The White Rose (8 page)

“That IS who I am!” Ash shouts. Raven wakes up with a start. “You
don’t
want to know about this, Violet.”

“Please don’t fight,” Raven says, holding her head in her hands.

“We’re not,” I reassure her. “Ash and I were . . . talking.”

Raven’s presence has calmed Ash down.

“I’m so sorry,” he says to her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You don’t want to go back to that place,” Raven says, rubbing her eyes and looking up at him. “You’re frightened.”

There is a stunned silence. Raven turns to me, her eyes focused on something far away.

“He loves you, do you see that? He loves you and he hates himself and he’ll never, never be good enough, not for you or his family or anyone. He was stolen, taken away and twisted, and everything that was pure inside him was left to rot and decay. He’s ashamed.” She returns to the present and looks at Ash. “We all have things we are ashamed of.”

Ash’s lips are parted, his eyes wide. “How did you—”

The door to the warehouse slides open and we all jump.

“Got it,” Garnet says, dropping a large canvas sack onto the floor and shutting the door. “Everything you asked for is in there.” He takes in the room, me and Raven on the floor, Ash standing over us with a shocked expression. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” I say, getting to my feet.

“Then get changed and get going,” Garnet says. “I told Lucien and he’s pretty—”

The arcana starts to buzz. I rip it out of my bun as Lucien starts speaking.

“I don’t like this plan,” he says.

“I don’t like it, either, Lucien, but it’s not like there are a variety of other choices. You want me safe and in the Farm? This is our best bet.”

“I still don’t like it.”

I throw my hands up. “Well, you do plenty of things I don’t like,” I say. “But I trust you. You have to trust me.”

“I do. It’s
him
I don’t trust.”

“If you’re referring to Ash, you can trust him, too.”

“Violet, once you’re on the grounds of the companion house, I can’t help you. You’ll be totally on your own.”

I glance at Raven, then Ash. “No,” I say. “I won’t.”

“You know what I mean.”

I sigh. “I do. And I don’t want to argue with you, Lucien. I’m trying to do what you wanted me to. I’m trying to survive.”

There is a pause. “I know, honey,” he says wearily.

“What’s happening in the Jewel?” I ask. “Is there anything we should know about?”

I can hear Lucien smile. “Well,” he says. “The Duchess is enjoying an unusual upswing in popularity. It seems your rape”—I wince at the word—“and the companion’s evasion of capture have painted a very sympathetic picture. Everyone wants an audience with her.”

“What happened to . . .” My throat tightens as I picture my bedroom, the last time I saw it. “To Annabelle?”

“I don’t know,” Lucien says. “She was most likely cremated at the morgue. Nothing has been said about it in the servant circles. Except to show sympathy for Cora, of course.”

I frown. “Why Cora?”

“Didn’t you know?” Lucien says. “Cora was Annabelle’s mother.”

“What?” I gasp. I’d never considered who Annabelle’s family might be. I feel ashamed that I never thought to ask. I try to think whether I’d ever seen Cora act in any way motherly toward Annabelle. But in all my memories, she was always ordering her around like any other servant.

I wonder how she can stand to live there, to serve the woman who killed her daughter.

“I have to go,” Lucien says suddenly.

The arcana goes silent and falls. I hold out my hand in time to catch it.

Raven is staring at the space where it once hovered, awestruck.

“Was that . . . real?” she says.

“Yes,” I say firmly. “But now we have to change our clothes.”

Ash has already riffled through the sack and is holding some fabric in his hands.

“Violet,” he begins, but I shake my head.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“It’s not,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to yell.”

“I know.” The companion house sounds about a hundred times worse than Southgate. I wouldn’t want to go back to it either. But this isn’t the time for arguments or apologies.

Ash nods and holds out the canvas bag.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

R
AVEN AND
I
GO TO THE BACK OF THE WARE HOUSE FOR
some privacy.

I open the canvas sack—a swirl of bright colors, frothy foams of lace, and the sheen of satin are all jumbled together. I dump out the contents of the bag and sort through it. There doesn’t seem to be enough fabric. Though I suppose that’s the point.

“All right,” I say to Raven with forced cheerfulness, holding up two pairs of stockings. “Which color do you want—red or pink?”

She shrugs, and I hand her the red stockings. She pulls off the brown servant’s dress and I see a welt the size of my
fist at the base of her spine, bluish-red veins radiating out of it.

“Oh, Raven,” I gasp. Raven puts a hand to the welt, covering it, like she’s embarrassed.

“The needles were worse,” she mumbles as she yanks the stockings up and touches her scalp with her fingers.

The dresses are more like undergarments. Flimsy lace skirts and corsets that leave our arms and shoulders bare. Raven is so thin the corset is loose on her, but mine is extremely tight, revealing much more flesh than I’m comfortable with. I wish I had a scarf or something.

There’s some makeup in the bag, lipstick in a garish shade of red, blush for our cheeks, and black liner for our eyes. We put it on each other, though neither of us have much training or skill in this particular area.

“All right,” I say, shoving our old clothes into the sack. “Let’s go.”

The looks on Ash’s and Garnet’s faces when we emerge from the back of the warehouse are both flattering and uncomfortable. At least with Ash, I know it’s nothing he hasn’t seen; Garnet is an entirely different story. And he stares at Raven like he’s never seen her before. With the makeup on, she doesn’t look as drawn, and you can definitely see hints of her old beauty. Her skin is noticeably healthier, the caramel tint a nice contrast with the ivory satin corset.

Raven notices him staring. “What?” she says aggressively.

He looks away quickly. “You better get going,” he says to Ash.

Ash has also changed into an outfit similar to the one he wore the first day I met him—beige pants and a white collared shirt, with a long overcoat. I wonder if that’s the standard companion uniform.

“You’re going to want to keep close to me,” Ash says. “It’s pretty cold.”

“I suppose we don’t get coats,” I say.

Ash flashes me a half smile. “Covering up would be a bit beside the point.”

I’m not worried about myself, but Raven is so exposed . . .

Even as I think it, she shoots me a look. “I’ll be fine,” she says.

“I hope this works,” Garnet says.

“You and me both,” Ash replies.

Garnet looks at each of us, opens his mouth, closes it, then runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, well . . . good luck.”

He turns and leaves the warehouse.

“Ready?” Ash says.

“Wait,” I say. “Your face is everywhere in this circle. What if . . .” I’ve never performed an Augury on a person before, but I don’t have the luxury of doubt right now. I reach up and wrap my hand around a fistful of his hair.

“What are—” Ash starts to ask, but I’m already focusing on the Augury.

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

Shoots of blond spread out from my fingertips, changing Ash’s hair from brown to gold. My head throbs.

“There,” I say, rubbing my left temple. “Maybe that will
help a bit. We don’t need you getting recognized again.”

Ash musses his hair and pulls his hand back to look at it, as if maybe the color had come off. “Wow,” he says.

We leave the warehouse and keep to smaller, darkened streets, receiving only a few disapproving glances. Most of the neighborhood is deserted. It must be nearly midnight. The air is frigid—within seconds my teeth start chattering. Ash wraps his arm around my shoulders and I’m grateful for the warmth.

We walk for about twenty minutes before we come to what is unquestionably the shabbiest part of the Bank I’ve seen yet. All the buildings are old and decrepit, with sagging porches and boarded-up windows.

“All right,” Ash says. “Just . . . both of you put your arms around me. And it wouldn’t hurt to pretend we’re all drunk.”

I can’t help thinking a glass of wine—or two, or twelve—wouldn’t have been a bad idea. This whole street screams danger. Raven drapes her arm across Ash’s shoulders and I slide my arm around his waist.

Only one block in, we come upon the first tavern. Then another. And another. Loud music—fiddles and a banjo and drums—pours out onto the street when the doors to one abruptly bang open, two men wrestling with each other, throwing punches, getting knocked to the ground. It reminds me too much of how my father died. I tighten my hold on Ash and we pick up our pace.

We pass a trio of men who are visibly intoxicated. They whistle at me and Raven. One of them approaches Ash and says, “You interested in sharing? I got some prime blue, if you want to make it a party.”

“Piss off,” Ash snaps. “Get your own slag.”

“Ash,” I hiss once the men have grumbled and shrugged and walked off. “Really.”

Ash laughs once, a hollow sound. “Welcome to my world.”

We turn down another street and I’m immediately assaulted by a wave of scent—a strong, flowery perfume that doesn’t quite hide the smell of something slightly sour underneath.

“Hey, handsome,” a young girl, no older than fourteen, calls from in front of a garishly painted pink-and-yellow house. She’s wearing less clothing than Raven and I. “Want another date?”

“Piss off,” I shout.

She shrugs and lights a cigarette.

“Very convincing,” Ash whispers into my neck.

“This place is awful,” I whisper back.

“It’s called the Row,” he says. “The East Quarter’s number-one destination for drugs and sex.”

“Is that what blue is?” I ask.

He nods. “A form of opiate. The liquid has a bluish tinge, hence the nickname.”

We pass three brothels and a couple more taverns before we finally reach the end of the Row. The change is disturbingly sudden—one second, we’re surrounded by seedy buildings, the next, we’ve emerged into a neat little park, lit with gas lamps. A clock tower across the square tells me it’s after midnight. A couple sit on a bench nearby and a man is walking his dog a few yards away, but other than that, the streets are deserted.

“Almost there,” Ash mutters. We cross the park quickly. The man with the dog sees us and shakes his head, muttering to himself.

When we reach the opposite side, Ash grabs my arm.

“Stop,” he says.

A wall stretches out along the entire length of the street, topped with tiny spikes. It reminds me of Southgate, how enclosed it was, like a fortress in the middle of the Marsh.

Two Regimentals are patrolling outside of it. My heart leaps to my throat.

“Kiss me,” Ash murmurs. I press my mouth to his, for the first time not thinking about his lips or his body against mine, only aware of his heart hammering in time with my own. I listen for a shout or an alarm to be raised.

Finally, he pulls away. I turn and see the backs of the Regimentals as they round the corner. “Let’s go. Quickly.”

Raven and I hurry along behind him as he crosses the street, running his hand along the rough stone. He stops abruptly. “Here,” he says.

I only see more wall. Ash grips something and pulls, and a piece of stone breaks away, revealing a large black combination lock.

“Do you know the combination?” I whisper.

Ash stares at the lock. Several seconds pass. I’m about to remind him that we’re pressed for time, when he begins to turn it, first right, then left, then right again.

The lock clicks.

Ash yanks open a door, completely disguised within the wall.

“Get in,” he hisses. I go first, pulling Raven in after me.
Ash closes the hidden door behind us.

I turn and pull up short. The companion house isn’t quite what I was expecting. Six short redbrick buildings are scattered around a large green lawn. Winding gravel roads weave through them, and there’s a pond to my left that’s beginning to freeze over, surrounded by little copses of trees. Gas lamps are set at intervals throughout the grounds.

It’s actually very pretty.

“The station is on the other side,” Ash whispers. “This way.”

We follow him down one of the roads, gravel crunching under our feet, the heels of my shoes wobbling. Everything is still and shadowy.

Suddenly, the back door of one of the houses opens, freezing us in our tracks, as a figure steps out onto the path in front of us. There is the scratchy sound of a match being lit, then the end of a cigarette flames up like a tiny ember. The figure sees us and laughs.

“Been out to the Row again, Till?” he says. His voice is deep. “Madame’s out but Billings is on patrol. You better get them inside quick.”

“Rye?” Ash says, moving forward. The figure steps toward us into the dim light. He’s a young man about Ash’s age, but taller, with dark skin that reminds me of the lioness. Tight black curls frame a very handsome face with broad features. His eyes, like chips of flint, are wide with surprise.

“Ash?” he says. “What—how—what are you
doing
here? The whole city’s looking for you! And what’s with your hair?” He glances from me to Raven. “This is a pretty strange time to start experimenting with working girls.”

“They’re not working girls,” Ash says. “We need to get to the train.”

“The train’s gone,” the boy named Rye replies, frowning. “It’s in the Smoke.”

My heart sinks.
What do we do now?

“Will you help us?” Ash says. “We need to hide. Until the train gets back.”

Rye takes what I feel to be an inordinate amount of time before answering. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales a thick stream of smoke. Then he flicks the cigarette into the darkness. “Sure, man, I’ll help you out. You’re going to have to tell me how you escaped from Landing’s Market with about a thousand Regimentals crawling all over the place. Come on.”

We follow Rye inside, to a hall that smells like dried flowers and wood smoke, then up a flight of stairs and down another hall. My body is tense, my nerves coiled up like watch springs. I don’t know who this boy is, but I’ll trust him if Ash does. But there are so many other boys living in this place. I felt much safer at the warehouse.

Rye opens a door, switches on a light, and ushers us inside.

We walk into a very large, very pleasant bedroom. Two beds are pushed against opposite walls. The décor is all white with gold accents. A striped couch and matching armchair are clustered together by the one large window. But the most dominant features of the room are the enormous gilt-framed mirrors that hang over two vanities, if a vanity is something one could find in a boy’s dormitory.

One bed is pristine, its owner’s vanity boasting a neat
array of jars and bottles and combs. The other bed is unmade, with various articles of clothing strewn over the blankets and its vanity is a mess, open jars and spilled face creams and a scattering of little orange pills.

“Home, sweet home,” Ash mutters as he looks around.

“Is this
your
room?” I ask. Raven hovers by the door, as if uncertain about this place.

“Rye and I are—were roommates,” Ash says. His expression abruptly changes, and I follow his gaze to the neater vanity. He walks to it as if in a dream and picks up a silver-framed photo. Clutching it in both hands, he sinks onto the bed.

“Is that . . .” I sit beside him and stare at the photograph. “Is that your family?”

Ash nods. The photo is black-and-white, taken in front of a very shabby-looking house. A broad, imposing man with Ash’s nose has his arms around two stocky boys, both of whom are grinning at the camera with Garnet-worthy expressions of mischief. A woman stands beside them, and she looks so very much like Ash it’s startling. She has both her hands on a little girl’s shoulders. The girl has a wild tumble of curly hair and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. Though they look nothing alike, she makes me think of Hazel.

“Is that Cinder?” I ask. Ash nods again. “She’s lovely,” I say. “Where are you?”

He clears his throat. “I took the picture. One of our neighbors had bought a photographic camera. He showed me how to use it.”

He turns the frame over and removes the back. Very carefully, he takes out the picture, folds it in half, and puts
it in his pocket, leaving the empty frame on the vanity.

“So,” Rye says, bursting our bubble of privacy. “Care to explain exactly what in the Exetor’s name you’re doing here? And who these girls are?”

Raven shoots him a glare. He has flopped onto his bed and is unscrewing the cap on a little vial. The liquid inside is tinged blue.

Ash sighs. “Since when did you start using?”

Rye shrugs and removes a thin tube of glass from the vial. He tilts his head back and shakes a drop from the tube into each eye.

“You don’t even want to know what I had to do for my last client,” he says, blinking and wiping the excess liquid from where it’s spilled down his cheeks. “I need this.” He laughs, a heady, relaxed sound. “Better hope you never get assigned to the House of the Downs. That woman has some
very
strange appetites.”

I remember the Lady of the Downs from Garnet’s engagement party. She seemed like any other royal woman. I don’t want to think about what she does behind closed doors.

“She went through about six companions before her daughter finally got engaged,” Rye continues. “Bale was the last one. I think he’s still recovering—he hasn’t had a client since he got back. Neither have I, for that matter. Not that I’m complaining.” He laughs again. “I guess that’s not a problem for you anymore, is it? No more clients.” He leans back against his pillow and sighs. “Remember the Lady of the Stream? We both had her, right? She was something else.”

“He doesn’t do that anymore,” I say.

Rye chuckles bitterly. “What are you, his girlfriend?”