“Thank you all for joining me in celebrating this very special occasion!” the Duchess exclaims. “Let us raise a glass to the happy couple—Garnet, of the House of the Lake, and Coral, of the House of the Downs.”
Everyone raises their glasses and cheers.
“And now,” the Duchess says, “my surrogate will perform a short program for you. Shall we all proceed to the concert hall?”
A footman leads me out and down a different hall from everyone else’s—I assume he’s taking me to the backstage door—when he is intercepted.
“Her Ladyship requested that I escort the surrogate,” Lucien says. “You may go back to your post.”
The footman hesitates, then bows. “Of course.”
Once he’s gone, Lucien smiles at me. “Shall we?” he says, offering his arm.
I grin and take it.
“How are you?” he asks.
The words get tangled in my throat. Lucien stops walking. He lifts my chin and studies my face.
“Has it happened?” he asks. I nod. “When?”
“Yesterday,” I whisper.
“So you don’t know the results yet.”
I shake my head.
Lucien brushes my cheek with his fingers. “It’s all right. It’s not ideal, but we’ll get through this. The Longest Night is just around the corner, right?”
I bite my lip. “Lucien, do you know about the Electress’s plan? About lobotomizing the surrogates?”
Lucien raises an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”
“The Duchess.”
Lucien purses his lips. “Yes, I am aware of it. But we can’t focus on that. And we have no idea if the operation will ever be performed successfully, so for the time being, let’s concentrate on keeping you safe, shall we? Remember what our goal is.”
“But the other girls, Lucien. I can’t—”
“Listen to me.” Lucien stops outside the backstage door and puts his hands on my shoulders. “This is not just about saving you. There is much more at stake here, Violet.”
A shiver runs through me. “What do you mean?” I whisper.
Lucien smiles a secretive smile. “It only takes one small stone to start an avalanche. I am going to help the other girls, in more ways than you can guess. I am going to help everyone under the thumb of the royalty. But none of that will matter if I can’t help you.”
He opens the door before I can press him further. I can hear the chatter of my audience as they take their seats. My cello and music stand are already set up.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
My questions vanish as my stomach twists unpleasantly with nerves.
“Yes,” I reply.
He kisses me lightly on the forehead. “Good luck.”
I take a deep breath and walk out onstage, to thunderous applause.
This is so much better than at the Exetor’s Ball. The excitement of the crowd is palpable, with none of the antagonism in the air. This audience is genuinely excited to hear me play, not eager to see me lose some ridiculous competition. I sit and prop my cello between my knees, then look out over the rows and rows of seats, all of them filled.
It’s what I’ve always imagined, made into reality.
The Duchess has chosen my repertoire. I open the first page and find that she’s selected the prelude in G Major to start—no doubt to remind everyone of my previous performance. I smile and begin to play.
Immediately, I know something is wrong. Instead of relaxing, the nerves in my stomach seem to get worse as the song progresses, like a dull cramp. I finish the prelude, and smile politely at the applause. It certainly wasn’t my best performance, but they don’t seem to notice.
I reach out and turn the page to the next piece—the movement sends a dull ache through my lower back, and I wince. The Duchess has chosen another prelude, this one in D Minor, similar to the nocturne the iced cake danced to. I lift the bow to the strings.
I only manage the first few bars before the pain becomes unbearable—my stomach is cramping severely, and my lower back is on fire. But it’s not until I feel a wetness between my thighs that my bow falters, screeching across the A string and falling to the floor.
I look down at my lap and see a bright red stain, veins of color spreading across the pale green petals of my dress like the first Augury. But I’m not performing an Augury.
I don’t realize I’ve dropped the cello until I hear the jarring crash of it hitting the floor. There is a flash of white from offstage in my peripheral vision. I press my hands against the stain, my fingers becoming sticky with blood, a dull thrumming in my ears muting all the sounds of the room.
“Help,” I whisper.
Then I fall.
I expect to hit the floor, but a pair of soft hands catches me.
Sound comes back in a rush.
“Get the doctor!” Lucien yells. There are shouts and cries, a confusing babble, and people are running up to the stage, but everything seems blurry. Another cramp wrenches in my gut.
I moan as Lucien lays me down gently on the stage and brushes a hand against my forehead.
Then the Duchess is standing over me. “The doctor is in the Bank,” she says. Her face is pale, her eyes full of fear. I’ve never seen her look scared before.
“We’ll send someone immediately,” the Exetor’s voice comes from somewhere to my right.
“There’s no time, we have to stop the bleeding,” Lucien says. “My lady, where is your medical room?” The Duchess can only stare at me. “My lady!”
She starts. “This way.”
Lucien lifts me up in his arms—he is surprisingly strong—and carries me off the stage and through the concert hall. Concerned faces swirl around me in a golden haze, but one stands out clearly. Ash’s gray-green eyes are wide with panic.
Pain rips through my abdomen, and I cry out.
“We’re almost there, honey,” Lucien whispers in my ear. “Hold on. We’re almost there.”
“It hurts,” I whimper.
“I know.”
I hear the grate of the elevator open, then darkness, then the bright lights of the medical room. Lucien lays me on the bed and I curl up in the fetal position, my hands soaked with blood.
“Is she all right?” The Duchess’s voice is somewhere off to my left, strangled and frightened. “Is she going to be all right?”
Lucien’s face fills my vision, and I feel his fingers probe my elbow, sinking a needle into my veins.
My eyelids grow heavy. Lucien’s face blurs and becomes Ash’s. I want to reach out and stroke his cheek, but I can’t lift my arms. When he speaks, it’s Ash’s voice I hear, coming from the end of a long tunnel.
“That’s right. Go to sleep.”
Darkness engulfs me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Twenty-Four
SOMETHING COOL AND WET BRUSHES AGAINST MY FOREHEAD. It feels nice.
My eyelids flutter open.
I’m in my bedroom. The Duchess is leaning over me with a damp cloth.
“Doctor,” she calls. She sits beside me on the bed. “How are you feeling?”
My mouth is dry, my lips sticking together. My tongue feels swollen. The Duchess fills a glass with water from the jug on the nightstand and holds it to my lips.
“There you are,” she says gently. I take a few small sips. Some water dribbles down my chin and the Duchess wipes it away. The door opens and Dr. Blythe rushes in.
“Is she awake?” He hurries to the bed, the Duchess moving aside, and smiles at me as he presses two fingers against the inside of my wrist. “It’s good to see your eyes open again.”
“What . . . happened?” I croak.
“The first attempt often fails. However, your body’s reaction was unusually violent. You very nearly died. We must proceed with absolute caution.” Dr. Blythe says.
“We are alrea
dy behind schedule,” the Duchess protests.
“If we lose her,” the doctor says sharply, “none of that will matter.”
My head is spinning. “So I’m not . . . pregnant?”
The doctor opens his medical bag. “Not anymore.”
He takes out a thermometer and pops it under my tongue.
“How do we proceed?” the Duchess asks.
“We wait at least another full cycle before the next attempt. Four or five weeks at the earliest. She must be allowed to heal.”
“Very well,” the Duchess says. “But you will stay here. I will arrange for a room to be set up for you this afternoon.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
The idea of the doctor living here is not particularly comforting. But I’ve been given time—four or five weeks. The Longest Night is five and a half weeks away. Lucien can get me the serum before they try again. The doctor removes the thermometer.
“Where’s Lucien?” I ask. Dr. Blythe frowns and the Duchess looks confused. And I realize I’m probably not supposed to know Lucien.
“He’s back at the Royal Palace, of course,” the doctor says.
“He saved my life,” I say, hoping that will be enough to justify my question.
“He did,” the doctor replies. “You are very fortunate he was here.” He puts the thermometer back in the bag. “The best thing you can do now is rest.”
I nod, exhausted.
“I’ll send someone to fetch your things,” the Duchess says to the doctor. She dabs the cloth against my forehead one more time, a surprisingly tender gesture, then sets it on my nightstand and hurries out the door.
“Someone has been waiting most impatiently to see you,” Dr. Blythe says with a smile. He opens the door and leaves the room as Annabelle rushes in.
“Annabelle.” I cry weakly. She kneels beside the bed and takes my hand in hers, pressing it against her cheek. She doesn’t need to use her slate to express herself—I know what she’s thinking. “I’m all right,” I say. “Just tired.”
She nods, but tears fill her eyes.
“Oh, Annabelle. I’m okay. Really.”
She kisses the back of my hand.
“I think I need to sleep now,” I say. “Will you stay here?”
Annabelle climbs onto the bed beside me. I rest my head on her shoulder.
“Thanks,” I whisper. Her lips press softly against my hair.
I SPEND THE NEXT FEW DAYS CONFINED TO MY BED.
The doctor comes in to check on me every morning, and the Duchess visits in the afternoons, but I spend most of my time reading and playing Halma with Annabelle.
Every day that passes is one day closer to freedom. I tick them off in my head, a countdown to the Longest Night. They won’t have a chance to hurt me again—not the Duchess or the doctor or anyone.
I wonder what Lucien meant, when he said there’s more at stake than just saving my life. Is he planning some sort of revolt against the royalty? By taking away the surrogates, he threatens the very basis of royal life—they can’t make new royalty without us. But then he’d have to hide every girl in every holding facility, plus all the surrogates in the Jewel. And if he is trying to overthrow the royalty, I want in. And not just to be whisked away to some safe zone in the Farm. The Duchess deserves to know how it feels to be on the other end of a leash.
I say good-bye to Ash a thousand times in my head, as if the more I say it, the easier it will be to accept. Being impregnated almost killed me. Other surrogates are dying and I might have the ability to help them. If Lucien can get me out, he can get them out. I have to take this seriously—I have to do what Lucien says. No more secret meetings, or kisses in the garden maze. I will be a model surrogate. There is too much at stake.
I tell myself it’s better this way. It was always going to end, so why not sooner rather than later? I pretend this is a good thing. I pretend I’m happy about it.
I hope Raven is all right. I wish I could have seen her at the engagement party. Although I’m glad she didn’t have to watch me bleeding all over the stage.
On Friday, Dr. Blythe pronounces me well enough to walk around the palace again.
“Can we go to the garden?” I ask Annabelle. “I want to be outside again.”
She wraps me up in my warmest coat and scarf, and we head out the back door by the ballroom. I pretend to wander aimlessly, back and forth across the garden until Annabelle sits on a bench for a few minutes. I make my way to the western wall.
Our flowers are dead, both mine and Raven’s. I press my hand against the wall and whisper, “I miss you.” What would Raven do if she was here? She’d probably be berating Lucien for taking so long to get her out.
A glint of silver catches my eye. I brush aside a few dead leaves and find a new vine, its slender tendril wrapped around a little charm, a silver terrier. Raven and Crow had a terrier growing up—they named him Danger, because he was so small and they thought it would inspire him to be tough. Her mother sold him to a magistrate when they couldn’t afford to feed him anymore.
I kiss the charm and put it in my pocket. At least I know Raven is okay, that she still remembers me. Then I yank a button off my coat, wrap Raven’s vine around it, and send it over the wall to her.
I drift farther back into the heavier woods. It’s nice to be outside. Breathing in the cold air is refreshing, cleansing me from the inside out. I wander down a path I’ve never taken before, not really paying attention to where I’m going. When I emerge at a tiny pond filled with brightly colored fish—golden and orange and soft white—I stop short and gasp.
Seated on a bench on the opposite side of the pond is Ash.
He jumps to his feet. He’s wearing a simple brown coat and a gray scarf, and he fits into the woodsy backdrop perfectly. “Violet?”
“Hi,” I say.
“Are you . . .” He blinks very fast and swallows. “Are you all right?”
“Oh yes,” I say, feeling oddly formal. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
The space between us seems to expand and contract at the same time.
“I was so worried,” he says. “I heard . . . they were saying you almost died.”
I shrug. “I’m better now,” I mumble. I tell my feet to move, to turn around and walk away, but they’re not listening. My eyes won’t stop staring at him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
“Like what?”
Ash frowns. “Like that. Like you’re scared of me.”
“I don’t . . .” I clear my throat and turn away. “I have to go.”
“Go?” he says, shocked. “The last time I saw you, you were bleeding to death, and now you’re leaving?”
I stumble away from him, from the promise of comfort, the warmth of his arms around me. I can’t have it anymore. I have to let him go.
“Violet, stop.”
My body obeys, even if my brain is screaming at me to run. I hear the crunch of leaves beneath his boots, feel the gentle touch of his hand on my shoulder. “What is going on?” he asks.
I slip out of his grasp and turn around. “We can’t keep seeing each other,” I say.
Lucien would be proud. But everything inside me hurts.
Ash looks stunned. For one moment, he is like a statue frozen in front of me. Then he comes to life and takes a step back. He looks around, at the pond, at the bench, the trees, as if something in this garden will tell him what to do, what to say. He closes his eyes and when he opens them, something cracks in his expression—for a fleeting instant, I see pain, jagged and raw. Then he smooths out his face as neatly as Annabelle smooths out my bed sheets.
“Very well,” he says. He sounds pleasant, detached.
“I—I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Now that it’s happened, I wish I could take it back. I don’t like this Ash, the polite mask, the clipped manners. It’s the royalty’s Ash, not mine.
“If you will excuse me, Carnelian must be done with her etiquette lessons.”
&nb
sp; He brushes past me and I instinctively grab his arm.
“Ash, wait—”
He yanks his arm out of my grasp.
“No,” he says. I can feel his anger—it radiates off him in waves. “You do not get to tell me what to do. You have lost that privilege.”
It’s like I’m underwater. Everything is slow and muddy. My lungs aren’t working right.
Then the impact of what I’ve done hits me hard, and the world sharpens, and I’m furious. It isn’t fair that he’s angry at me when all I’m trying to do is help other girls, and it’s infuriating that I can’t explain that to him. Both my palms smack into his chest, sending him stumbling backward.
“Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think this is what I want?”
I raise my hand to hit him again, but he catches my wrist.
“Do you think this is easy for me?” he hisses. “Do you have any idea . . .”
He pulls on my wrist, hard enough to bring our faces within inches of each other. I’m suddenly very aware of how strong he is.
“You do not know,” he growls. “You talk as though I am accustomed to what we—what I thought we had. Sex, oh yes, I know about that, and lust and lies and betrayal. But this?” His grip tightens. “I risk my life every time I’m with you. Do you get that? If we’re caught, they will execute me.”
I feel myself go limp, all the fight bleeding out of me. “What?” I whisper.
“Oh, come on, Violet. What did you think would happen? You’ve only been here a few weeks but you know how these people are.”
“But . . . but why then? Why did you ever kiss me in the first place?”
“Because this is not something I was supposed to have!” Ash shouts. “I look at you and I feel human again. I look at you and I feel whole. You don’t know me that well, Violet, but trust me when I say I was broken before I met you. I can’t go back to that.”
He seems to realize he’s still holding my wrist. My fingers have gone numb. Ash releases me and shoves his hands into his pockets. Blood rushes back to my fingertips, which prickle with pins and needles.
“And even if we aren’t caught,” he continues in a more subdued tone,” I will never be able to introduce you to my family. I will never get to walk down the streets of the Smoke with you hand in hand, or take you to the Commissioner of the Peace and make you my wife. As soon as Carnelian is engaged, I’ll be gone. I’ll be sold to another family, and the cycle of my life will continue as though you have never touched it. But you have. I can’t ever forget that.” He blinks and looks at my wrist. “I did not mean to hurt you. I’m so sorry.”