Garnet's Story

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

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

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

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

“Garnet! Garnet, over here!”

“Give us a smile!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't care what anyone thinks.

T
HE CLUB IS CALLED
T
HE
P
RIZE
J
EWEL—NOT A PARTICULARLY
clever name, but it's new and it's gotten good reviews.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whiskey, neat,” I say, and he nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I'm in love.

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

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

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

“Another?” I ask. She smiles.

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

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

What happened last night?

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you do?” I ask myself.

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

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

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

“What did I do?” I ask.

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

Car

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

Annabelle rolls her eyes.

LAKE

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

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

Annabelle comes over and whacks me with her slate.

“Ow! Hey!”

Not funny

“Sorry, sorry.”

Dangerous

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

She glares at me.

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

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

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

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

“I slept all day?”

Annabelle raises one eyebrow.

What hpnd last night

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

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

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

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

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

“And I care because . . .”

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

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