The Black Key (12 page)

I remember what Ash's note to me said.
I will be there on Auction Day.
He's keeping his promise.

Lucien is still talking. “Anyone on our side will wear a piece of white fabric tied around their left arm, to identify them.” He pats my knee. “That was Ash's idea, and quite a smart one. I will spread it to the rest of the Society. It will make it easier for us to identify our friends.”

“Won't it make us easier to be identified by the Regimentals?”

“I do not believe the Regimentals who are against us will care much if they shoot a member of the Society or a random shop owner. And for those Regimentals who are with us, it will be extremely helpful for them to see who they can trust.”

“I'm surprised he didn't choose black fabric. For the Black Key and all.”

“I believe it is meant to symbolize the White Rose,” Lucien says. “Which has been just as important, if not quite as well known, as the Black Key.”

“Yes,” I murmur. “That's nice.”

Another silence falls, a peaceful one. I think about that last conversation Ash and I had in the hayloft, about our future together. For a moment, I allow myself to believe it could be real.

“What do you want for this city, Lucien?” I ask.

He smiles lazily. “No walls. No separation. A united city. A ruling body chosen based on the quality of minds and the depth of compassion, not bloodlines and Houses. People from every circle represented. I want the people of this city to have a legitimate say in how they live their lives.”

“Yes,” I agree. “No more walls. I want everyone to see one another as people, not companions or surrogates or servants.” I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of wood varnish, and books, and paint. “I really like it here.”

Lucien looks overcome for a moment, his eyes brimming with emotion.

“Thank you,” he says finally. “You do not know how
much that means to me. And how much it pains me to ask this one favor of you.”

“Anything,” I say.

“If the time comes . . . the Auction . . . and we lose—”

“Let's not think ab—”

He holds up a hand. “Should things start to look bad for us . . . I want you to destroy this place.”

I gasp. “What? Why?”

Lucien takes in the beakers, the clocks, the unfinished portrait of Azalea. “I will not let this fall into their hands. And you are the only one who can destroy it.”

Even as he says it, I sense the air around me pricking, charging. Air and I could tear this place apart easily. Even if it would break my heart to do so.

He looks at me with eyes so desperate, so pleading. “Please, Violet. Do not let them take this last piece of me.”

I have no choice but to agree. “All right,” I say. “But only as a last resort.” I reach out and place my hand on top of his. “Azalea would be so proud of you.”

Lucien lets out a quiet sob, then pulls himself together. “I truly hope so.” He takes my hand in both of his and kisses my knuckles gently. “I did not know how you would change me. I didn't realize my own prejudices, my own shortsightedness. I thought I knew everything; I thought I had a plan and the execution would be simple. I was wrong.”

“Haven't we all been wrong about this at some point?” I say. “I mean, isn't that how we learn to be right?”

“You are a good person, Violet Lasting. I hope that never changes.”

“
You
are a good person, Cobalt Rosling.” Lucien starts
at my use of his true name. “I hope we both make it out of this. This city needs you.” The mood has grown too somber. I try to break it. “And I'm sick of being called Imogen. How do you handle it?”

Lucien crosses his legs and leans back. “You know, I don't even mind it anymore. I've assumed ownership over the name, I suppose. There hasn't been a Lucien in over a hundred years. Do you know, the Exetor named me himself? Since there was no Electress when I was purchased by the Royal Palace.” His eyes glaze over a bit with the memory. “I was so scared I was shaking. There was an ancient woman named Gemma who trained me. And the Exetor came into the dining room while I was learning the finer points of service. He is an avid hunter, and I knew that. He asked me about all the different types of prey that are groomed for the Royal Forest, and the best methods to track each one. He asked me about royal lineages. He gave me a gun in pieces and watched as I put it together, while a footman timed me. He gave me a list of taxes collected from some royal holdings in the Farm and asked me to predict the percentage increase over the following ten years. I had just turned eleven. By the end, I was sweating. I remember the Exetor rolling up several sheets of parchment, handing them to Gemma, and saying, ‘Most impressive. His name will be Lucien.' And that was it. I wasn't Cobalt anymore.”

“You still are,” I insist.

“I suppose.” He scratches his elbow. “For all their preening and airs, the royalty are still just people. Twisted, yes, but people all the same. The Exetor was very lonely. I think that's why he married the Electress. Because I have
always suspected that he is still in love with the Duchess.”

“Then why was their engagement broken?” I wonder aloud.

“As far as that goes,” Lucien says, standing, “your guess is as good as mine. Come. We have lingered here long enough.”

As we leave the secret chamber, climb down the spiral stair, and emerge back into the bustling servant halls of the palace, I feel like I have just left a dream and entered the real world again. Lucien's workshop feels like a part of some other place, a piece of him made tangible.

I truly hope I don't have to destroy it.

O
NE WEEK.

That's all we have left. Seven days until the world changes, for better or for worse. Raven and Sil should be leaving for Southgate tomorrow. And the next train they take will be to the Auction House.

I'm carrying a basket of Coral's laundry down to be washed, lost in thoughts of the surrogates, of the Auction, of the impending deadline that moves closer each day.

Lucien's workshop keeps popping up in my head, too—the bubbling beakers, the unfinished painting, the wall of clocks that symbolize his childhood. I hate the promise I made to him, but I know I'll keep it. Lucien is right. That place should never fall into royal hands.

I'm barely paying attention to where I'm going, so when
I round a corner and run straight into Dr. Blythe, I drop the laundry, and some of Coral's undergarments spill onto the stone floor.

“Oh!” I cry, stooping quickly to pick them up.

“I'm terribly sorry.” Dr. Blythe reaches down to lend a hand but I wave him off.

“No, no, it's all right, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going.” I take my time, stuffing a silk chemise into the basket, hoping he'll be on his way.

“You are just the person I was looking for.” Dr. Blythe seems delighted to see me. The feeling is not mutual. “Please remind Coral she needs to schedule an appointment with me before the Auction, so that we may go over the protocol for creating an embryo, compatibility with a surrogate, all that sort of thing.”

“Y-yes,” I stammer, standing up. “Of course.”

“How would six o'clock this evening be?”

I keep my eyes trained down at the basket in my hands. “That should be fine. She will be in the Bank for her final dress fitting at two but I can have her back by six.”

“Excellent.” The doctor claps his hands together and gives me a polite nod. “Good afternoon.”

I drop into a quick curtsy and make my way down the hall, handing the laundry off to a red-faced washerwoman. I take the stairs back up to the second floor by the east wing. Just as I've emerged from behind the bust of the old Duke, I run into another familiar face.

Rye is impeccably dressed, as usual. I haven't really seen him in this palace without Carnelian, but he's alone now. And looking at me strangely. I curtsy again, for lack of a better idea. He glances behind him at the empty hall,
then turns back to me.

“Violet?” he says quietly.

My eyes widen. “How—”

But before I can say another word, he pulls me into a small room across the hall. Butterflies in glass cases line the walls.

Rye grips my wrist, my pulse humming against his fingers.

“Ash sends his regards. To both of us.”

“Is he all right?” I ask. “Where is he? Have you spoken to him?”

“No, but someone else has. A mutual friend.”

I assume he means another companion.

“Who? When?”

He chuckles lazily and I wonder if he's on drugs. “No one you know. And yesterday.”

“Did he say anything about my brother?”

“Your what? No.” Rye looks me up and down and whistles. “He said you looked different, but . . . wow. You surrogates are full of surprises.”

“I'm not a surrogate anymore,” I say.

“Right,” he says. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you earlier but it's hard getting away from Carnelian.”

“I bet,” I mutter.

He grins. “Yeah, she's pretty obsessed with Ash. Can't stop asking me questions about him. The Duchess, too. At first, at least. She stopped after a while. Not Carnelian though.”

“Terrific,” I say dryly, switching the subject to more important matters. “Has he spoken to any other companions? Are they willing to help us?”

“Help the Black Key, you mean? Sure.” He shrugs. “It's
not like our lives can get any worse.”

I bite my lip.

“I'm staying in Ash's old rooms,” he says. “I'm sure you can remember the way there.” He winks. “Meet me tonight and we'll talk.”

I wait a few seconds after he leaves, then hurry down the hall to Coral's room. I'm so distracted by this new development while I'm dressing her for the trip to the Bank, I end up putting her high heels on the wrong feet.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing, miss. I'm sorry,” I mumble, correcting the mistake.

Miss Mayfield's is one of the top dressmakers in the Lone City, with a waiting list a mile long, and Coral cannot stop chattering about how fabulous her dress will be.

“I chose pink, obviously,” she says, looking up as I apply her eyeliner. “My mother always wore blue or silver to the Auction.” She sniffs. “Pink suits me better.”

“Yes, miss.” I suddenly remember I haven't told her about the doctor's appointment. “Dr. Blythe would like to see you this evening, after your fitting. He said—”

“My very first surrogate appointment!” Coral studies her reflection in the mirror as I finish with the eyeliner. “Of course. We'll be back well before then, won't we?”

I've learned over the past few weeks that “our” whole schedule is entirely in Coral's hands. She doesn't want to do something? It doesn't happen. Yet she always insists on asking me anyway.

“Yes, miss,” I say. “Will Garnet be accompanying us this afternoon?”

I haven't seen much of Garnet since his father's death.
He's thrown himself into his role as a Regimental, making more trips to the lower circles than he had before.

Coral giggles. “Boys don't come to dress fittings.” She scrunches her nose. “Carnelian will be coming though. She's always so dull and serious.”

“Is Carnelian going to the Auction?”

“Of course not, Imogen, she isn't married. But there will be lots of festivities the day after, the dinners of course, and some other parties, so she must look nice for those, even if she can't come to the event itself.”

Coral fusses with a curl by her left ear.

“My mother has been telling me stories about the Auction since I was little and I can't believe I finally get to go. It sounds so wonderful. There are rooms for entertainment, and games on the lawns. It starts in the afternoon and lasts the whole day! And there are distractions for the women waiting to buy surrogates and then things to do once you've bought yours. I've never been inside the amphitheater before, but I've heard it's just lovely.” I
have
been inside that amphitheater and
lovely
is not a word I'd ever use to describe it. “There will be food and drinks and games to watch and musicians and jugglers and all sorts of fun things!”

She looks so excited. As if the Auction isn't about a bunch of girls being carted off to a strange place, drugged, dressed up, and then paraded onto a stage. As if all that fear, all that anxiety and worry, all that abuse, is merely entertainment.

But this Auction isn't going to be like the others.

I'm going to make sure of that.

I
SIT IN THE MOTORCAR OPPOSITE
C
ORAL AND
C
ARNELIAN
as we drive to the north train station. Miss Mayfield's is in the North Quarter of the Bank.

“This is so stupid,” Carnelian grumbles. “After all those bombings and riots and stuff. I can't believe she's sending us out there.”

“Nonsense,” Coral replies. “There hasn't been a bombing in a week.”

“Not in the Bank, maybe,” Carnelian says. “But the Smoke and the Farm are getting pretty dangerous. Don't you read the papers?”

I'm impressed Carnelian is following the Society's movements. Though I do remember, at a dinner so many months ago, the Duchess mocking her for working on her father's
printing press. Maybe she's always read the papers and I just never noticed.

And privately, I agree with her. With the Auction almost here, it's unsafe for royals to be in the lower circles. But of course, they don't know that.

“The Smoke has always been rather rough around the edges, though, hasn't it?” Coral says. “The Bank is lovely. It will be nice to have a change of scenery.”

“I still don't see why I couldn't have brought Rye,” Carnelian says.

“Yes, he's very funny, isn't he?” Coral says. “I remember when he was my companion. He used to do impressions of the servants that made me laugh for days.”

I'd forgotten Rye worked for the House of the Downs. It seems wrong to me, unnatural that she and Coral would share a companion, but I suppose it must happen all the time.

“Don't remind me,” Carnelian mumbles.

“And he's a good deal nicer than that awful Ash Lockwood,” Coral continues, oblivious to Carnelian's murderous expression. “I remember how jealous I was when the Duchess procured him for you! My mother was dying to get her hands on him. But I suppose that worked out for the best.”

“Don't talk about him like you know him,” Carnelian snaps. “Because you don't.”

“Well, neither did you, really,” Coral points out.

Carnelian stares out the window and fumes for the rest of the drive.

Our motorcar pulls into a station that is even smaller than the one I arrived at when I was pretending to be Lily.
There is no little house beside it. It's nestled in a copse of trees, their buds just beginning to blossom. The train is only one car, gleaming black with copper detail. The conductor jumps to attention when we arrive, doffing his hat and opening the train door for us.

The interior of the car looks very similar to a royal parlor. There are two couches, one upholstered in silver with a pretty snowflake pattern, the other gold embossed with leaves, as well as two armchairs. Lamps decorate the various tables, their shades in muted tones of peach and beige. A miniature chandelier hangs from the ceiling. There is a marble statue of a woman in a long dress, a bird perched on her outstretched hand. A glass cabinet filled with liquor bottles sits beside a very large, very realistic portrait of the Exetor.

Carnelian and Coral take seats on opposite couches. I've learned by now that my job is to stand quietly in the corner and pretend I don't exist. Today's paper sits on a small side table and Carnelian picks it up and flips through it as the train rumbles forward.

“I
do
read the papers, by the way,” Coral says. “There was an editorial by the Lady of the Dell about the inequity of pre-birth engagements.”

Carnelian snorts. “Please. That was a veiled attempt by the Electress to discredit the Duchess. Everyone knows she doesn't want the Duchess's daughter marrying her son. Probably why she sent those men to kill the surrogate at Garnet's party.”

“The Electress wouldn't do that,” Coral says. “It's treason. People are just jealous.”

“You don't really believe that, do you?”

Coral very studiously ignores the question.

Carnelian groans. “You act like you haven't lived in this circle your whole life. You know how ruthless it is.”

“That's such a cruel word.” Coral adjusts her hat. “People just have very strong feelings about things here, that's all.”

Carnelian laughs at that, and I'm glad she can, since I can't.

“You're a joke, Coral.”

“At least I'm pretty and happy,” she responds with a shrug. “Maybe if you tried smiling more, someone in this circle will want to marry you.”

“I don't think it's my lack of smiles that's preventing any House from making a match with me,” Carnelian says. “Besides, there are more important things than finding a husband and buying a surrogate.”

It's Coral's turn to laugh. “Like what?”

Carnelian brandishes the paper at her. “The city is falling apart out there.”

At that moment, the iron door between the Bank and the Jewel groans open. The train moves forward slowly, chugging through the darkness until we finally emerge on the other side, reminding me unpleasantly again of just how big this wall is.

But I won't be alone. It won't just be me trying to take it down, as Lucien once planned. I think of Indi and Sienna and even Olive, waiting in the Marsh, ready to ride into the Jewel with the girls being sold. I think about Raven and Sil hiding out near Southgate. I wonder how Ginger, and Tawny, and Henna are doing. I hope they'll be ready, that Amber and Scarlet and the other girls have helped
them practice with the elements. I hope they learn from one another, strengthen one another.

As light filters back into the train, Coral smiles smugly. “How is anyone ever going to get through that wall, Carnelian? We are perfectly safe in the Jewel. And I'm sure this whole business will blow over soon enough. These ruffians will be caught and punished.” She sniffs, smoothing out her skirts. “Can't they be thankful that we provide them with jobs, put clothes on their backs and food in their bellies? It seems so ungrateful of them to be throwing these tantrums.”

Once again, Carnelian speaks my mind for me.

“Coral, you have absolutely
no
idea what you're talking about. What you know about the lower circles could fit inside one of your stupid miniature teacups.”

The train slows and we pull up to the Bank station before the fight can continue.

It is as private as the one in the Jewel, if not more. There are trees that hide it within the confines of a brick wall. A motorcar waits for us just inside the golden gate that leads to the rest of the circle.

I've only ever been to the South Quarter of the Bank, for that brief time I spent with Lily and then at the warehouse. Everything was pink stone and immaculate gardening. The North Quarter is wilder. All the trees here are evergreens. The buildings are made from materials in silvery gray and pale blue, so they gleam among the dark green. Lots of them have white tiles for their roofs, giving the impression of newly fallen snow.

We reach a street that is twice as wide as any other
we've been on so far. It's filled with shops of every kind, and the chauffeur pulls over to let us out. We pass a store with boarded-up windows and scorch marks on its walls. A sign on the door reads, “Closed for Renovations.” A black key is scrawled over the words.

“Ungrateful,” Coral mutters. Carnelian rolls her eyes, but she glances back at the building several times until it fades from view.

She catches me watching her and quickly faces forward.

I look away, too. I don't need Carnelian studying me too closely.

One or two other stores have broken windows and “Closed” notices and I catch sight of more spray-painted keys.

The shops that remain untouched have large ornate signs, like the ones in the South Quarter. One proudly boasts “The best milliner in the North Quarter!” over a display of brilliantly colored hats. Another proclaims “Fine linens: make your house look like a royal palace!”

We finally stop outside a bright red building, a sharp contrast to all the iron and brass that makes up most of this quarter. There is an imposing branch of the Royal Bank to the left and a furniture store on the right. The sign over the red building's entrance says, “Miss Mayfield's Ladies Emporium: Purveyor of Fine Evening Wear.” A girl no older than me in a smartly cut black pencil skirt and blazer greets us at the door.

“Coral of the House of the Lake,” she says warmly. “We've been expecting you. And Miss Carnelian as well. Come in, come in.”

Coral soaks up the attention like a sponge. We walk into the store and two other girls in similar garb are immediately called over. Coffee is poured, fresh fruit is offered, as well as a seat on a plush velvet sofa. Once again, I hover in the background, not needed except when Coral removes her hat and hands it to me. Dresses surround us, modeled on wooden mannequins or hanging on racks arranged by color. The ceiling is so high that there are tiers of gowns accessible only by a sliding ladder on the wall, like the one in the Duchess's library. The floor is carpeted in a deep crimson, and the light fixture that hangs from the ceiling is wrought out of copper in the shape of many antlers, each point fixed with a glowglobe, so that the room is bathed in a warm light.

“Miss Mayfield will be right with you,” the head girl assures Coral. “You'll love it when you see it, it's absolutely stunning. She was up all night finishing it.”

Coral looks pleased.

“What about my dress?” Carnelian asks. She sits on a small pouf with her cup of coffee, looking disgruntled.

“Oh, yours is lovely, too!” the assistant chirps.

“You must be thrilled,” another assistant, who's nearly as tall as Indi, says. “To have your aunt commission a dress like this just for you.”

“Yes, I'm ecstatic,” Carnelian replies dryly.

“We both are,” Coral says, smiling enough for the two of them.

“Have you seen the lists for the Auction yet?” the head girl asks.

“No, they never arrive until a few days before, do they?
I can't wait to see what sort of surrogates are on the docket this year.”

“Not nearly as many as last time, though, are there?” the third assistant, a girl with bushy hair and a lot of freckles, asks.

“No,” Coral says. “But it's really about quality, not quantity, isn't it?”

“Besides, no one's fighting for Larimar's hand in marriage anymore,” Carnelian points out.

“We were so sorry to hear about that awful shooting,” the head girl says. I notice she speaks only to Coral. “Is it true they were after the surrogate?”

“Yes,” Coral replies in a hushed voice.

“Everyone is saying it was the Electress,” the freckled girl interjects, as if hoping to get confirmation of this from Coral, but the head girl silences her with a sharp look.

“No one knows who was behind it,” she says curtly. “The Duchess must be so worried for her surrogate's safety.”

My stomach lurches, Hazel's frantic pleas ringing in my ears.

“She keeps her secure in the palace,” Coral says.

“And no more parties until the little bundle of joy is born,” Carnelian says.

The tall girl titters nervously, as if she's unsure whether or not Carnelian is making a joke, and if so, whether she is supposed to think it's funny.

“Is she showing yet?” the head assistant asks.

“Yes, she's gotten quite big.” Coral puts down her china cup.

“So remarkable that the Duchess managed to orchestrate
the engagement before the sweet little girl is even born,” the tall girl says, moving closer to be a part of the gossip. “How ever did she manage it?”

“You know the Duchess,” Coral says airily. “If she wants something, she will do whatever it takes to get it. She wanted me for her son and look how that turned out!”

All the assistants laugh.

“Now, girls, give the ladies some air.” The woman who enters from the back of the shop is style personified. She wears a floor-length, plum-colored gown that hugs her curves perfectly, accentuating her hips and breasts. The detail is astounding—beads are sewn into the bodice and skirt in a wave pattern, taking up one whole side of the dress like an ocean of blue and silver and lilac. A simple shawl is draped around her shoulders, giving the effect that she just threw this outfit on without really thinking about it. Her hair is a vibrant red, at sharp contrast with her midnight-black skin. Like the Duchess, this is a woman with the power to silence a room.

The three attendants hush and back away.

“Coral, how delightful to see you again,” Miss Mayfield says, swooping down to kiss both of Coral's cheeks. “And, Carnelian, you're looking lovely.” Her gaze lands on me. “Ah, did you get a lady-in-waiting at last?”

“She's mine,” Coral interjects before Carnelian can respond. “Garnet bought her for me.”

Miss Mayfield gives her a feline smile. “Your husband is a good man. Though I do wish he could help with our little Key problem here in the Bank. I've had to repaint the walls of my shop twice already.”

“Vandals,” the head assistant agrees.

“He's doing his very best,” Coral says, and I can't hide my smirk at that. Fortunately, no one except Carnelian sees me, her face turning curious. I quickly smooth out my expression.

Miss Mayfield nods. “Well, let's not drag ourselves down with depressing matters. We have gowns to see!”

She claps her hands and her assistants scatter like well-trained mice. The tall one opens up a set of wooden doors and the bushy-haired one wheels out a mannequin in a blue dress, the head assistant following behind her with a pink one.

“It's beautiful!” Coral gasps, reaching out to touch the soft fabric.

“I thought mine was going to be red and black,” Carnelian says, looking disdainfully at the blue chiffon as it's wheeled in front of her.

“Yes, darling, but unfortunately, the Duchess pays the bill and she felt your chosen color scheme was a bit too . . . intense.” Miss Mayfield pats Carnelian's shoulder. “Don't worry,” she says in a low voice, “it's going to fit you like a glove.”