The Jewel (5 page)

Whenever I think of her, I always wonder who Cobalt was. I wonder if he ever found out that he was the last person she thought of before she died.

I turn my attention back to the man from the Jewel, who finishes his speech and wipes his glasses with a silk handkerchief.

There are only twenty-two surrogates going to the Auction from Southgate this year. Most are coming from Northgate and Westgate. Our train is a plum-colored steam engine with only three carriages—much smaller and friendlier than the train my father took to work.

Our head doctor, Dr. Steele, shakes the fat man's hand, then turns to address us. Everything about Dr. Steele is long and gray—long chin, long nose, long arms, gray hair, gray eyebrows, grayish eyes. Even his skin has a grayish tinge. Lily once told me she heard that Dr. Steele is addicted to opiates, and it washes out all of his natural coloring.

“And now, ladies,” Dr. Steele says in a frail, whispery voice, “it is time to depart.”

He waves a long-fingered hand, and the doors on the steam engine open with a loud hissing sound. The surrogates begin to file into the carriages. I look back and see Mercy dabbing her eyes, and Patience looking as placid as ever. I see the rose-shaped bars on the windows of the dormitories, set in the pale pink stone of the holding facility. I see the faces of the other surrogates, the girls who will go back inside once this train leaves and never think of us again. My gaze falls on a twelve-year-old girl with bulging brown eyes. She is so thin, and clearly malnourished; she must be new. Our eyes meet, and she crosses the fingers on her right hand and presses them against her heart.

I step into the carriage and the doors close behind me.

T
HE CARRIAGES ARE AS DEVOID OF PERSONALITY AS OUR
bedrooms at Southgate.

Purple curtains cover the windows, and a bench hugs the walls of the rectangular space, lined with plum-colored cushions. There are only seven of us in this particular carriage, and for a moment, we stand awkwardly in the sparse compartment, not quite sure what to do.

Then the train lurches forward and we break apart. Raven, Lily, and I take a spot in one corner. Raven pushes back the curtains.

“Are we allowed to open them?” Lily asks in a hushed voice.

“What are they going to do?” Raven says. “Shoot us?”

Lily bites her lip.

The ride to the Jewel takes two hours. It's dizzying, how quickly the certainty in my life dwindles. I'm certain this train will take us through the Farm, the Smoke, and the Bank, to the Auction House in the Jewel. I'm certain that I'll go to a prep room, then to a waiting room, then to the Auction. And that's it. That's all I have left. The unknown stretches out in front of me like a vast, blank sheet of paper.

I stare out the window, watching the mud-brick houses flash past, dark brown against the pale gray sky.

“It really isn't much to look at, is it?” Raven says.

I kick off my shoes and tuck my legs under me. “No,” I murmur. “But it's home.”

Raven laughs. “You are so sentimental.”

She puts on a good show, but I know her too well. She'll miss it. “How was your Reckoning Day?”

She shrugs, but her mouth tightens. “Oh, fine, you know, my mother was over the moon about how healthy I looked, and how tall I was, and how
excited
I must be to see the Jewel. As if I'm going on a vacation or something. Yours?”

“What about Crow?” I ask. Crow is Raven's twin brother.

She untucks her hair from behind her ear, letting it fall to cover her face. “He barely spoke to me,” she mumbles. “I thought . . . I mean, I didn't . . .” She shrugs again. “He doesn't know how to talk to a surrogate, I guess.”

I try to remember what I thought about the surrogates, before I knew I was one. I remember thinking that they were something other, that they were special. Special is just about the last thing I feel right now.

At that moment, Lily begins to sing. Her small hand wraps around mine, her eyes bright as she watches the Marsh pass by us. Her voice is sweet and she sings a traditional Marsh-song, one we all know.

Two other girls join in. Raven rolls her eyes.

“It doesn't really suit the moment, does it?” she mutters.

“No,” I say quietly. “It doesn't.” Most of the Marsh-songs are about girls who either die young or get rejected by their lovers—they don't really apply to us. “But it's nice to hear it, all the same.”

A thick silence follows the song, broken only by the rhythmic pumping of the wheels beneath us. Then Lily laughs, a sort of crying-laugh, and squeezes my hand, and I realize I'll probably never hear another Marsh-song again.

T
HE TRAIN SLOWS, AND
I
CAN HEAR THE MASSIVE IRON
doors grate and screech as they retreat into the wall that separates the Farm from the Marsh. I'd learned about the Farm, of course—we learn about all the circles in history class—but seeing it is something entirely different.

The first thing that strikes me is the colors. I never knew so many shades of green existed in nature. And not just green, but reds and pale yellows and bright oranges and juicy pinks.

I think of Ochre—he must be in one of the dairies by now. I hope he'll be able to keep working for the House of the Flame. I hate to think of him supporting our family on his own.

The other amazing thing about the Farm is the landscape. In the Marsh, everything is flat; here, the ground has a sort of rolling feel to it. The train chugs over a bridge, where a river separates two hills. On their slopes, gnarled vines are trained in neat rows, on sticks and pieces of wire. I remember that this is called a vineyard, where grapes are grown for wine. I've had wine a couple of times—the caretakers let us have a glass on our birthdays, and on the Longest Night celebration.

“It's so
big
,” Raven says.

She's right. The Farm seems to go on and on, and I almost forget that there is a Marsh, or a Jewel, or an Auction. I can almost pretend there is nothing except this endless expanse of nature.

A
S SOON AS WE PASS THROUGH THE IRON DOORS THAT
separate the Farm and the Smoke, the light dims, like the sun's been turned down a few notches.

The train runs slowly on an elevated track through a maze of cast-iron behemoths, factories that tower over the streets, their chimneys belching smoke in a variety of colors—dark gray, white, greenish-purple, dull red. The streets are teeming with people, their faces gaunt, their backs bent. I see women and children mixed in with the men. A shrill whistle blows, and the crowd thins as the workers disappear into the factories.

My heart jumps as I realize there's only one more circle left after this one. How much longer until we reach the Jewel? How many more minutes of freedom do I have left?

“O
OOOH.
” L
ILY SIGHS AS WE ENTER THE
B
ANK.
“I
T
'
S SO
pretty.”

The sunlight returns to a bright, buttery yellow, and I almost have to shield my eyes as it glints off the façades of the shops that line streets paved with pale stones. Arching windows with silver shutters and ornate signs wrought in gold are commonplace here. Neat rows of trees with thin trunks, their canopies trimmed into perfect green spheres, line the sidewalks, and electric stagecoaches are everywhere. Men in bowler hats and cleanly pressed suits escort women wearing dresses made of colorful silks and satins.

“Looks like Patience was right,” I say. “No pants for women here.”

Raven grumbles something unintelligible.

“Isn't it lovely?” Lily leans her head against the glass. “Just imagine—the Exetor might have met the Electress in one of these very stores.”

Raven is shaking her head slowly. “It's crazy. All this . . . I mean . . . we've seen pictures but . . . they have so much
money
.”

“And we haven't even seen the Jewel yet,” I murmur.

“All right, girls, settle down,” an older caretaker named Charity says as she comes in, followed by Dr. Steele. She carries a silver tray bearing different colored tablets in neat little rows. I glance at Raven.

“What are the pills for?” I whisper, but she only shrugs.

“Curtains closed, please,” Charity says. Lily is quick to obey, but I see some of the other girls looking nervously at one another as they pull the curtains shut. The dull purple light in the carriage feels ominous.

“Now, now, don't look so anxious,” Dr. Steele says. His voice is flat and not remotely reassuring. “This is just a little medication to relax you all before the big event. Please remain seated.”

My heart is pumping in my chest and I reach out for Raven's hand. The doctor moves calmly around the room. The tablets are coded by Lot number, and each girl sticks out her tongue while Dr. Steele drops it into her mouth with a pair of tiny silver tongs. Some of the girls cough, others lick their lips and make sour faces, but other than that, nothing dramatic happens.

He reaches Raven. “192,” he says, picking out a light blue tablet. Raven stares up at him with her deep black eyes, and for a second, I think she's going to refuse to take it. Then she opens her mouth and he drops it onto her tongue. She keeps staring at him, and doesn't give the slightest reaction to the tablet at all. It's the only defiance she has.

Dr. Steele doesn't even notice. “197,” he says to me. I open my mouth and he drops a purple tablet onto my tongue. It stings, and tastes sour, reminding me of that time I bit into the lemon. In a second, it has dissolved. I run my tongue along my teeth and swallow. The tablet leaves a tingling sensation behind.

The doctor nods his head. “Thank you, ladies.”

Charity bustles after him as he leaves the carriage.

“What was that?” Raven asks.

“Whatever it was, it didn't taste very good,” I mutter. “I thought you weren't going to take yours for a second.”

“Me too,” Raven says. “But it would've been pointless, wouldn't it? I mean, they probably would've just—”

But whatever Raven thought they would have done, I never hear, because unconsciousness engulfs me suddenly, and the world goes black.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Four

W
HEN
I
COME TO,
I
AM ALONE.

A bright light shines overhead—too bright, it hurts my eyes. I'm lying on something cold and flat. Straps press down on my arms and legs and I realize, with a jolt of panic, that I'm naked.

Instinctively, my body lurches, trying to free myself and cover myself at the same time. A scream builds in my throat, but before I get a chance to release it, a soft voice murmurs, “Don't panic. I'll take those off in a moment. They're for your protection.”

“Where am I?” I mean to shout, but my voice comes out in a scratchy whisper.

“You're in one of the preparation rooms. Calm down, 197. I can't take the restraints off until you do.” The voice has a strange quality to it—too high to be a man's but too low for a woman's. My chest heaves and I try to relax my muscles, slow my breathing, and not think about how exposed I am.

“There. That's better.” The voice moves closer. “I promise, 197, the very last thing I want is to harm you in any way.” I feel a pressure around my arm, and something cold presses against the inside of my elbow. The pressure tightens.

“I'm just taking your blood pressure,” the voice says calmly. The tight thing around my arm relaxes; then it's gone. I hear the scratching of a pen on paper. “Look up for me, please?”