The Jewel (16 page)

“You saw what happened when you behaved yourself at my dinner—you received a cello. Continue to behave, and I will ensure that your life here is as pleasant as possible. You'd like that, wouldn't you? A pleasant life?”

She smiles at me in a way that sets my teeth on edge.

“What do you want?” I ask.

The Duchess purses her lips. “You seem like a fairly intelligent girl. The conversation at dinner the other night mustn't have escaped your notice entirely.”

My mind whirs back to the dinner, but mostly I remember the general snideness, Raven's face, and the horrible moment when Dahlia was forced to perform. The Duchess looks disappointed.

“The Electress has recently celebrated the birth of her first child, a son. He will be the future Exetor, and my daughter will be betrothed to him. It is your job to ensure this arrangement. My daughter must be beautiful, but looks aren't everything, as my son proves to me every day. She must be smart and strong. She must have ambition, determination, and courage. I want her to be irresistible. But of course”—she waves her hand—“all of these qualities will come later. To make her truly stand out as an infant, you must make her grow. Faster than the others.”

I shake my head, as if somehow I can rattle her words together in my brain in a way that makes sense. “I don't . . . understand.”

The Duchess sits up, exasperated. “Do you know how many perfect scores there have been on the third Augury, in the history of the Auction?”

“No.”

“Seven—one every fifty years or so. I have researched the Auction extensively. In fact, the last perfect score recorded was from the surrogate my own mother purchased, the one who bore me.” She looks proud, as if she had something to do with her surrogate's Augury score. “Of course, my mother did not have the slightest idea how to foster the potential that my surrogate had. I do. I have been waiting a very long time for you.”

“So you expect me to make a baby faster than everyone else, and also make her beautiful and courageous and all those other things? How do you even know I'll have a daughter?”

The Duchess frowns. “Perhaps you are not as intelligent as I thought. The royalty are only allowed two children, one girl and one boy. I already have a son.”

“But the Electress . . . at the dinner, she said she was going to make her daughter succeed the throne, not her son.”

“Well,” the Duchess says, “in order for that to happen, she'd need to
have
a daughter, wouldn't she?”

It feels like an ice cube has slipped into my stomach. So that's why she killed Dahlia. To prevent the Electress from having a girl.

“So what, do you plan to kill every surrogate the Electress ever buys?” I ask.

The silence that follows presses down on me, dark and threatening.

“Is this how you wish to begin our partnership?” the Duchess asks in a soft, menacing voice. I press my lips together. “Good. And don't be so dramatic. Death won't be necessary. It wasn't technically necessary this time, since the Exetor will never consent to having a woman succeed the throne. But I did feel that Her Royal Grace's head could do with a little deflating.”

This woman makes me sick. She killed an innocent child simply out of spite. “But the Electress said she could convince the Exetor to change his mind,” I insist.

The Duchess raises an eyebrow. “Did she? And how did she plan to do that?”

I hesitate, remembering that that moment occurred when the Duchess was out of the room.

The Duchess's eyes harden. “Speak.”

I grit my teeth and jut out my chin.

She moves so quickly I have no time to react. One moment, we're sitting across from each other, the next she is towering over me, fingers around my throat. Her grip is like an iron claw, tightening until I can barely breathe. I scratch at her hand, trying to free myself, but she only squeezes harder. Her strength is incredible.

“You listen to me,” she says, her voice soft and dangerous. “I have allowed you to mourn for your friend. I have allowed you to destroy an entire year's worth of gowns. I have allowed you to be self-indulgent and I have allowed you to sulk. Do not think there is a single emotion you feel or action you make that I am not aware of and that I could not change or cease if necessary. But I will
not
allow you to disrespect me. Do you understand?”

I try to speak but only a strangled hissing sound comes out. Her fingernails dig into my skin and stars explode in front of my eyes, my attempts to claw at her hand becoming weaker, a tingling sensation spreads through my fingertips, and my head feels very light and everything goes fuzzy. . . .

Then the world sharpens with painful clarity as the Duchess releases me. I collapse over one arm of the chair, gasping for breath, my throat raw. Air fills my lungs, and I gulp at it greedily, choking in my eagerness to breathe. It takes a few seconds before I can get my body back under control, to stop the shaking in my arms and legs. When I look up, the Duchess is staring at me, her face impassive.

“Do you understand?” she repeats.

I nod weakly. “Y-yes, my lady,” I wheeze.

“Good. Now. What did the Electress say?”

“She said . . . she said she could use her body to convince him.” I blush at the words.

The Duchess's eyes widen a fraction and she barks out a laugh. “Really? Well, I wish her the best of luck with that.” Some strange expression crosses her face, making her features oddly fragile. Then it's gone and she laughs again. “Get your robe. We're going to see the doctor.”

The room tilts at an odd angle. “Now?” My voice is frail and raspy.

“Yes. Now.”

The Duchess doesn't seem to notice that I'm falling apart. As I slip my robe on, it's like my stomach has disappeared and my heart has moved to settle in its place. My body feels hollow and my pulse thrums loudly in my ears.

I hadn't expected it to happen so soon. I'm not ready for this.

We make our way down the hall of flowers, and then through an open gallery filled with colorful paintings. We turn right, then left, down a short hallway paneled in oak. A gilded door sits at the end of it, carved into floral patterns like a grate, and as we reach it, I see that it's an elevator. There was one in Southgate, though not nearly as ornate. The Duchess opens the grate and we step inside. There is a thick blue rug on the floor, and a copper lever that the Duchess pulls—the doors close and the elevator sinks down into darkness.

I press myself against the wall and wish I could disappear. They told us at Southgate that the implantation process would be painless, but that's not particularly reassuring at the moment.

I don't want anything of the Duchess's inside me.

Light covers my feet, then crawls up my calves and over my knees as the elevator slows and comes to a stop.

The doors open to reveal a sterile-looking medical room. It is similar to the one at Southgate, only smaller, clearly just for one person. A tray of gleaming silver instruments sits beside a white hospital bed, and clusters of bright lights perch atop steel supports, like many-eyed silver insects.

I can't move. It feels like something hard is stuck in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

“Dr. Blythe,” the Duchess says, grabbing my arm and yanking me out of the elevator. I see him, hunched over a desk on the left side of the room.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” he says. “You are precisely on time.”

Like most of the doctors I've been to, Dr. Blythe is older, with deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His skin is a rich brown, with a handful of chocolate-colored freckles spread across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a strangely youthful characteristic in such an old face. His black hair, peppered with streaks of gray, is slicked back, though there is a crinkled quality to it. His eyes are a light brownish-green, and there is warmth in them, something I'm not at all used to in doctors. He looks at me like I'm a person, not a sample in a test tube.

“Ah,” he says. “Hello.”

He is smiling at me. I don't know what to make of that. My head is spinning and I think I might pass out.

His smile fades. “Surely, Your Ladyship, you have informed your surrogate that this is purely a preliminary exam? She looks a bit . . . pale.”

Preliminary exam. The words dance around in my head, relief making my legs numb.

“I did not think it necessary,” the Duchess says.

The doctor shakes his head. “My lady, we have discussed this. You have agreed to follow my instructions and I must insist that you do.”

Immediately, I like this man. Anyone allowed to give the Duchess instructions is okay by me.

“Very well,” she says tightly. “I will expect your report this evening.”

The doctor bows. “Of course, my lady.”

She gets back in the elevator, and it slowly disappears from view—the doctor waits until it's gone before speaking again.

“I'm Dr. Blythe, as you have probably surmised,” he says, holding out his hand. “I'll be your primary physician.”

I take his hand—it is soft and warm.

“What's your name?” he asks. I hesitate. “It's all right, you can tell me.”

“Violet.”

“What a beautiful name,” he says. “Who chose it?”

“My father,” I reply. “After my eyes.”

Dr. Blythe smiles. “Yes, they are a most unusual color. I've never seen anything quite like them.”

“Thank you.”

“Which holding facility were you in?”

“Southgate.”

“Is Dr. Steele still the head physician there?”

I nod.

“What a strange man he is. Excellent doctor, but . . .” Dr. Blythe shakes his head. “Let's get started, shall we, Violet? As I said, this is only a preliminary exam, but I will have to ask you to remove your nightdress. You may keep your undergarments on, and there is a robe for you to wear if you'd like.”

He turns his back while I undress—the robe is not like the disposable ones I wore at Southgate, but made of white terrycloth, though there is no belt to keep it closed. I wrap my arms tightly around my torso, glancing nervously at the tray of silver instruments.

“Please, sit,” Dr. Blythe says, indicating the hospital bed.

I relax a little as he conducts the exam, similar to the hundreds of others I had at Southgate. He goes through routine checks of my ears, nose, eyes, throat, takes my temperature and my blood pressure, makes notations on a clipboard, checks my reflexes. He asks the usual, unpleasant questions about my monthly cycle.

“Don't you have this stuff from the doctors at Southgate?” I ask.

Dr. Blythe smiles. “I like to be thorough,” he says. He marks something down on his clipboard, then begins to attach tiny electrodes to my temples, the insides of my wrists, then moves to open my robe. “May I?”

I look up at him, startled. “You're the first one to ask,” I say.

He smiles and gently places two electrodes on either side of my stomach, just below the line of my underwear, then one on my chest, over my heart. He carefully lifts each of my legs, placing electrodes on the backs of my knees, and then two on the arches of my feet. And finally, he attaches one to the nape of my neck and one at the base of my spine.

“I assume you've only had the head and uterine monitors before?” Dr. Blythe says. I nod. “Well, we like to be a little more accurate, now that you're entering the more . . . practical phase of your surrogacy.”

“Am I going to use the Auguries?” I ask. Whenever the doctors used the monitors at Southgate, it always involved an Augury test.

“Yes, but don't worry. Just once for each one.” He walks to the wall and presses a red button—a flat white screen descends from the ceiling next to the hospital bed. Pulling up a stool, he sits and taps the corner of the screen—it begins to glow, different colored squares of light checkering its smooth surface. Then he angles the screen so I can't see it.

“Violet,” he says, “you are a very special young woman.” I fight the impulse to roll my eyes as the doctor touches something on the screen and a yellow glow illuminates his face. “Surrogates have confounded the medical community for centuries, since the very beginning of the Auction. I assume you know your history?”

“The royalty was dying out,” I say, repeating what I was told so many times at Southgate. “Their babies were born sick or deformed, and died. Some of them couldn't have babies at all. Surrogates allow the royalty to survive. The Auguries help repair the chromosomal damage to royal embryos.”

“Precisely,” says Dr. Blythe. “Bloodline is very important to the royalty, but when there are only so many fish in the sea . . .” He taps at the screen. “It was Dr. Osmium Corre, perhaps the most renowned physician in the history of the Lone City, who discovered the first surrogates.” This time, I can't help rolling my eyes. All the doctors at Southgate loved talking about Dr. Corre. Raven used to joke that they probably had shrines built to him in their houses. “He identified a strange genetic mutation, found only in young women from the poorest of the five circles—the Marsh—which allowed the royalty to continue having their own children without the risk of birth defects or premature death. But there is more to the Auguries than the miracle of healthy babies. Each Augury is attached to a certain developmental aspect. For instance“—he reaches out to the tray and picks up a large blue marble from among the silver instruments—”the first Augury, Color, affects certain physical aspects of the child.”

He gives me the marble—it is heavier than I expected, and very smooth. “Make this red, please.”

Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.

I draw up the image in my mind, and cracks of red appear on the smooth blue surface. In less than a second, the marble is red. A dull ache pulses behind my left ear, and I rub it absentmindedly.