“We walk from here,” she says as Ash hops off the back of the cart to tie up Turnip.
The town of Fairview is much bigger than the town outside Bartlett Station. Houses slowly spring up around us as we walk, a handful of cottages at first, one-story stone structures with thatched roofs. As we get closer to the center of town, the houses become more uniform, all wooden shingles and peaked roofs. They crowd together, lining the hard-packed dirt that forms the roads, though they’re not connected like the row houses in the Smoke. Some have picket fences surrounding them; others have porches with rocking chairs or cats prowling on their steps. The main street is quiet at this time of night. We pass a barbershop, and a bakery, and a used-clothing store. There are no gas lamps to light our way, like the ones in the Bank. Sil stops at a dilapidated storefront. A dusty purple curtain hangs over the glass-paned door.
She knocks once, pauses, knocks three times, pauses again, and knocks once more.
The curtain flutters and the door is thrown open.
A pistol is leveled directly at Sil’s face.
I leap back, but Sil seems entirely unperturbed. “Put that away, Whistler, before you shoot somebody.”
“Who are they?” the man in the doorway asks. He is hidden in shadows, making it hard for me to see his face.
“Friends,” Sil says. “You think I’d bring some random strangers here? Mind you, I told them to stay put, but these two are as stubborn as . . .” Her voice trails off and she clears her throat. “The Black Key knows them,” she finishes.
“Have they been marked?”
Sil smirks. “Not yet. But she’s one of mine.” She jerks her head in my direction. “And he’s—”
The man steps forward into the light.
“You’re Ash Lockwood,” he says.
The man is large, heavily muscled, and covered in tattoos from his shaved head to his knuckles. A thick mustache covers his upper lip. He wears a black sweater and pants, and lowers the gun as he gapes at Ash.
“I am,” he says. I look at Sil—is this man going to turn Ash in? Was that her plan all along?
“You escaped the royalty,” the man says. His tone is almost reverential. “Right under the Duchess of the Lake’s nose. How . . .” He shakes his head, then extends his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Ash looks as shocked as I feel. I suppose I assumed everyone in the city would be after Ash’s head on a spike. But this man looks at him with respect.
He takes the man’s hand.
“You can call me the Whistler,” the man says.
Ash half smiles. “I suppose it’s a little late for a code name.”
“Are you going to let us in, or should we stand on the doorstep until a Regimental passes by?” Sil snaps.
The Whistler steps back. “Of course. Come in, come in. We’re waiting for one more.”
The shop is lit with only a single oil lamp. Sheets of paper line the walls filled with a myriad of designs. A delicately detailed sparrow soars toward the corner of one sheet. A peacock feather, all thick brushstrokes and bold colors, is pinned nearby. There is a sun and moon entwined, and a rustic-looking birdcage. I blush at the outline of a naked woman. There is a small desk by the front door and in the back corner of the shop sits a chair that reminds me unpleasantly of the medical bed at the palace of the Lake.
“The Black Key didn’t tell you what this is all about, did he?” Sil asks.
“Not a word,” the Whistler replies. “He said call an emergency meeting in the usual spot.” He sweeps out a hand to indicate the shop. “But the Printer arrived first—says he has big news, but wouldn’t say anymore until you got here. Go on down. I’ve got to wait for the newest recruit. He’s late. Not exactly starting off on the right foot.” He shakes his head.
“Come on,” Sil says to me and Ash, still hovering in the front of the store. “This is what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?”
We follow Sil to the back of the parlor, where murmured voices can be heard from behind a green painted door.
“Who is he?” I whisper, glancing at the Whistler, who’s still waiting by the front door, pistol in hand.
“Local tattoo artist. Used to run with a rough crowd; the Black Key helped him out of a tight spot. Knows all the criminals and thieves in the South Quarter of the Farm. The Black Key was wise to have recruited him. They can be remarkably helpful, the dregs of society. And they love rebelling against authority.” Sil looks at Ash. “Let’s hope they all like you as much as he did.”
Then she opens the door.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Twenty-five
I STARE DOWN AT A LONG SET OF RICKETY WOODEN STAIRS leading to a basement.
The voices are louder, and a warm yellow light emanates from somewhere deep within the underground room. Sil shoos us forward. As soon we reach the bottom of the stairs, the voices fall silent.
We’re in a storage area underneath the tattoo parlor. The walls are made of cracked gray stone, and various crates have been piled in one corner, along with scraps of paper and sheets of canvas. A circle of five chairs is set up in the center of the space with everyone else crowded around them. Two of the chairs are empty.
There are so many people here. And people of all ages, male and female. There’s a boy of about fourteen, with a thatch of blond hair and an impish expression. There’s an old woman sitting in one of the chairs, knitting what looks to be a baby’s sock. And there is a handful of what I’d guess Sil would call the “dregs of society.” Men and women with gaunt faces, many of them heavily tattooed, with sharp eyes and twitchy fingers.
A bald man with dark skin and even darker eyes gets up from his chair as we enter the room. His gaze falls on Sil.
“The Rose!” he exclaims, then calls to the room at large. “The Rose is here.”
I smile at her code name.
The tension in the room dissipates, the voices picking back up again. Several people come to greet Sil, who nods and shakes hands reluctantly.
“And who are your guests?” the bald man asks.
The blond boy pushes through the crowd. “That’s . . . that’s Ash Lockwood!”
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” a girl, his same age, says. Her blond hair is tied back in two pigtails. They look like brother and sister. “Ash Lockwood is in hiding. Or dead.”
“Ash Lockwood fought a hundred Regimentals to get out of the Jewel,” the boy insists. “He could be anywhere, and I’m telling you that’s him.”
“If Ash Lockwood really escaped the royalty,” the girl shoots back, “he’d never come within five miles of us.”
“This is surreal,” Ash whispers in my ear. I nod.
A girl in her mid-twenties shushes them. She has coppery hair and a willowy figure that reminds me of Annabelle. My heart throbs.
“There’s no need to spread more of the royalty’s gossip and lies,” she says. “Why don’t we ask him?”
More people have stopped to listen in on this conversation. The boy looks at Ash through his thick mess of blond hair.
“So?” he says. “Are you Ash Lockwood or aren’t you?”
“That isn’t polite,” the Annabelle-girl says. “And you know the rule about names here.”
The boy scowls. The girl twirls one of her pigtails around her finger.
“Please, sir,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes. “Are you the companion who was falsely accused and escaped the royalty?”
Falsely accused? My bones soften with relief. They know. They know he is innocent. But . . . how could they know that? All the papers reported the rape as if it were fact.
“I am,” Ash says. “Though I can’t say I fought a hundred Regimentals.” He extends his hand to her. “Ash Lockwood,” he says.
The girl turns pink and shakes his hand. The Annabelle-girl blushes, too.
“I told you,” the boy sa
ys.
“We’re not allowed to use names,” the girl says, ignoring the boy.
Ash nods. “Yes. The Society of the Black Key has to be protected.”
The girl’s eyes widen. “Do you know the Black Key?”
A small crowd has gathered around Ash at this point. A woman in her forties pushes forward.
“Did you know a boy named Birch?” she says, grasping his hand in both of hers. “They took him, made him a companion. I don’t know where they sent him. He’s a beautiful boy, he’s blond and tall, with green eyes and . . .” Tears fill her eyes. “Do you know him?”
“My son was taken, too,” a man in plaid trousers interrupts. “They made him a Regimental. For the House of the Light. Have you been there?”
A frail woman with wispy brown hair pushes forward. “They took my daughter,” she says. “They took her right off the street one day. Do you know where they take the girls? She was only fourteen. The coach that took her was from the Bank.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Why would they take my Calla?”
Ash looks distraught. I catch Sil’s eye. This isn’t fair. He cannot be asked to account for all the royalty’s faults, to know everything that happened to these children.
“That’s enough,” Sil says. “Leave the boy alone. From what I’ve gathered, we have more important things to talk about.” She moves to sit in one of the empty chairs. The crowd shuffles back around, reforming the circle. The boy stays close to Ash and keeps glancing over at him.
“We’ll start without the Whistler,” Sil says. “He can get filled in later.” She looks at the old woman knitting the sock. “What’s the status for supplies?”
“One hundred and twelve handguns, eighty-three rifles,” the woman says. “And a countless amount of makeshift swords.”
“Still not enough,” Sil says. “Not nearly enough now.”
“What’s going on?” a man in a green jacket demands. “I thought the plan was to coordinate the attacks and the Auction. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“No, we don’t.” The bald man stands up. “That’s why this meeting was called. I received my shipment of tomorrow’s paper late this afternoon.” A newspaper sits, folded in half on his chair. He opens it and holds it up.
The headline reads, NEW DATE FOR AUCTION! And underneath it, in slightly smaller print, it says, EXETOR TO MOVE AUCTION TO APRIL.
I gasp. That’s only a little over three months away.
“How can they do this?” I whisper to Ash.
“They do what they want,” he says.
“Do you think—”
“It might be a coincidence,” the bald man announces. “Or they might suspect something. There has been a healthy amount of vandalism recently, some of which was unapproved by the Black Key.”
He shoots a look at one of the gaunt, tattooed men.
“How are we supposed to be ready in time?” a gruff man with bushy eyebrows and a gray cap asks. “We don’t even know our exact numbers. We don’t know who can handle a gun. We don’t have enough guns, for that matter. How are we supposed to fight an army of Regimentals?”
“The surrogates,” Sil says. “You know this. The surrogates will help.”
The man scoffs. “I still don’t see how a group of little girls is going to help us take down an army.”
I bristle, and so does Sil.
“Of course you don’t,” she says. “That would require having a brain. You’re good with weapons but don’t try strategy, it doesn’t suit you.” It’s nice to see Sil’s attitude being directed toward someone else. She looks around the room. Some of the people look as skeptical as the gruff man. Others seem curious, and still others seem resigned, like they’ve heard about this plan for a while and are tired of trying to work out the secrets. I’m very familiar with that feeling.
“You’re all here for a reason,” Sil says. “There isn’t a life in this room that hasn’t been affected in some way by the royalty. If we want it to stop, we have to do it ourselves. We have to trust the Black Key. But more importantly, we have to trust one another.”
“She does a good impression of caring,” I mutter to Ash.
“Oh, I think she cares a lot more than she lets on,” he says.
“How do you think they knew?” I ask. “That you were falsely accused, I mean.”
The boy pipes up from Ash’s other side. “The Black Key sent a warning. He said none of us was to turn you in if we saw you. He said you were on our side.”
“Well, look at that,” I say, giving Ash’s waist a squeeze. “He doesn’t hate you so much after all.”
“I’m sure he was protecting you more than me.”
“It’s a start.”
“Who are you, anyway?” the boy asks me.
“I’m Violet,” I say.
The boy’s eyes widen. “We’re not supposed to use real names.”
“Well, I’m not going by anything but Violet,” I say. “Ever again. The Black Key will have to deal with it.”
Ash barely suppresses a smile.
“We’ll have to make do with what we have already,” the bald man is saying. “But we need to start training.”
“There’s a field about an hour away from here,” Sil says. “It’s quiet and out of the way, deep in a forest. This contingent could train there.”
It sounds like she’s talking about our forest. But she can’t mean the clearing with the White Rose—I imagine there must be another field nearby. And that forest is so thick and huge, it could provide perfect cover.
“That’s too far,” the gruff man protests.
“Tough,” she says.
“You need me to help with the training,” he says. “Who else here has experience in combat?”
“A couple of altercations with Regimentals doesn’t make you an expert,” Sil snaps.
“I’m the only one you’ve got,” the man says.
“No,” Ash says. “You’re not.” He seems surprised by everyone’s eyes on him, as if he hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud.
The man’s bushy eyebrows rise so high they fade into his salt-and-pepper hair. “What do you know about fighting, boy? I thought they sent you to the Jewel to dance with royal daughters.”
A few of the other men snigger. I glare, but Ash ignores them.
“They train us in everything,” he says. “I know how to use a gun. I know how to handle a sword. I can help.”
My heart swells up with pride. This is what he’s supposed to do. This is how he can help.
“Prove it,” the man insists.
“Of course. Do you happen to have a sword handy?” Ash asks politely.
The man grumbles something unintelligible.
“I know the Jewel,” he continues. “I know how they train the Regimentals. If you don’t think that’s useful information, I suppose I don’t need to share it.”
“What about the girl?” a voice in the crowd asks. All heads swivel in my direction, all eyes focused on me.
“What about her?” Sil asks.
“Who is she?”
“Where is she from? I’ve never seen her around here before.”
“Does she have the mark of the Key?”
“How do we know we can trust her?”
The chorus of voices rises up. Ash moves to stand in front of me protectively, but I pull him back. I can face this myself. I’m going to have to face much worse before this thing is over.
“My name is Violet,” I say. “And I was a surrogate.”
The word sets off a fury of panicked murmurs. Several people back away from me. The man in the green jacket whispers something to the woman beside him. She nods her head, frowning at me.
“I’ve seen firsthand what the royalty are capable of,” I continue. “And I want them stopped.”
I realize most of them have never known a surrogate. They clearly don’t know Sil was one. I’ve never thought about what the surrogates must seem like to the other circles. Even the boy who’s attached himself to Ash’
s side has taken a step away from me.
“I heard surrogates can kill you with their thoughts,” he says.
“I heard they can make you beautiful if they touch you,” his sister says, eyeing me eagerly.
“That’s a load of nonsense,” the gruff man says. “They make royal babies. That’s all they do.”
I’m sick of this man and his attitude.
“No,” I say. “That’s not all we do.”
I connect with Earth, feeling myself become strong and broad, rooted in the ground. Somewhere deep below my roots, I can sense water.
“Violet,” Sil murmurs. The floor begins to tremble, and I quake with it. The crowd gasps and everyone shuffles away from me. Even the people in the chairs have stood and backed up. Ash stands beside me, a strong and steady presence, like a heartbeat.
“I’m not sure this is the best idea,” Sil says.
But I am the earth and these people need to see me.
I feel a mighty ache in the center of my chest and the cement floor cracks open. Several people scream. The Annabelle-girl grabs the brother and sister and pulls them back.
I can smell the water now, its earthy tang.
I become the water.
My fingers grow fluid, my body light and stretchy, and a spray of water bursts from the crack in the floor. It swirls up in a glassy ribbon, bursts apart, then reforms. It fills me up with a bright, bubbly joy, slippery tendrils circling one another before I release my connection with Water and it sinks back to the river below. The looks on the crowd’s faces changes from terrified to awed.
I connect with Earth again, and the crack in the floor closes up.
The silence that follows is deafening. It presses against my eardrums with the weight of disbelief and fear.
“Violet?”
I turn and see the Whistler at the foot of the stairs, his hand on the shoulder of a fourteen-year-old boy, his mouth gaping at the place where the water used to be.
But the boy holds my full attention.
I’m staring into the wide eyes of my brother.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers