Garnet's Story (6 page)

“T
HE TIME IS ALMOST COME,”
L
UCIEN SAYS TO ME, THE
morning of the Winter Ball.

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

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

“Favor,” I snort. “Right.”

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

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

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

I feel like I should be writing all this down.

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

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

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

“Precisely.”

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

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

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

“Wow,” I say. “That's . . . really?”

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

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

“No,” Lucien agrees. “You have not.”

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

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

“It can?” I yelp. “How?”

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

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

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

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

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

T
HE
W
INTER
B
ALL IS ALWAYS THE BEST BALL OF THE YEAR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carnelian looks petrified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose,” Carnelian says.

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

Just then, the dining room door opens.

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

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

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

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

“I'm starving,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the girl vomits up a fountain of blood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get. Out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I bow. “As you wish, Mother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is it?” I demand, standing up.

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

“Bring it up to me. Now.”

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

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

“Shall I come fetch your—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hurry back to my room, my heart pounding.

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

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

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

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

And something has clearly gone very, very wrong.

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

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

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

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