The Jewel (7 page)

Lucien laughs when he sees my choice. “Try it on,” he says, and when I do, he laughs again and claps. “I don't think that dress has ever been used by a surrogate in the history of the Auction,” he says. “But, honey, it fits you like a glove.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

Five

“W
HAT
'
S NEXT
?” I
ASK.

“You look in the mirror again,” he replies.

I swallow. “Do I have to?”

Lucien takes my hand in both of his—his skin is soft, like a child's. “Yes. It's required. You've seen yourself as you were, and now you have to accept who you are, and embrace your new life and your future.” It's like he's reading from a script, but something in his eyes contradicts the words. Like he's really telling me he's sorry.

“All right.” I manage to keep my breathing steady as I approach the mirrors. I keep my head down, step onto the podium, count to three, and look up.

The stranger in the mirror has been transformed.

I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile her with the image I had of myself in my head. The image of a pretty girl, slightly plump, full face, big eyes. The woman I am looking at now is stunning. Beautiful. Her cheeks seem thinner, molded to accent her high cheekbones, and her eyebrows arch delicately over luminous eyes, lined in rich purple with accents of lilac and gold. Her lips are glossed in pale pink, and her hair tumbles over her shoulders in thick curls, one side pinned up with a jeweled clip, encrusted with amethysts that form the shape of a butterfly. There is a shimmer to her skin, almost like she's glowing. The color of the dress works perfectly and its simplicity only makes her features stand out more.

“What do you think?” Lucien asks.

I am speechless.

He takes a step closer, so our reflections touch. “I wanted you to still look like you.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Lucien picks up the last hourglass—it's tiny, and the sand inside it is dark red.

“This one is for you,” he says. “You have this time to do whatever you want. Look in the mirror. Sing. Meditate. Just don't mess up your hair and makeup.”

“What are you going to do?”

He gives me a sort of sad, pitying look. “I'm going to leave, 197. A Regimental will take you to the Waiting Room when your time is up.”

My heart sticks in my throat. “You're leaving?”

Lucien nods. “My apologies about the mess,” he says, his eyes lingering on the scattered clothes and smudges of makeup on the vanity. “The servants can't come in to clean until you're gone.” He gives me a small smile. “It has been a pleasure to prep you, 197.”

He turns the hourglass and walks to the door.

“Lucien, wait.”

He stops. I'm nervous and want to chew on my bottom lip, but I'm worried about what he said about not messing with my makeup. I don't know what I want to do, in these last minutes before I'm sold. But I do know that I don't want to be alone.

“You said . . . I can do anything I want?”

He nods.

“Okay. Then I want to talk to you. I want you to stay.”

For a second, it's like he doesn't understand me. Then a slow smile spreads across his face.

“Well,” he says, smoothing his topknot. “This is a first.”

He sits on one of the claw-footed sofas, daintily crosses his legs, and pats the spot next to him. I smile for the first time since I woke up in this room.

“Ah,” he says, “that's what was missing. Now you're perfect.”

I sit down. There is a silence in which I can almost hear the trickle of sand through the hourglass.

“What would you like to talk about?” Lucien asks.

“I don't know,” I say honestly. “I just . . . didn't want you to leave me.”

Lucien's expression softens. “When you think of something, let me know.” He brushes the silky fabric of his gown with his fingertips. I notice again how smooth his skin is.

“How old are you?” I ask.

He bursts into laughter. “Oh, honey, you can't start with that. You'll never survive here.”

I blush deeply, feeling the heat burn in my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mumble. I've lived so long in a place where age was always known, and limited to only a certain number of years.

Lucien pats my hand. “Don't worry about it. You're already doing so much better than most of the other girls I've prepped.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Nine years. But I don't prep every Auction. I've been doing it so long now, I get to choose who I work on.” He bats his eyelashes.

“You chose me?”

“I did.”

“Why?” I can't imagine what could have compelled him to choose me. How could he know anything about me?

He hesitates for a moment. “Your eyes,” he says.

I'm stunned. “You saw me?”

“We're given photographs of all the surrogates in the Auction. Along with your measurements, of course. How else would I have three closets full of dresses in exactly your size?”

I try to imagine Lucien flipping through stacks of photographs of girls denoted only by lot number and dress size. It makes me feel so small.

I glance at the hourglass—already, half my time is up.

“Are you afraid?” he asks.

“I don't know.” The words come out on their own, and I realize they're true. I don't know if I'm afraid. I'm not sure if fear is the right word. I feel strangely detached, like this isn't real, like it's happening to someone else.

“For what it's worth,” Lucien says, “I think you'll be fine.”

I don't really know what to say to that. The sand trickling through the hourglass is loud in my ears.

“What's out there?” I ask.

But before Lucien can answer, the sand runs out. A lock clicks.

Time's up.

“Lot 197.” The Regimental's voice is very deep. He fills the entire doorway, his red military jacket tight over broad shoulders, his eyes dark and impassive. “Come with me.”

My mouth has gone completely dry and it's an enormous effort to stand. Lucien stands as well, and for a second his body blocks the Regimental from view and he squeezes my hand. Then he glides away, his expression carefully neutral.

It takes me nine steps to reach the Regimental, and each one seems like an eternity. He turns smartly and walks out the door; I force myself to follow him.

The hallway is carpeted in a dark pink rug so plush that neither my satin slippers nor his boots make any sound. The walls are painted mauve, and the same globes that were in my prep room glow on the walls. Sometimes we pass other doors, and identical hallways appear, branching off the one we're on, but they are all empty. Silent. An uneasiness crawls up my spine.

The Regimental stops so abruptly, I nearly walk into him. The door we're in front of looks just like the others—simple, wooden, with a copper doorknob. He steps back and stands at attention. I wish he would talk to me. I wish he would tell me what I'm supposed to do.

I step forward and slowly open the door.

S
OUND BUZZES AROUND ME LIKE A THOUSAND
M
ARSH
flies.

There is the briefest pause when I enter, then the buzzing starts up again.

The room is so full of color, it takes my brain a few seconds to process that these are girls—surrogates, not dolls. One pretty blonde stands out, taller than the others thanks to her hair, piled in curls that stretch about a foot above her head. Her pink lace dress flows in endlessly expanding folds to the floor, like an iced layer cake. She's talking to a haughty-looking, black-haired girl, with skin the color of dark chocolate—her features are feline, like a lioness. She wears one of the costumelike dresses. It's strapless, the top crafted out of golden plating that dissolves into a rainbow of tassels that shimmer with the smallest movement. Her hair is sectioned into multiple braids, each one threaded with silver and gold. The whole effect is quite fierce. She sees me staring at her and her eyes narrow, looking me up and down.

I turn away, and my gaze lands on a small figure, alone in the far corner of the room. Then someone grabs my arm and I jump.

“Finally.” Raven's voice is so familiar that I feel my bones soften with relief. “I was wondering when you'd get here.”

I stare at her, trying to fit this new Raven into the image I have of my best friend. She is wearing a long robe, styled like a kimono but made of softer fabric, more alluring. It's patterned in red and gold, the empire waist emphasizing how long her legs are. Her eyes are thickly lined in black, elongating their almond shape. The center of her lips have been painted bright red, so it looks like she's constantly making a kissing face, and her hair has been slicked back, arching over the crown of her head like a fan, from one ear to the other. Teardrop earrings, rubies encased in gold, hang from her ears.

I open my mouth, then close it. I don't know what to say.

“I know, I look like an idiot,” Raven says.

I want to laugh and cry at the same time. She's still my Raven. “You look incredible,” I say. “Those earrings must be worth a fortune.”

“It's not like I get to keep them. At least you still look like you. How did you convince your prep artist to do that?”

“I didn't. He chose to make me like this.”

Raven's black-lined eyes nearly bug out of her head. “
He?
You had a
man
?”

I've forgotten that this news would be shocking. Lucien no longer feels like a man to me. He's just . . . Lucien. “He's a lady-in-waiting,” I explain.

Raven looks incredulous. The expressions on her new face are unsettling. “What was he like?”

“He was . . .” I try to think of the right word. “Kind. He was nice to me. What about you?”

“Ugh, I had this
ancient
woman who probably singlehandedly keeps the makeup factories in business. She was awful.” Raven shudders. “Anyway. It's over now.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I don't know. Maybe five minutes? There weren't as many girls here then.”

“So this is the last of us,” I say, glancing around the room.

“Yeah. Lots 190 to 200. The jewels of the Auction.” Raven shakes her head. “We look sort of freakish, to be honest. Well, except you.”

Suddenly, a door on the opposite side of the room opens. An older Regimental with salt-and-pepper hair steps through it.

“Lot 190,” he calls. “Lot 190.”

A waifish girl, in a silver dress that glitters with scales, weaves her way to the door. Her head seems oddly large compared with the thinness of her arms and shoulders. The Regimental gives her a small bow, then turns. She follows him out the door, the scales of her dress tinkling.

I reach for Raven's hand as she reaches for mine.

“This is it,” she says.

“We'll see each other again,” I say. “We have to.”

The door opens again. A different Regimental this time.

“Lot 191. Lot 191.”

A large girl in a black velvet dress and wearing an ornate headdress follows him out. I clutch Raven's hand so hard it hurts.

The door opens.

“I'll never forget you,” Raven says. “I will never forget you, Violet.”

“Lot 192. Lot 192.”

Raven holds her head high and walks proudly through the dwindling crowd of girls and out the door.

And then she's gone.

I feel my insides collapsing and the room seems to swirl around me. I have to remind myself to breathe.

Raven's gone.

My whole body shakes. I never even said good-bye to her. Why didn't I say good-bye?

“Was she your friend?”

I start and look down at the girl I saw earlier, the one who was alone in the corner. She can't be older than thirteen. Her hair is a brilliant red, her body thin and wiry, and she wears, to my intense surprise, a ragged pinafore. She has almost no makeup on, just a hint of blush on her cheeks and gloss on her lips. She looks incredibly tiny. And plain. But her big brown eyes are full of compassion.