The Black Key (13 page)

That was the exact phrase Lucien used when he allowed me to choose my own dress for the Auction. For a moment, I'm back there in the prep room, staring at my face for the first time in four years.

A bell tinkles as the front door opens. A Bank woman and her daughter enter. The little girl can't be older than five or six, with thick black plaits in her hair and a cute little hat with a yellow ribbon.

“I'm so terribly sorry, Mrs. Linten,” Miss Mayfield says. “But we are closed for the afternoon.”

Mrs. Linten looks miffed before she sees Coral and Carnelian.

“Your Ladyships,” she says, making a little curtsy and nudging for her daughter to do the same. “I did not . . . I am so sorry. Of course, Miss Mayfield, we will come back tomorrow.”

She wheels out of the shop, dragging her daughter with her. I guess Carnelian counts as a ladyship in the Bank, even if she doesn't in the Jewel. Miss Mayfield turns a sharp eye on the head assistant, who in turn glares at the freckled girl, who runs over to lock the door and hang a “Closed” sign in the window, pulling a shade down over it.

“Now,” Miss Mayfield says, “where were we?”

Quickly, the three assistants strip the royal girls of their gowns, leaving them in only their slips. Miss Mayfield helps Coral into the stunning pink number, a gown with a sweetheart neckline and a subtle skirt bolstered by a layer of tulle. The only ornamentation is around the waist, tiny flowers made of diamonds and rubies.

“What do you think, Imogen?” she asks, twirling for me.

“It's perfect, miss,” I say. And it is. She really does look lovely. All three assistants scatter once more and return, each carrying a full-length mirror. They move this way and that in perfect unison, almost like a dance, so that Coral can see every inch of herself.

“I love it,” she says, and Miss Mayfield looks pleased.

Carnelian is next. As she steps into the blue gown, Miss Mayfield herself fastens the dress up.

“Oh!” Coral gasps. “Carnelian, you look . . . beautiful.”

She sounds jealous and I don't blame her. The gown Miss Mayfield has fashioned for Carnelian is unlike any ball gown I've ever seen. The skirt is made of chiffon, pretty layers that float to the ground like clouds. But the bodice is carefully cut out in satin ribbons that form a crisscross pattern, navy-blue silk layered over baby-blue lace, so that her ivory skin peeks through. It cuts off in a tight circle at the base of her neck and right at her shoulders, leaving her arms bare.

It makes Carnelian look like a woman in her own right, someone who could turn heads at a ball.

“What do you think?” Miss Mayfield asks.

“It's perfect,” she whispers. Then she whirls and embraces the dressmaker. The assistants look away, embarrassed.

“Well, let's make sure everything is as it should be.” Miss Mayfield snaps her fingers and the mirrors disappear. She takes out a pair of strange eyeglasses and a measuring tape and begins to examine every seam and hem.

“Loose thread here,” she mutters, peering at Carnelian's left shoulder. The tall girl makes a note. “And let's take—”

But whatever she was going to say next gets lost, as the wall opposite me suddenly explodes in a deafening burst of heat and plaster and dust.

I
AM FLYING THROUGH THE AIR, THROWN BACKWARD
into a rack of dresses.

Some deep protective instinct causes me to join with Air, so that the rubble and debris shooting toward me are deflected in a gust of wind. The dresses soften the blow as my back slams into the wall, my connection with Air broken. Sparks explode in front of my eyes, my ears ringing. For several seconds, or maybe minutes, I lie there, half-hidden by layers of satin and wool and brocade. My chest heaves as I struggle to breathe. My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Everything is dull, muted. Slowly, my hearing returns.

The first thing I notice is the screaming. One long sustained scream. I sit up, rubbing my left ear, and see the head
attendant standing in the midst of the ruined shop, staring at her arm. Something sharp and white is poking out of her skin, thick lines of red dripping down her forearm into her hand. I swallow back the bile that rises in my throat as I realize it's her bone. Her arm is shattered.

Miss Mayfield's dress is torn down one whole side and there is a large bruise blossoming under one eye. She is crouched on the floor, tending to the tall girl, pressing a green lace ball gown against a gash on her forehead. I don't know where the freckled girl is.

Diamantes are littered all around us, glittering in the rubble like stars. My brain is slow to respond, my head fuzzy. Where did all this money come from?

Where are Coral and Carnelian?

The picture forms in front of me like a jigsaw puzzle with some pieces missing. There's a giant hole in the wall opposite me. Through it I can see broken tiles and melted hunks of copper, splintered wood and huge chunks of concrete. A man's shoe. A broken lamp. And fire. Fire everywhere.

The bank. The Royal Bank next door.

Those are the targets the Society is hitting.

I scramble to my feet as the girl with the broken arm shrieks louder. The fire burning through the bank has caught on the carpet of the shop. I can feel its delicious heat from across the room. But it's headed straight for Miss Mayfield and her charge, devouring every scrap of silk and lace in its path.

In the distance, I hear the faint wail of sirens. They'll never make it here in time.

I join with Fire—an excruciating burst of heat
accompanies the element. My skin boils, a pain that is unbearable and welcoming at the same time. Fire always makes me feel equal parts alive and frightened.

For a second, the flames flare higher, but I am in control now, and I calm it, slowly and steadily, focusing on my heart beating in my chest, forcing the fire to recede. It shrinks down to half its size, then a quarter, then it is nothing more than a few wisps of smoke wafting up from the remains of a charred carpet. A crackle of its heat echoes over my skin as I release my hold on the element.

I come back to myself and immediately search for the two royal girls. When I see the high heel hanging from a limp foot, my heart turns from fire to lead. Coral is pinned beneath a large hunk of plaster. Blood seeps out in a dark puddle from underneath her.

“Coral!” I cry. I try and lift the plaster but it's too heavy. The sirens in the distance get louder. “Coral, no, no . . .”

I shake her shoulders. Her head bobs around, lifeless. Her eyes are closed, almost as if I've just tucked her into bed, except it's concrete instead of blanket on top of her and she'll never open her eyes again. I sit back on my heels, pressing my palms against my own eyes as if I can rub this horrible sight from my brain.

I hear a small moan from behind an overturned sofa. Forcing myself to move, I stand and leave the corpse of Garnet's wife behind to find Carnelian trapped beneath the sofa, alive.

“I can't . . . breathe . . .” she croaks.

“Just hold on,” I say. “I'm going to get this off of you.”

I connect with Air again—the initial swooping sensation
in my stomach that accompanies the element doesn't give me the same thrill it usually does. Instantly the air around me is ready, waiting. As I push my fingers underneath the edge of the sofa I can feel its entire weight, not just the smooth mahogany frame that I'm touching. I am aware of all of it. I am the air underneath it and around it and nestled in its cushions. I am everywhere.

Lift,
I think. As I stand, Air pulls with me and the sofa is thrown into a mannequin with such force that its head comes off its body. Carnelian rolls onto her back, gasping for breath.

“Are you all right? Can you move? Are you hurt?” My hands flutter around her uselessly, afraid to touch her.

“My . . . ribs . . .” She clutches her side.

“Stay still. Help is coming.” The sirens wail again. I grab the remains of an indigo gown, balling it up and gently lifting Carnelian's head to rest it on the makeshift pillow. “You're going to be okay,” I say again, more for myself than for her. Her breathing is shallow and there's a deep cut on her shoulder. I press another gown to it to stanch the bleeding.

“Is she . . . is she . . .” Carnelian stares past me, to where I know Coral's body lies.

“Yes,” I whisper, and the guilt is agony, a hot knife twisting in my gut, a punch in the chest that leaves me breathless.

All those bombings. I knew it was violent. Of course. But this . . .

Carnelian begins to cry, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Shhhhh,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “It's okay, we're okay . . .”

“I don't want to die,” she whimpers.

She looks so frightened, so young. I might not like Carnelian, but in this moment, we are the same. We're just two scared girls.

“You're not going to die,” I say. “Help is coming. You're going to be fine.” I squeeze her hand. “I'm right here. I won't leave you.”

She looks at me with an unfocused gaze.

“I—I know your voice,” she says. Her brows knit together for a moment before her eyes widen.
“You,”
she gasps.

I nod. I don't even consider lying.

Carnelian's lips part, she lets out a little huff, then her eyes roll back in her head and she sinks into unconsciousness.

Minutes later, Regimentals run into the ruined shop. One immediately heads for the screaming girl while two more move to help Miss Mayfield and her charge.

“Help the royals, help the royals!” Miss Mayfield cries, pointing to where I sit by Carnelian. A young Regimental rushes over.

“Are you hurt, miss?” he says.

“No,” I say. “But she is. Her ribs, I think, and her shoulder.”

“Medic!” he calls, and a man in a gray coat with a black bag comes over to look at Carnelian. The head girl is taken away, cradling her broken arm. Four Regimentals manage to get the hunk of plaster off Coral. The entire lower half of her body has been crushed.

I close my eyes and hate myself for my cowardice. I
should watch this. I deserve to see what the Society of the Black Key is doing. I gather my courage and open them again. Coral is being put in a black bag, like the one they put Raven in when they sent her to the morgue. Two Regimentals carry her out of the store.

Carnelian has been put on a stretcher.

“She's from the House of the Lake, isn't she?” the young Regimental asks. I nod.

“She'll be all right,” the medic says. “I'd guess a couple of broken ribs and that laceration on her shoulder will need stitches. Best get her back to the Jewel. She'll be safest there.” He glances at the sofa smashed against the wall. “Was she underneath that?” I nod again. “And you lifted it off her?”

I stare at him blankly. Of course I did. He looks impressed but I don't feel very impressive right now. I feel hollow.

“Come, miss,” the Regimental says, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let's get you out of here.”

He leads me to an ambulance waiting outside. Carnelian is slid in after me, along with the medic and another Regimental.

Right away, he starts asking me questions. Did I see anyone suspicious near the bank when we arrived? Did anything seem off? Do I think Miss Mayfield could have had something to do with it? Or one of her assistants?

I answer no to everything as the ambulance tears through the streets.

“Where's Coral?” I ask.

“She's well taken care of, don't you worry.” The Regimental pats my knee.

The conductor is shocked when we pull up at the station.

“Get this train ready to leave now!” the medic yells at him. “And let the Jewel know. Carnelian of the House of the Lake has been injured in a Black Key bombing.”

“Where is Miss Coral?” he asks, but the Regimentals blow past him with Carnelian and he pales at the sight of her unconscious form. He jumps into the driver's seat and I rush into the carriage behind everyone. The train lurches forward as I stumble into the statue of the woman with the bird. The Regimentals have moved aside one of the couches so that Carnelian's stretcher lies out on the floor.

I can't believe she and Coral were in this train car, snapping at each other, only an hour ago. It doesn't seem real.

When we arrive in the Jewel, there is a glamorous motorcar waiting, with an extra-large backseat. A chauffer opens the back of it and the Regimentals slide Carnelian inside.

“Just . . . just the one?” the chauffeur asks.

The medic nods, and repeats what he told me about Carnelian's condition.

I ride in the front with the driver as he peels through the streets of the Jewel. Gravel flies from under the tires as he pulls up to the palace of the Lake. The doctor is waiting by the garage with One and Six.

“This way, this way,” he says as they rush to get Carnelian out of the car. He pulls down on the branch of a shrub that I thought was real, but instead slides aside to reveal a dark tunnel and a set of stone stairs. The secret passage to the medical room I couldn't find. They vanish down into the darkness and the shrub glides into its original place.
The chauffeur goes to park the car in the garage and I find myself alone.

I don't know where to go, what to do. Everything feels like a dream. My feet take me wherever they want and I end up in the kitchen. The servants are huddled together in groups, talking worriedly. Even Rye is there.

The silence that falls as I enter is abrupt, like someone pulling the needle from a gramophone. Maude is the first to spring into action.

“Imogen!” She rushes over. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“She's in shock,” Rye says, and then Zara is by my side, a bowl of broth in one hand and the end of a baguette in the other.

“Sit down,” she says gently, and I realize there's a stool beside me. I wonder if it's been there this whole time or if I only just noticed it.

“Clara, bring a wet washcloth,” Zara commands. Mary and Elizabeth gaze at me with fearful eyes, as if I'm something unreal and dangerous. I clutch the baguette like a lifeline. It's still warm, and the scent reminds me of my mother. Hot tears fill my eyes.

“You're all right, child,” Zara says, wiping my face with the cloth. “Be still now. You're safe.”

I didn't realize how badly I was shaking.

“Back up, back up,” Maude says. “Give the poor girl some room to breathe.”

All the room in the world won't make breathing any easier. I look down at my dress and for the first time have some idea of what I must look like.

The white fabric has turned a mottled brownish gray, covered with dust and bits of rubble. There is a large tear in one sleeve, and blood on the other. My hands are crusted with dirt and more blood.

Coral's blood on my hands.

When I'm finally calm enough to breathe normally, Zara begins spoon-feeding me a bit of the broth. I'm surprised at how quickly it helps steady me and clear my muddled head.

“Now,” she says, taking my hands in hers. “Tell us what happened. All we know is that there was an explosion in the Bank.” I nod. “And Coral and Carnelian were injured.” I close my eyes.

“Dead?” Rye gasps.

“Just Coral,” I croak. There are more gasps and murmurs.

“Was it the Black Key?”

“Yes,” I say. “There was a Royal Bank next door. I don't think they intended to hurt . . . I don't think . . .”

I don't know what I think. The fact is, the Society
did
intend to hurt people. I just never thought about it being people I knew personally.

“Poor Garnet,” Maude says. “First his father, now his wife . . .”

I hadn't even thought about Garnet. I wonder how he'll feel. Probably the same way I do. He might not have been in love with Coral, but he didn't hate her.

Suddenly, a bell begins to ring in the kitchen, a tiny golden bell that I've never seen ring before. All the servants stare at it, dumbstruck. Then Cora appears in the doorway.

“The Duchess wishes to see everyone in the ballroom. Immediately.”

Her gaze lingers on me for a moment. Then she turns and we all traipse after her, Mary and Elizabeth whispering together, Maude's face wary, William looking more ruffled than I've ever seen him.

We file into the ballroom, where the Duchess stands waiting for us, resplendent in black satin with long gloves that come up over her elbows.

“As you may have heard,” she says without preamble, “there has been another vicious attack on our House. This time, from the Society that calls itself the Black Key. They have killed our beloved daughter-in-law, Coral, and severely injured our niece. This will not stand. The Regimentals are doing everything in their power to stop these rebels. But we will not let them dampen our spirits. We will stay strong and unified in the face of our aggressors. I have sent an emergency petition to speak with the Exetor. I am hopeful he will be able to make time to see me tomorrow. I want everything spotless. I want smiles on faces and pep in your steps. I want to see you proud to serve this House that helped found our great city. Do I make myself clear?”