Lucien pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of all the nights,” he mutters, and the two hurry down the hall, disappearing behind a tapestry.
I’m left alone. I turn to reenter the chamber where the food and ladies-in-waiting are, when a dancing glint of light catches my eye.
A door across the hall with a golden handle is slightly ajar. Curiosity gets the better of me and I push it open, slipping inside.
The room is larger than I expected. And full of . . . me.
Mirrors hang on every wall, reflecting my startled face back at me. Except that it’s not my face, not really. It’s the face of a blond girl with a high forehead and wide green eyes. It’s the face of a stranger.
I make a circuit of the room, my stranger’s face appearing in an oval mirror inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a square-shaped one with golden roses fixed on its four points, and a long rectangle with pearls dotting its edge.
I stop at one that sets my heart pounding. It’s a simple square mirror with a silver frame, but etched lightly in its center is a tree that looks exactly like the lemon tree that grows in the backyard of my house in the Marsh. The one that never produced a lemon until I used the third Augury, Growth, on it when I visited my family on Reckoning Day. I grew a lemon for Hazel, to remember me by.
And now she’s sitting in a glitzy dining room, on a leash, next to a woman who is planning to murder her tomorrow.
I take one step back from the golden tree. Then another, and another, until I’m standing in the center of the room. My reflection stares out at me with a hundred pairs of eyes.
This is not who I am, this blond-haired girl in lady-in-waiting garb. I am Violet Lasting. I am one of the Paladin and I could destroy this room if I wanted to.
And I do want to. Desperately.
I join with the element effortlessly, sweeping all the Air in here to me, calling on it to do as I command. I feel it swirl around me, restless, waiting and eager.
Break, I think, and my focus is so sharp, so intense, the image of what I desire strong and specific, like I’m conjuring an Augury. But the elements are stronger than any Augury. I shoot the air away from me, and it hits the center of each mirror perfectly. I feel as if I am flying in a hundred different directions, as if I am reaching out with my own hands to imprint the pattern on each and every mirror in this room.
All but one.
I release the hold on the element to the sound of tinkling bits of glass clattering to the floor. The lemon tree mirror is as it was, perfectly smooth and reflective.
In the center of every single other mirror, the glass has cracked to form a very well-known, very specific shape.
A skeleton key.
I look around the room in awe. Keys surround me, fragmenting my face in grotesque fashions. I’ve never been so proud of myself, so sure of the power I possess.
I have marked this room for the Society. And tomorrow, the royalty will feel the weight of our fury.
Twenty-Three
THE MORNING OF THE AUCTION IS CRISP AND CLEAR.
The sky is a perfect, robin’s-egg blue and the garden looks even lusher than usual. My fingers tremble as I lace up the back of Carnelian’s dress, careful not to hurt her shoulder or ribs. I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Are you all right?” she asks, when I fumble with the laces for the third time.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just . . . I don’t like the Auction.”
“Right.” Carnelian grimaces. I finish getting her dressed in silence.
Rye is waiting outside her room. He takes her arm with a strained smile.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“There were some whispers in the kitchen,” he says, his eyes flashing to me for half a second. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “Something’s happened, I don’t know what. Everyone stopped talking when I came in.”
“Something happened with my aunt?” Carnelian asks.
Something happened with my sister? I want to demand.
Rye shrugs. “I’m not sure.” Then his whole demeanor shifts, like a light being turned on. “Are you excited to attend your first Auction?”
They chat as we walk to the foyer. I trail behind them, heart hammering, and when I see the Duchess’s gleeful face, it pounds even faster. Anything that makes her look this happy can’t be good.
Whatever it is, Hazel appears to be safe for the time being. The Duchess has her on the leash, but she’s dressed in an extravagant gown, blue and silver silk stitched with pearls and sapphires. Her face is veiled and there is a delicate crown on her head, strands of gold woven with diamonds. Her purple eyes meet mine and the look in them is fierce. She knows what this day means, even if she isn’t aware of the plot for her murder.
We take two motorcars to the Auction House. Ours is thick with tension. Garnet is in his Regimental uniform, and his leg won’t stop jiggling. Rye’s posture is a bit too forced to look casual. I stare out the window at the palaces flashing by, my mouth so dry it’s uncomfortable to swallow. I wish I knew why the servants were worried, why the Duchess looked so excited. But I have to stay focused. I have to get to the train station underground. I waited all night for the arcana to buzz, to hear Raven’s voice, or Sil’s, or Lucien’s. But it stayed frustratingly silent.
When we arrive at the Auction House, there is a small platform set up on the lawn in front of it with a smooth block of marble in its center, inlaid with gold and rubies. I don’t know what that’s for. Rye and Carnelian seem confused by it, and Garnet looks perplexed as well. Perplexed and . . . frightened?
The crowd is tense, none of the cheerful laughter and conversation I was expecting. The royals huddle together on the sprawling grass that surrounds the pink domed building, muttering urgently to one another. As we get out of the car, I catch snippets of what they’re saying.
“Never could have imagined it . . .”
“I’m having my lady-in-waiting interrogated the second I get home.”
“And he was so helpful in securing me an invitation to the Longest Night Ball last year!”
My pounding heart jumps to my throat and stays there, choking me. A feeling of dread creeps up my spine. Something is very wrong.
We make our way through the crowd and the royals fall silent at our approach, bowing and curtsying to the Duchess as she passes. When we are only a few yards from the marble block, the Countess of the Rose swoops over.
“Did you hear?” she says, fanning herself with a pink feathered fan. “They found him. The leader of that horrid Black Key society.”
The second before she says the name stretches out to eternity. I wait in it, unable to blink or breathe, my body a living vessel of terror.
“It’s Lucien,” the Countess of the Rose says.
The ground shifts beneath my feet. I think I might be falling. A strong hand reaches out to steady me. It’s Garnet.
His face is barely masking his fear and I realize we’ve got to do better. My world may have stopped turning in this moment, but there are so many worlds to consider on this day. We have to be strong. We have to be brave.
I’ve almost convinced myself I can do it. Until the executioner walks up the steps to the platform. He wears a black mask and carries a silver ax slung in his belt. I can’t take my eyes off it, its sharp edge catching the light. My mind can’t wrap my head around its purpose.
“Lucien?” the Duchess is asking incredulously. “I heard they caught the leader but . . . Lucien? He always seemed so . . .”
“Obedient?” The Countess of the Stone looms over the Duchess, her large breasts spilling out of her bronze-colored dress. “It’s always the ones you trust the most, isn’t it?”
“How did they know?” the Duchess asks.
“Apparently he wanted to leave his mark in the Royal Palace itself. Smashed all the mirrors in the Room of Reflection with imprints of that key.”
The keys. My keys. Lucien must have taken the blame when they were discovered.
I thought the
world stopped spinning when I heard Lucien had been caught.
It is nothing compared to knowing that he was caught because of me. The Auction House swims in my vision. My lungs have shrunk to half their normal size. I can’t get enough air.
My fault, my fault, my fault . . .
The royals keep talking but all sounds have faded to a dull buzz. What was I thinking? Why did I do that? It was reckless and foolish. Lucien is neither of those things. He is careful and cautious. He is kind and generous. He saved my life, he showed me who I was and what I was capable of. He has watched over me like a brother, like a father.
And I failed him. I ruined everything in one moment of arrogant idiocy.
Trumpets blare, piercing through the fog of my mind. The Exetor and Electress step onto the platform, decked in crimson and black and gold, matching the crests pinned on their chests. The Electress looks shell-shocked. The Exetor is somber. His eyes rest on the Duchess for a moment before he holds up a hand and the last remaining whispers fall silent.
“My fellow royalty,” he says in his rich tenor. “We have discovered a traitor among us.” He turns to someone standing off to the side where I can’t see. “Bring him out!”
Garnet’s hand moves to his pistol, but there’s nothing either of us can do. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream, to cry out to him, as Lucien is paraded onto the platform.
One eye is bruised and swollen. There is a gash on his forehead and he walks with a limp. Instead of his lady-in-waiting garb, he wears a burlap sack, tied around his waist with a length of rope. His feet are bare and dirty. His hands are bound and he is flanked by two Regimentals. One of them prods him in the back and he stumbles, nearly losing his balance. The crowd laughs and jeers.
They’ve shaved his head completely, his beautiful chestnut topknot gone. He looks so much younger without it. The Regimentals march him to the marble block and the Exetor speaks again.
“This man, formerly known as Lucien of the Royal Palace, has been charged with treason and sedition. He has been discovered as the leader of the rebel society that calls itself the Black Key. He is responsible for all acts of violence committed in the lower circles, attacks against royal outposts, which is tantamount to an attack on the Jewel itself. He has been found guilty of these crimes. The sentence is death.”
I feel nauseous, my stomach churning as they force Lucien to his knees. My heart slams against my ribs, each thud sending the same word repeating over and over in my head.
No, no, no, no . . .
The Exetor turns to his former servant, a look of disgust on his face. “Do you have any last words before your sentence is carried out?”
Lucien’s deep blue eyes scan the crowd. They light on Garnet for an instant before they find me. Relief flickers across his face, as if he is glad I am here.
“This is no one’s fault but my own,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I take full responsibility for my actions. I will not apologize for my crimes. They were done for love of my city, for the love I bear to all the people in it. The lower circles have been mistreated for too long. The royalty have taken our sons and daughters, forced them into servitude, destroyed hopes and dreams and lives purely for their own greed. It was time they paid the price. I am not ashamed of what I have done.” His eyes land on me again. “This is no one’s fault but my own.”
I’m shaking my head, because it is, it is my fault, and the guilt is searing, blistering. It claws at my lungs, it shreds my heart to pieces. It should be me up there, not him. The city needs him. I need him.
He gives me the softest smile and I see the forgiveness in his eyes and I hate myself more than I ever thought possible. I hate myself more than I hate the Duchess or the Auction or this evil, glittering circle.
When Lucien speaks again, it is as if we are alone, as if he is speaking just to me, the way he did the first day I met him in the prep room, the day my life changed.
“This is how it begins,” he says, echoing the words his sister spoke, so many months ago, in front of the walls of Southgate. A tiny smile lights on his lips. “I am not afraid.”
Then he gently lays his head on the block as if it were a pillow. I can’t stop the tears that fill my eyes. They are hot and shameful and I don’t deserve to cry them.
The ax makes a shimmering, whistling sound as it cuts through the air. Blood stains the white stone red, dripping over rubies and golden swirls.
My whole body is paralyzed. The crowd around me starts making noise again but I can’t make sense of anything. I watch Regimentals carry Lucien’s body off the platform. Another one follows behind with a basket. The marble block is removed and the Exetor claps his hands and announces something but all the sound has been sucked out of this place. The crowd swells forward, past the platform, toward the Auction House, and I am swept up with them, walking woodenly on legs that don’t remember how to work, that can’t seem to understand the rules of a world without Lucien in it.
I feel a soft pressure on my arm and blink up at Garnet. His eyes are filled with tears and I realize I’m crying, too. The Duchess leads Hazel in front of us on the leash, Rye and Carnelian right behind them. They seem stunned, confused, but their worlds have not been shattered like mine.
Garnet nods toward the open doors of the Auction House and fixes me with a fervent look. “For him,” he whispers.
I thought I’d lost the power of speech, but my mouth works independently of my brain.
“For him,” I whisper back. Garnet blinks and rubs his eyes, releasing his hold on my elbow. I wipe my face with my hands. There will be time to mourn for Lucien, to punish myself for the role I played in his death. But I will not fail him now, at what could be the end of everything.
The foyer of the Auction House is massive. The top of the dome is made of glass, light pouring down and spilling over the mosaic of tiles that decorate the floor. In the center is a huge fountain, water spurting from the outstretched arms of a statue of Diamante the Great, the Electress who started the first Auction. Waiters skirt the crowds with glasses of pink and blue cocktails. The royals mingle, discussing the execution as if it were entertainment.
I can’t help but think of my own Auction experience. This is what was happening while Lucien was prepping me, while I was in the Waiting Room with Dahlia.
The Duchess sits on a raised dais off to one side, the Exetor in the center, the Electress on his right. Hazel stands behind the Duchess, her eyes fixed on me, the collar shining in a cruel mockery of a necklace around her neck. I’m grateful that Larimar does not seem to be invited to his own engagement party. Perhaps the royals thought children would be in the way.
Half an orchestra is playing and there are jugglers and acrobats darting and dancing through the crowds, just like Coral had described.
“The Regimentals that pick the surrogates up won’t be down there for ten more minutes,” Garnet murmurs to me, his back turned so it doesn’t look like we’re talking. “I had someone change the clocks so they think they’ve still got time. The trains should be pulling up any moment. You’d better hurry.”
“Hazel,” I say, glancing toward my sister. I know I need to go, but I don’t want to leave her here. What if she is murdered before this whole thing starts?
“I’ll keep an eye on her as long as I can,” Garnet says. “Go.”
My grief is melting away in the face of fear. This is really happening.
Carnelian is engaged in conversation with Rye and the Countess of the Rose, and I take the opportunity to slip away.
The train station is on the very lowest level of the Auction House. I locate the door I need, the one I remember clearly from the blueprints. Facing south, third door on the left. It leads me to an antechamber that I cross, leaving through the door on the opposite side, where a set of stairs waits. I take it down, past the two floors of prep rooms, past the floor that holds the beehive-like rooms where surrogates are knocked unconscious to be transported to their new homes, down,
down, until the stairs end in a cold, concrete hallway. I quickly bring up the blueprints in my mind again.
Right.
I turn and run. There is a door, a big wooden one that will take me to the station, to Raven and the others. I pass an industrial-size elevator, used to transport unconscious surrogates to their prep rooms.
Then I see the door. I slam into it, turning the handle and pushing it open just as the last train crawls into view. There are no conductors on these trains—they run automatically. I hope the girls have managed to take out the doctors and caretakers. The Regimentals haven’t arrived yet, just as Garnet said.
The train screeches to a halt, steam issuing from its chimney and creating a soft mist in the air. One by one, iron doors slam shut behind each of the four trains, echoing with a loud clang in the cavernous space. The roof arches into a peak, stones fitted together in a puzzle of slate and charcoal and soft gray. Thick iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling on sturdy chains, glowglobes emitting a rich yellow light.
I don’t have time to be cautious. “Paladin!” I cry.
“Violet?” Raven’s voice rips through me, a happiness more powerful than I thought I was capable of feeling in this moment. Her head pokes out of the plum-colored Southgate train. “Violet!” she cries, and jumps down off the carriage.
I can’t stop the cry that escapes my lips, a tortured howl really. I run across the station as she starts toward me and we collide into each other.
“You’re okay,” she breathes into my ear, her hands scrabbling over my back to make sure I’m whole.
“Lucien’s dead,” I say, and it hits me then, like a punch in the chest. Lucien is dead.
“What?” Raven gasps, but I don’t have time to explain because heads are popping out of train cars and girls are filling the room, eyes wide as they take in the huge space.
“Violet,” someone says, and then my name is picked up and echoes through the train station. “Violet! Violet is here! Violet!”