The Jewel (14 page)

I look back at the palace. The girl in the window is gone.

The Duchess ignores me, one finger tapping impatiently on the armrest. She takes a compact out of her black silk clutch and applies a layer of red lipstick. She studies her reflection in the tiny mirror and sighs.

“Getting old is a terrible thing,” she says. I stay quiet. I wouldn't know what to say to that anyway—the Duchess hardly looks old.

The golden gates are topped with the crest of the House of the Lake—a lacquered blue circle crossed with two silver tridents. I've seen it around my chambers, over the fireplaces and on top of some of the clocks, as well as on the Regimentals' uniforms. The motorcar pulls out onto a road paved with asphalt, its surface so smooth we seem to be gliding rather than driving. I remember the rutted dirt roads of the Marsh on that last ride to see my family—the mud-brick houses, the smell of dirt and sulfur in the air, the layer of dust that seemed to cover everything. This ride could not be more different.

The Jewel seems to be made up of nothing but palaces, all practically on top of one another but separated by high, thick walls topped with vicious-looking spikes—the palaces themselves are visible only through the large gates that allow entrance to their property. As we leave the Duchess's diamond palace behind, I glimpse a multileveled structure of marble and onyx, with stairs built on the outside at every level, giving it a very geometric look. I'm reminded of the building blocks Ochre and I used to play with when we were little.

Other motorcars join us on the road, and everyone seems to be going in the same direction. We continue to pass palace after palace, many made of different colored crystal—pink, turquoise, emerald, topaz, garnet. Some have tall towers, some are domed, some built in strange shapes I'd never have expected. One palace, like a stack of triangles, reminds me of an evergreen tree, especially since it's made out of jade and gold. Spreading out in front of it is an enormous rose garden, mostly dormant now in the approaching winter, but a few late-blooming buds still cling to the vines, snatches of pale pink and red. The crest on the gates is a green diamond crossed by two roses. A black motorcar sits in the driveway.

“Late, as usual,” the Duchess mutters.

Then the walls fall away, and I forget that I don't want to talk to the Duchess, forget the leash and the veil, because I know the incredible structure we're passing and I never thought I'd see it in real life.

“That's the Royal Concert Hall!” I exclaim. An immense façade of rose-colored stone, topped with a pale green dome and two golden statues of beautiful women with long slender trumpets extending from their outstretched hands. I stare, wide-eyed and openmouthed, thinking of all the famous musicians who have played in that Hall—Cornett Strand and Gaida Balaban and my very favorite, Stradivarius Tanglewood. I can't imagine the thrill of being able to play on that stage.

I keep my eyes on the Royal Concert Hall for as long as I can, until it fades in the distance and disappears from sight.

The road begins to climb and we enter a forest, the parade of motorcars winding through trees whose leaves are just beginning to change, splashes of red and orange and yellow visible through the lush greenery. Our driver handles the curves well, but I still grab on to the door handle to keep from sliding across the seat into the Duchess. She stares broodingly out the window.

“I loved this forest when I was a child,” she says. “But my father would never let me play in it. It was too dangerous, he said.” She shakes her head. “Men and their guns and their ridiculous desire to shoot things for sport.” It's hard to imagine the Duchess as a child, much less her playing at all, in a forest or otherwise. “I liked to pretend I could speak to the trees, like the younger sister in
The Wishing Well
. Do you know that story?”

That brings me up short. The Duchess has read
The Wishing Well
?

“Speak,” she snaps when I don't answer.

“Yes,” I say. “I know it.” Then I add unwillingly, “My lady.”

“I thought so. It is quite . . . provincial. My governess used to read it to me—she was a very simple woman. My father was furious when he found out. I was supposed to be reading the classics, not fairy stories. He threw my governess into the dungeons. I never saw her again.” The Duchess says this so matter-of-factly it sends a chill up my spine. “I imagine your mother read it to you? There aren't any governesses in the Marsh, I should think.”

“My father read it to me, my lady.”

“Oh?” she says, one eyebrow arching in surprise. “And which circle does he work in, your father?”

“He's dead,” I say coldly. And I don't add “my lady.”

The Duchess smiles. “Oh, I do like you. You have such an interesting balance of obedience and contempt.”

I clench my jaw and stare out the window. I hate that she's given me no way to defy her—my boldness is just as pleasing to her as my compliance.

The forest ends abruptly, and once again I find myself shocked out of my bad mood. The motorcar crawls through a massive topiary—enormous hedge-creatures, ten feet high, line the road, some with trunks outstretched, or claws raised, or snouts to the ground.

“Almost there,” the Duchess says brightly.

We slow down as the road becomes packed with motorcars, climbing even higher and emerging onto a large square with a fountain in its center. In the middle of the fountain is a statue of four boys, back to back, blowing on trumpets; from each trumpet a spout of water arches and falls into the fountain. On the far side of the square is a palace so extravagant, it could only be for the Electress and the Exetor. It's crafted out of a burnished gold material, almost like liquid fire, with pillars and columns and domes and turrets that stretch higher than any of the other palaces I've seen. A series of low, broad steps paved with smooth gray stones lead up to a set of massive double doors.

Royal women, dressed in black, mill around, many of them accompanied by a surrogate, leashed and veiled and all in black, like me. It's a very somber sight—I wonder what's going on.

The driver pulls over and gets out quickly, opening the door for the Duchess. I slide across the seat as the chain tautens, and struggle to stay close to her—I hate the feel of the collar pulling on my neck.

The royal women melt away at the approach of the Duchess, curtsying to her and murmuring “Your Ladyship.” I search the faces of the veiled surrogates, looking for Raven. She'll have to be here. If this is an event at the palace, wouldn't all four founding Houses be invited?

“Good morning, Iolite,” the Duchess says to a red-haired woman with a black stole around her neck. A silver bracelet gleams on her wrist, its chain disappearing under the veil of her surrogate.

“Pearl!” the woman exclaims. She and the Duchess exchange air kisses. “How
are
you?”

The Duchess gives some polite response, but the world is suddenly muted as I take in the surrogate attached to the chain.

She is hugely pregnant.

I can't quite make out her face through the veil, and her eyes are downcast. But she can't be much older than I am.

Reality hits me like a block of cement.

I'm staring at my future.

Sound comes back in a rush.

“. . . so sad I wasn't able to make it to the Auction.” the woman with the stole is saying.

“Well, of course you didn't need to,” the Duchess says.

“Oh, I know, but the lists looked so exciting this year,” the woman moans. The lists. I feel nauseous. “Which one did you get?”

“197,” the Duchess says smugly.

“She was popular, wasn't she?”

“There was significant interest, yes.” The Duchess's gaze flickers to the pregnant surrogate. “Why, yours must be almost due.”

“In about a month,” the woman says, rubbing her hand over her surrogate's swollen belly and making my skin crawl. The girl keeps her eyes down, showing no reaction to her mistress's touch.

“It seems like just the other day that you bought her,” the Duchess says.

“Oh, I know,” the woman agrees. “Time simply flies, doesn't it?”

“Have you chosen a name for your son yet?”

“The Lord of the Glass and I have decided to wait until after he's born. But we do have a few in mind,” she says with a wink.

This woman must be the Lady of the Glass—one thing I
do
remember from royal studies is that, after the four founding Houses, everyone else is either a Lord or a Lady. Her eyes widen and she waves at someone behind me. “Ametrine!”

What strange names these royal women have
, I think, as the Countess of the Rose joins us, leaning heavily on a black walking stick, a mink coat hanging from her shoulders. The lioness is hidden under her veil, but I can feel the tension rolling off her—I bet she's hating the leash more than I am.

“So sad, isn't it?” the Countess says, but her face belies her words—she doesn't look sad at all.

“Yes,” the Lady of the Glass replies in a hushed voice, but with the hint of a smile. “And so . . . surprising.”

“Indeed,” the Duchess says wryly.

I have no idea what they're talking about, but something about their tone makes me uncomfortable.

There is a blaring of trumpets and the massive front doors of the palace groan open. An older man, his black hair graying at his temples, emerges, surrounded by Regimentals. At once, silence falls and the crowd bows low. This time I don't need prompting to know to bow, because this is a face that even I recognize. I've seen it hundreds of times on the covers of Lily's magazines, on the official royal seal, in the newspapers that the caretakers read . . .

The Exetor.

He is tall, and his face, though lined, is handsome. He wears an inversion of the Regimental uniform, a black military jacket with red buttons and the crest of the Royal Family pinned on his left breast—a crowned flame crossed with two spears.

“Her Royal Grace thanks you for your support during this sad time,” he says. His voice is a rich tenor. “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.”

Gasps of shock and murmurs of outrage ripple through the crowd at this announcement. The Lady of the Glass frowns, glancing at her surrogate's belly, but the Countess of the Rose looks positively terrified.

“
Leave
them here?” she hisses to the Duchess. “By
themselves
?”

The Duchess's eyes are fixed on the Exetor, and her mouth twists into a calculating smile. “Very clever,” she murmurs. Then she yanks on my leash, pulling me close to her. “You will behave yourself,” she says in a voice like shards of ice. “Or you will be punished. Do you understand?”

I grit my teeth and nod. The Duchess holds my gaze for a moment through the veil, then she undoes the bracelet around her wrist, fastening it to mine. Other women follow her lead, many with hesitation.

As a steady stream of black-clothed figures passes through the double doors, bowing and curtsying to the Exetor as they go, another stream of red encircles the surrogates. The Exetor's guard carry rifles, their faces cold. Maybe it's just my imagination, but they seem bigger than the Regimentals at the Duchess's palace. The closest surrogates shrink from them as they tighten the ring around us. As we bunch together, I accidentally bump into the pregnant surrogate, stepping on her foot.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” I hurriedly apologize. The girl says nothing, but her hand moves to caress her stomach. “Is it . . . are you okay?”

“He's kicking,” she murmurs, and I don't know if she's talking to me or to herself until she looks up. Her eyes are big and brown, like a doe's, and even more pronounced because of the thinness of her face—her skin is stretched tightly over her cheekbones and chin. A ghostly smile pulls at her lips.

“Is that . . . a good thing?” I have absolutely no idea what it must be like to be pregnant. I have a vague memory of my mother when she was pregnant with Hazel, but mostly I remember wondering about how this new little person would affect
my
life, not what my mother was experiencing. And she'd always seemed happy, glowing, not skeletal like this girl.

“He knows I'm scared.” The girl cradles her stomach tenderly. “He knows I don't like being outside.”

“How can he tell you're scared?” I ask slowly.

“You'll see,” the girl says. “It will happen to you.”

Suddenly, someone grabs my arm.

“Fawn?” Another surrogate is staring at me wildly through her veil.

“N-no,” I stammer. “I'm Violet.” It feels good to say my name aloud.

“Have you seen a girl with dark brown hair and freckles? Did you come from Westgate?”

“No,” I say. “I'm sorry. I came from Southgate. Is Fawn your friend?”

“She's my sister,” the girl says, tears filling her eyes. “I . . . I can't find her.” She turns to the lioness, clutching her wrist. “Have you seen a girl with dark brown hair and freckles?”

The lioness yanks her arm out of the girl's grasp. “Don't touch me,” she says coldly.

The girl sniffs and turns to another surrogate, pleading for information. The lioness catches me frowning at her and glares.

“What?”

“I don't understand you,” I say. “She was just looking for help.”

The lioness laughs. “I don't understand
you
,” she says. “All of you. You act like sniveling weaklings, afraid of your mistresses.
We
make their children.
We
have the power.”

“Maybe,” I retort. “But you didn't choose this life any more than I did.”

“Violet!”

The sound of my name cuts off anything else I might want to say.