets closer. I don’t feel it go in. Suddenly I’m just . . . gone.

My mother is humming while she brushes my hair. I don’t tell her how good it feels, how I’ve wanted this for so long. She was always so concerned with Sable, getting Sable ready to be a surrogate. She never had time for me. But Sable’s test came back negative.

I sit in front of the cracked mirror in her bedroom and look at my reflection. Mother thinks I’m pretty. I don’t care about being pretty. I want to finish my math homework. But pretty makes her happy.

“There, now,” she says. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

I beam at her in the mirror. She looks at me and smiles.

Then all the skin melts off her face.

Someone is screaming. They should stop screaming; my mother hates loud noises.

My chest begins to ache, and I realize the person screaming is me.

My mother is gone. Her bedroom has vanished. I’m still in the medical room.

I force my lips closed, my chest heaving. Bile rises in my throat but I swallow it down.

It wasn’t real, I tell myself. That didn’t happen.

But I can’t stop shaking. I can’t make that horrible image go away.

A single tear escapes and runs down my cheek. I blink before any more run free.

“I like this one,” the Countess says.

“So do I,” the doctor murmurs.

“Violet,” I whimper, so soft that they don’t hear me. I need Violet. She’s the only one who will understand.

ONCE THE DOCTOR AND THE COUNTESS ARE GONE, THE straps come off.

Frederic puts the leash back on, which at least means we’re leaving this terrible, beautiful room. My head aches. I hesitantly reach up and touch my skull. There is a tiny scar, the length of my fingernail, about four inches above my left temple.

“Take it away, Emile,” he says.

Emile is here. I didn’t notice him come in, but I’m so grateful Frederic won’t be taking me back to my cage that I almost start crying again. Almost.

And I want to go back to my cage. I hate that I do, but I do. I don’t understand this place, beauty mixed with horror. I’d rather be where things look the way they are.

But Emile doesn’t take me to the dungeon. We go up, up, up, back to the room that makes me nervous now, with its plush furnishings and fancy paintings and canopied bed.

“I will be staying with you tonight,” Emile says as he locks the door behind him and removes the leash.

I sink down onto the closest piece of furniture. I think it might be a table, I don’t know.

“What . . . happened . . . to me?” I gasp. I hold my head in my hands, as if I can squeeze the fake memory from it.

“You may shower if you wish.”

I look up at him. His blue eyes are earnest, but urgent. I don’t think this is a request.

I nod once. Force my shaking legs to hold my weight. Somehow make it across the soft carpet to the powder room.

There’s no door on it. I just want something to slam, something to close out the world and give me a tiny moment of peace.

I fall over the toilet and vomit until my throat is raw and there is nothing left to throw up. My mother’s skinless face repeats over and over in my mind.

It wasn’t real, I tell myself. I might say it out loud. Emile never comes in, but I feel his presence. I’m grateful he stays away. What a ridiculous thing to be grateful for.

I fall asleep on the cold tile floor.

Seven

WHEN I WAKE UP, I’M IN BED.

The soft, giant canopied bed. It feels as good as I thought it would, except that it reminds me of the medical chaise-bed.

“Good morning,” Emile says pleasantly.

He’s still in his lady-in-waiting dress, sitting up in one of the armchairs.

“Did you sleep like that?” I ask. My head is fuzzy.

“I did.”

It looks uncomfortable, which gives me a hollow sense of satisfaction.

“I’ll have breakfast brought up,” he says. “Why don’t you shower?”

My mouth tastes awful, like stale vomit. He walks to the wall by my bed and pulls on a long piece of fabric. I assume that means breakfast is on its way. I should feel hungry but I don’t. All I can think is what today will bring.

“What is she going to do to me now?” I ask.

Emile smiles such a fake, bright smile, I think I might throw up again. “Today you’re going out!”

My eyes narrow. Something is off. He whips off my covers and shoos me out of bed. “Get showered now. It’s going to be a big day!”

The fact that everything he says seems to contain several exclamation points only adds to my unease.

But I do want a shower.

And I certainly need one.

Emile stands guard while the water runs over my body, but a few glances in his direction confirm he’s doing his best not to focus on me. He appears to be very interested in a knot on the wooden doorframe.

I take a longer shower than my first one, and get the water as hot as I can make it. But there’s a cold inside me that won’t go away. Emile finally turns off the tap.

“Now let’s get you ready,” he says cheerfully.

“Stop it!” I shout. “Stop acting like we’re going on some fun adventure. Stop sounding so irritatingly chipper. Do you know what they did to me yesterday? Do you get it?”

Emile is in front of me in a second, his mouth so close to mine at first I think he might kiss me.

“Of course I know,” he hisses. “I know a great deal more than you do. Do you know how many surrogates I’ve seen pass through this house? Ten. One for every year I have worked here. I assume you have noticed by now that there are no other women in this palace. Just you and the Countess. The doctor’s appointments serve a purpose, but the equipment that Frederic creates? That is just fun for her. You are the target on which she can focus all her rage. All her hatred. So follow my lead. When I act happy, it is because you have at least the slimmest, slightest chance of being happy today.”

I am stunned into silence. Emile turns away and I follow him without thinking, wrapping a towel around my body and standing numbly in front of a closet full of dresses I don’t want to wear. Emile talks to himself, musing about this fabric or that. All the dresses he handles are black. That does not make me think “Happy Day.”

Ten surrogates have lived in this room before me. And how many others before that?

“Ah,” Emile says. “This will be perfect.”

He holds out a long black dress with an accordion skirt and lace top. I don’t even glance at myself in the mirror when he sits me at the vanity to attack my face and hair again. I don’t trust mirrors anymore.

The food arrives. Cinnamon rolls and hot coffee and fresh peaches. This time I eat everything.

Emile finally pronounces me finished, then steps back to admire his work.

“You really are beautiful,” he says.

I stare at him. I don’t know what he expects me to say to that.

We sit in silence for a while.

“Would you like to know where you’re going?” he asks.

“No,” I lie.

His mouth twitches.

The door opens and the Countess walks in. I can’t help it—I jump to my feet. I don’t know if I’m preparing to run or fight or if I just feel more confident standing.

Frederic is right behind her, carrying some black lace in one hand and—my stomach drops—that horrible jewel-encrusted helmet thing from the wall of torture. The Countess sees me looking at it and smiles.

“I can have five Regimentals come in and beat you bloody and Frederic will fix you up as good as new,” she says. “And you will still wear everything I want you to wear. But that will make us late, and I despise being late. So be a good girl and stand still.”

The memory of my mother’s face, melted and distorted, keeps my feet glued to the ground. Frederic fastens the black lace to the crown of my head and pulls it over my face like a veil. My stomach turns as he gently places the helmet over my head.

But it’s not a helmet, really.

It’s a muzzle.

It pushes my jaw shut, leaving space only for my eyes. But there must be some kind of visor on it, because the last thing I see before Frederic pulls it down is the Countess’s gleeful expression.

“Oh, Frederic,” she says as everything goes dark, “it’s perfect.”

ONCE AGAIN, I’M LED ON THE LEASH THROUGH THE PALACE, unable to see, waving my hands in front of me like an idiot.

Every time I catch myself doing it I stop, but it’s deeply instinctual. I hear the whispers again, this time commenting on the horrible muzzle.

“So much nicer than last year’s.”

“Oh look, he’s used sapphires and emeralds.”

“Such attention to detail.”

I don’t know what Emile was playing at thinking this day would make me happy in any way. Until I feel a warm breeze on my skin and hear the distinct sound of a motorcar engine.

I’m going out.

Out means Violet.

I’m muzzled so I can’t really smile, but my whole body is beaming. I slide into the motorcar awkwardly and don’t even flinch when the Countess’s arm brushes against mine.

I’m going to see Violet, I tell myself. Violet will make it okay.

We don’t drive in as many circles this time, and at some point, we start going up what feels like a very long, large hill. The motorcar slows and the visor is lifted. There’s a click and the muzzle is removed. I stretch out my jaw with relief.

We’re in front of a massive palace that looks like it’s made of liquid gold. It’s more opulent than anything I’ve seen, with towers and domes and other various appendages jutting out all around. The road we’re on is packed with motorcars. I see black-clothed royalty mixed with black-veiled surrogates and my heart lifts.

Oh, Emile, I think. You were right.

Somewhere in that crowd is Violet. I know it. I feel it.

The Countess yanks on my leash. “The same rules apply as last time,” she says. “Remember that.”

I give her my coldest stare. It feels lukewarm.

The driver opens the door for her and she pulls me out of the car. We enter the throng of women and almost immediately that unpopular Duchess is on top of us.

“Oh, Ebony, how awful,” she says.

Blondie is by her side, veiled and nervous, attached to her mistress by a leash like mine. I’m glad I’m not the only one who has to wear this thing. A couple of glances around tells me every surrogate is chained to her mistress.

The Countess shrugs. “I am not surprised.”

“Do you think it was her?”

“Of course it was her. We’ll never be able to prove it, though.”

I search the sea of veils, hoping to see Violet, but everyone looks the same.

Suddenly, there is a blaring of trumpets and the doors to the palace open. Silence falls as a man even I recognize steps forward, surrounded by Regimentals.

The Exetor. He looks older than in his pictures.

“Her Royal Grace thanks you for your support during this sad time,” he says. “But she will not allow any surrogate within these walls. If you wish to pay your respects, you must leave them here. Protected, of course, by my own personal guard.”

Blondie’s mistress gasps, like he’s just announced he’s going to remove her limbs or something.

The Countess sighs and shakes her head. “Amateur,” she says. She unclasps the chain that connects us from her wrist and fastens it on mine. Then, without a word or a glance in my direction, she strides off through the crowd toward the palace.

She is the only one who has this reaction. The other Duchess hurriedly follows her lead, though with a lot of reluctance, but many of the women are whispering and frowning. Eventually, though, they all give in and a steady stream of black flows into the palace as a file of red surrounds the surrogates. The Exetor’s guard carry rifles and seem bigger and more imposing than the other Regimentals I’ve seen. Though maybe I’m just imagining that.

They tighten the circle around us, and Blondie and I bump into each other. It occurs to me that she knows Violet, at least what she looks like.

“Have you seen the other girl from the dinner?” I ask. “The one with black hair and purple eyes?”

“Be quiet,” she hisses. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Are you kidding me? They’re not here. How will they know?”

She sniffs and makes a big show of folding her arms across her chest and turning away from me.

Coward.

I turn to another girl and am about to ask her the same thing when a thought occurs to me.

The royalty—our mistresses—are not here.

This is my chance. I’m not going to waste it asking stupid surrogates questions they don’t know or are unwilling to answer. If I want to see Violet, I have to find her myself.

I take a deep breath and as loud as I can shout, “Violet!”

A few girls shrink away from me like I’m diseased, but a couple brighten at my boldness.

“Violet!” I shout again.

“Raven!”

She’s here! Her voice makes my knees weak, but my heart pumps in my chest with sweet, unabashed hope. Strong. Brave. Immediately, I’m running in the direction of her voice, pushing past surrogates who take up my mantle, calling out names of their friends.

“Fawn!”

“Scarlet!”

“Ginger!”

But I can still hear my name—Violet’s voice getting closer—and then there she is and I’d know her anywhere, even with a stupid veil over her face. We collide into each other, and I wrap my arms around her, feeling her familiar form, and I don’t ever, ever want to let go.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

Without thinking I reply, “I’m all right, are you—”

Gunshots rip through the air as the Regimentals fire their weapons, and Violet and I break apart as the crowd of surrogates huddles together. She grabs my hand, and I clutch hers like it’s a lifeline.

“How is the palace of the Lake?” I ask. “Does the Duchess treat you well?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Violet says. “She hit me.” My stomach clenches. “But then she gave me a cello. And the food is great.”

I let out a laugh for the first time in what feels like years. Violet is a terrible liar. She is not being subjected to the same treatment as I am—she’d never be able to hide something like that. She is all right. She has food. She has a cello.

Violet is all right.

I am filled with an overwhelming sense of relief. She smiles at me.

“What about the Countess of the Stone?” she asks.

I give her my best everyone-can-go-screw-themselves snort. “No. I don’t think the Countess and I are going to get along very well.”

Her face crumples.

“Why?” she asks. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry about me, Violet.” I curl my lips into what I hope is a confident grin. “I’m going to make her rue the day she bought me.”

“Raven, don’t,” she pleads. “She could hurt you.”

“Yeah. I know.” My mother’s melted face appears in my mind. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

“No.”

“You will. And then you’ll see. Or maybe not,” I say, because she’s looking even more concerned. “Maybe the Duchess is different. But the Countess is . . .” I choose my words carefully. “There’s something wrong with her, Violet.”

“Raven, you’re scaring me,” she says.

And then I see that I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t share this burden with her.

I won’t take her hope away.

But I have never felt so alone in my entire life.

I squeeze her hand to reassure her.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, and I’m proud at how true it sounds. “Don’t worry about me.”

She opens her mouth, looking like she’s going to press for more information, when I’m mercifully saved by another volley of gunshots as the royal women begin to trickle out of the palace.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she whispers.

“Me neither,” I say. A sob wells up in my throat, but I choke it down and hitch a brave smile on my face. “But we’ll see each other again. Founding Houses, right?”

“Right,” Violet says. Women begin collecting their surrogates, and I easily spot the Countess’s enormous figure. Her threats are real and I’d like to keep my tongue where it is.

“She can’t see me talking to you,” I say. And before Violet can say anything else, I’ve released the warmth of her hand and melted into the sea of black veils.

I keep the hand she held clenched tight into a fist, as if I could hold the feeling of her hand in mine, as if it were something tangible. The Countess finds me and reattaches my leash to her wrist.

Do your worst to me, I think as she leads me back to the motorcar. You can’t hurt my friend. Violet will be all right.

I keep that thought close to me as she puts the muzzle back on.

I keep it close as I’m led back to my cage.

I nurture it like a candle flame, keeping it safe and warm and bright.

Because if I don’t . . . I’m not sure I’ll survive this place.

Excerpt from The White Rose

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the thrilling second book in the trilogy.

THE ARCANA IS SILENT.

I stare at the small silver tuning fork, nestled among the jewels scattered across my vanity. Garnet’s words echo in my ears.

We’re going to get you out.

I force my mind to work, push down my terror, and try to fit the pieces together. I’m trapped in my bedroom in the palace of the Lake. How does Garnet, the Duchess of the Lake’s own son, have an arcana? Is he working with Lucien, the Electress’s lady-in-waiting and my secret friend and savior? But why wouldn’t Lucien tell me?

Lucien didn’t tell you that childbirth kills surrogates, either. He doesn’t tell you any more than he thinks you need to know.

Panic grips me as I picture Ash, trapped and bleeding in the dungeons. Ash, a companion to royal daughters, who endangered his very life by loving me. Ash, the only other person in this palace who understands what it feels like to be treated like a piece of property.

I shake my head. How much time have I spent staring at the arcana—ten minutes? Twenty?

Something needs to happen. After the Duchess caught us in his room together, he was beaten and thrown in the dungeon, and no one has been sent to save him. If Ash stays there, he’ll die.

The terror resurfaces, rising in my throat like bile. I squeeze my eyes shut and all I can see are the Regimentals bursting through the door to his bedroom. Ripping him from the bed. His blood spattering across the comforter as a Regimental slammed a pistol into Ash’s face again and again while the Duchess looked on.

And Carnelian. The Duchess’s wicked, horrible niece. She was there, too. She betrayed us.

I bite my lip and wince. I look at myself in the mirror—hair disheveled, eyes red and puffy. My lower lip is split at the corner and the beginning of a bruise darkens my cheekbone. I probe the tender spot, remembering the feel of the Duchess’s hand as she struck me.

I shake my head again. So much has happened since the Auction. Secrecy, alliances, death. I was bought to bear the Duchess’s child. I can still see the fury in her eyes as she saw Ash and me in the same room, in the same bed. Whore, she called me, after her guard of Regimentals dragged Ash away. I don’t care about her insults. I only care about what happens now.

Lucien gave me a serum that I was supposed to take tonight. It would make me appear dead, and he could get me out of the Jewel, to somewhere safe where my body wouldn’t be used for royal purposes. But I didn’t take it. I gave it away—to Raven.

Somewhere, in the neighboring palace of the Stone, is my best friend, Raven. Her mistress is using her for a darker purpose. Not only is Raven pregnant with the Countess of the Stone’s child, but she is being tortured in ways I can’t imagine. She is the shell of the girl I once knew.

And I couldn’t leave her there. I couldn’t let her die like that.

So I gave her the serum.

Lucien will be upset when he finds out, but I had no choice. He’ll have to understand.

With trembling fingers, I pick up the arcana and sit on the edge of my bed.

“Garnet?” I whisper to it. “Lucien?”

No one answers me.

“Garnet?” I say again. “If you can hear me . . . please. Talk to me.”

Nothing.

How can I be rescued with Regimentals guarding the door? How can Ash be rescued?

My head throbs—it hurts to think. I curl up on my bed with the silver tuning fork clutched tight between my fingers, trying to will it to buzz, to make someone speak to me.

“Please,” I whisper to it. “Don’t let him die.”

I, at least, might have something the Duchess wants. My body might be enough to keep me alive. But Ash doesn’t have that.

I wonder what it would feel like, to die. The wild girl appears in my mind, the surrogate who tried to escape the royalty and went into hiding. The one I saw executed in front of the walls of Southgate, my holding facility. I remember her strangely peaceful expression as the end came. Her courage. Would I be able to be as strong as she was, if they put my head on the chopping block? Tell Cobalt I love him, she’d said. That, at least, I can understand. Ash’s name would be one of the last words on my lips. I wonder who Cobalt was to her. She must have loved him very much.

I hear a noise and jump up so quickly the room seems to tilt. My only thought is that I have to hide the arcana somewhere, now. It’s my one connection to the people who want to help me. But there are no pockets on my nightdress, and I don’t want to risk hiding it in the room in case the Duchess decides to move me.

Then I remember the Exetor’s Ball, when Lucien first gave it to me. When Garnet ruined my hairstyle and Lucien came to my rescue, hiding the silver tuning fork in my thick, dark curls.

Has Garnet been working with Lucien since then? Did he muss my hair on purpose?

But there’s no time to wonder about that now. I bolt to my vanity, throwing open the drawer where Annabelle, my own personal lady-in-waiting and my closest friend in the Duchess’s palace, keeps my hair ribbons and pins. I twist my hair back into a thick, messy knot at the nape of my neck and secure the arcana inside it with pins.

I fling myself back onto my bed as the door opens.

“Get up,” the Duchess orders. She is flanked by two Regimentals. She looks exactly the same as she did when last I saw her in Ash’s bedroom, wearing the same golden dressing gown, her glossy black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. I don’t know why this surprises me.

The Duchess’s face is cold and impassive as she approaches me. I am reminded of the first time I met her, expecting her to circle me with sharp, critical eyes, then slap me across the face again.

Instead, she stops less than a foot away, and her expression turns from cold to blazing.

“How long?” she demands.

“What?”

The Duchess’s eyes narrow. “Do not play stupid with me, Violet. How long have you been sleeping with the companion?”

It’s jarring to hear her use my name. “I—I wasn’t sleeping with him.” This is partly true, since at the moment we were discovered, we were not actually sleeping together.

“Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

The Duchess’s nostrils flare. “Fine.” She turns to the Regimentals. “Tie her up. And bring the other one in.”

The Regimentals descend on me before I have a chance to react, yanking my arms behind my back and binding me with a coarse rope. I cry out and struggle, but the bonds are too tight. The rope chafes against my skin, the polished wood of the bedpost pressing against my back as they tie me to it. Then a small, willowy figure is marched into the room.

Annabelle’s eyes are filled with fear. Like me, her hands are bound behind her back. She won’t be able to use her slate—Annabelle was born mute and can only talk through writing. Her copper-colored hair is out of its usual bun, and her face is so pale that her freckles stand out clearly. My mouth goes dry.

“Leave us,” the Duchess orders, and the Regimentals close the door behind them.

“She—she doesn’t know anything,” I protest weakly.

“I find that hard to believe,” the Duchess says.

“She doesn’t!” I cry, louder now, fighting against my bindings, because I can’t let anything happen to Annabelle. “I swear on my father’s grave, she didn’t know!”

The Duchess studies me, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “No,” she says. “I still don’t believe you.” Her hand whips across Annabelle’s face with a sickening smack.

“Please!” I scream, as Annabelle stumbles back, almost losing her balance. “Don’t hurt her!”

“Oh, I have no wish to hurt her, Violet. This is your fault. Her pain ends when you tell me the truth.”

My wrists are raw, the rope cutting into my skin as I struggle against it. Suddenly, the Duchess is inches away from me, my face clutched in her iron grasp, her fingernails biting into the bruise on my cheek. “How long have you been sleeping with him?”

I try to answer her, but I can’t open my mouth. The Duchess releases me.

“How long?” she says again.

“One time,” I gasp. “It was just one time.”

“When?”

“The night before,” I say, panting. “Before the second time that the doctor tried . . .”

The Duchess glares at me, seething with rage. “Have you been intentionally destroying these pregnancies?”

I can feel the blankness on my face. “I—no. How would I even do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Violet. You’re clearly such a resourceful girl. I’m sure you could find a way.”

“No,” I say.

The Duchess’s hand slams into Annabelle’s face again.

“Please,” I beg. “I’m telling you the truth.”

One of Annabelle’s shoulders is hunched up as if to try to cradle her swollen cheek. Our eyes meet and all I see is fear. Confusion. Her eyebrows knit together and I know she’s trying to ask me something but I can’t figure out exactly what.

“Here is my dilemma, Violet,” the Duchess says, pacing back and forth in front of me. “You are a very valuable asset. As much as I might want to kill you for what you’ve done, it wouldn’t be a very good business practice. Obviously, your life in this palace will be different from now on. No more balls, no more cello, no more . . . well, anything, I suppose. If I have to, I’ll keep you tied to the medical bed for the duration of your stay. I’ve sent an emergency petition to the Exetor for the companion’s execution, so he should be dead in an hour or so. That will serve as some punishment. But is it enough, I ask myself?”

I try to swallow the whimper that climbs up my throat, but the Duchess hears it and smiles.

“Such a waste, really—he is so very handsome. And quite skilled, from what I’ve heard. The Lady of the Stream raved about him at Garnet’s engagement party. Pity I didn’t get the chance to sample his talents myself.”

A cold, slippery feeling squirms around inside me. The Duchess’s smile widens. “Please, tell me,” she continues, “what exactly did you think would happen with him? That you two would ride off into the sunset together? Do you know how many women he’s slept with? It’s disgusting. I would have thought you’d have better taste. If you’re going to get all love-struck in this palace, why not choose Garnet? His manners might be atrocious, but he’s good-looking enough. And he comes from an excellent bloodline.”

At this, I can’t help choking out a raspy, bitter laugh. “His bloodline? Do you honestly think that matters to anyone in this city besides the royalty? You people wouldn’t even need surrogates if you didn’t care so much about stupid bloodlines!”

The Duchess waits patiently for me to finish. “I would think you would choose your words more carefully,” she says. This time when she hits Annabelle, the skin breaks open below her right eye. Tears stream down Annabelle’s cheek.

“I need you to understand,” the Duchess says. “You are mine. The doctor will not stop until my baby is growing inside you. I will no longer have any consideration for your pain, or discomfort, or frame of mind. You will be like a piece of furniture to me. Is that clear?”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I say. “But please don’t hit her anymore.”

The Duchess becomes very still. Her expression softens, and she sighs. “All right,” she says.

She walks to where Annabelle is bent over. In one fluid motion, she yanks Annabelle upright, holding her head back by her hair.

“You know, Violet,” the Duchess says. “I cared about you. I truly did.” She seems sincerely sad as she holds my gaze. “Why did you have to do this to me?”

I don’t see the knife in her hand—just a flash of silver as it whispers across Annabelle’s throat. Annabelle’s eyes widen, more in surprise than in pain, as a crimson gash opens on her neck.

“NO!” I scream. Annabelle looks at me, her face so lovely and frail, and I can see the question now, clear enough on her face that she wouldn’t need her slate to express it.

Why?

Blood spills down her chest, staining her nightdress a brilliant scarlet. Then her body crumples to the floor.

A wild, guttural wail fills the room, and it takes a second before I realize it’s coming from me. I thrash against my bonds, ignoring the pain in my back and wrists, hardly feeling it at all, because if I can just get to Annabelle I can make this right; if I can hold her in my arms I can bring her back. There must be a way to bring her back, because she can’t be dead, she can’t be . . .

Annabelle’s eyes are open, vacant, staring at me as blood pours from the wound on her neck, seeping toward me across the carpet.

“You needed to be punished for what you did,” the Duchess says, wiping the blood from her knife on the sleeve of her dressing gown. “And so did she.”

As casually as if it were nothing, she steps over Annabelle’s body and opens the door. I catch a glimpse of my tea parlor and the two Regimentals guarding me before the door closes and I am left alone with the corpse of the girl who was my first friend in this palace.

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About the Author

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 but is now her debut novel. She lives in New York City. Visit Amy online at www.amyewingbooks.com or on Twitter @AmyEwingBooks.

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Books by Amy Ewing

The Jewel

The White Rose

The House of the Stone

Copyright

THE HOUSE OF THE STONE. Text copyright © 2015 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.

EPub Edition © June 2015 ISBN 9780062385666

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