The House of the Stone (3 page)

“Good,” she says.

The footman opens the doors.

“The Countess of the Stone,” he announces. “And surrogate.”

W
E ENTER AN ENORMOUS DINING ROOM.

The walls are maroon and there are candles covering every available surface, as well as filling the chandelier hanging above our heads. All the wood is dark and polished to a high sheen. It's as if the decorator were going for a look that said, “I am powerful and evil.” Which, who knows, the woman who owns this place probably is. There are lots of fancy flower arrangements, and a table with bottles of liquor, and large windows, but my main focus is on the other people in the room.

The other surrogates, really. I couldn't care less about the royalty.

I recognize both of them from the Waiting Room. One
is the blonde whose stylist felt compelled to create a giant beehive on the top of her head. She looks a lot more normal now, her hair falling down her back in big bouncy curls. The other one, the dark-skinned girl with all the braids who seems like she could kill you just by looking at you, is standing beside an old woman in a red dress. Unsurprisingly, she glares at me when we make eye contact. Or maybe not. Maybe her face is just stuck like that.

No Violet.

I shouldn't be disappointed.

A young woman, with skin nearly as dark as Cranky Face, swoops over to the Countess and plants a kiss on either cheek. Just touching the Countess's skin seems repulsive, but kissing her? I think I might throw up.

“Ebony,” she exclaims. “I am so glad you came.”

The Countess smiles. “I wouldn't dream of leaving you to face this dinner alone, Alexandrite.”

Ugh, where do they come up with these names?

“She must be very confident this year,” the younger royal says.

“I am not concerned,” the Countess replies.

The other woman looks me over, much the way a farmer might examine a horse. “She's so thin,” she says. “Are you sure she can handle it?”

“Physical strength isn't as important as mental fortification,” the Countess says. “I'm sure Dr. Falme will have no trouble with fertilization.”

The word makes me itch, like a spider crawling up my back. But I can't help noticing this woman didn't refer to me as
it
. Does no one else call their surrogates that? It occurs to
me that I might have gotten the absolute
worst
royal in the entire Jewel. That what I've gone through today is, in fact, not the norm.

Or maybe it's just not polite to call your surrogate
it
in public.

The door we came in through opens again and the footman practically shouts at us with excitement.

“Her Royal Grace, the Electress. And surrogate.”

In unison, the royal women sink into a curtsy. Blondie, Cranky Face, and I follow suit. This dress is really too tight to be curtsying in. And I never got the hang of all that stupid etiquette stuff anyway.

“Ebony,” the Electress says once it's clear we're allowed to straighten up. “How lovely to see you again so soon.”

“An honor, Your Grace,” the Countess says. “And congratulations on securing the highest lot in the Auction.”

I want to snort out loud. Right. Like it was some big competition. Who would bid against the Electress anyway?

But then I see the tiny figure hovering behind the Electress's blindingly pink dress, and it feels like something gets stuck in my throat.

I know that girl. I saw her in the Waiting Room. She was the one who looked so plain.
She
was Lot 200? She can't be more than thirteen.

The old man who led us here enters silently and skirts the edge of the dining room before disappearing through another door.

“How long do you think she'll keep us waiting?” the Electress asks.

“She was most likely waiting for your arrival, Your
Grace,” the Countess says.

The old man comes back and creeps along the wall and out the double doors. A second later, footmen file in and stand like statues at various points around the room. No one besides the surrogates pays them any attention.

“Absolutely appalling behavior at the Auction,” the Electress says.

“She likely bribed the Auctioneer,” the Countess replies.

“Well, it was very unsportsmanlike. Perhaps the rules should be tightened a bit next year.”

“One step at a time, Your Grace.”

The other royal, the young one, hovers around the edge of this conversation, clearly hoping to be invited in. The Countess and the Electress either don't notice or pretend not to.

The door on the other side of the room opens.

A woman walks in. She wears a beautiful blue silk dress and has skin and eyes and hair like mine. Her face is pretty, but scary pretty. Like an ice sculpture or a panther.

And then I could care less about her because Violet is walking into the room behind her.

Violet!

I want to shout her name, I want to run and throw my arms around her and feel that she's safe. Is she being kept in a cage, too? Is this frighteningly beautiful royal hurting her behind these papered, candlelit walls?

Violet sees me and her whole face lights up. She looks stunning, as usual. Like she did at the Auction but fancier. The glittering purple of her gown makes her eyes glow.

I can feel how badly she wants what I want, to talk,
to hug, to laugh at the incredible chance that we get to see each other so soon. In this moment, I regret what I thought earlier, wanting to have been Lot 1. Violet and I are smart and strong and because of that we were bought by Founding Houses. We are together, at least in some way. A team, just like we've always been.

It takes me a second to process what I've been missing.

Hope.

As long as I have that, I'll be all right. Hope is as simple as seeing my best friend.

“Good evening, ladies,” Violet's mistress calls to the room at large. She turns to the Electress. “Your Royal Grace. I am honored you chose to attend my small dinner. I know you had many invitations.”

She sinks into a low curtsy. I barely suppress my groan, and nearly fall over as we all have to curtsy again.

I know I look ridiculous because when I glance at Violet, she's clearly laughing inside. I grin.

Remember that time Lily tried to teach me to curtsy?
I want to say.
Remember how you nearly had a fit you were laughing so hard?

“It is my pleasure,” the Electress says. Her voice is chirpy, like a sparrow. “I couldn't pass up a dinner with the ladies of the four Founding Houses. Shall we sit?”

Violet's ice-faced mistress looks supremely angry at being ordered around in her own house, but she recovers quickly.

“Of course,” she says. Her smile is creepy; it looks so sincere and yet it is clearly not.

Honestly, I've ignored everything I can about the royalty,
except what I couldn't tune out when Lily went on and on about them. I failed Royal Culture and Lifestyle five times at Southgate.

There are two Duchesses and two Countesses. I remember that, but that's about it.

The footmen surrounding us spring to life, pulling out chairs, and I sit down beside the Countess and stare at the most puzzling place setting I've ever seen. Who needs this many forks? One would be sufficient.

“I must admit, Pearl, I'm surprised we're here at all,” the Countess says to Violet's mistress. “How long has it been since you last bought a surrogate?”

Violet's mistress shoots the Countess a look that would give that cranky-faced surrogate a run for her money. “Why, Ebony, don't pretend as if you honestly don't know the answer to that.”

“Not since your son was born, isn't that right, Pearl?” the Electress chirrups. I don't know how the Exetor can stand to listen to that voice all day. It would drive me mad. “Nineteen years is a long time to wait. What admirable patience you have!”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Violet's mistress replies.

The footmen return to serve the first course and my stomach practically roars. It's some sort of salad, with pears or something. I don't care. I want to plant my face in it.

I've already stuffed two bites in my mouth when the Countess, very, very softly, clears her throat.

A warning.

Only one bite left.

I swallow hard and put my fork down. I'm afraid if I
take another mouthful, I'll gobble the whole thing up.

“Tell me, Alexandrite,” the Electress says to the royal who got shut out of the conversation earlier, “how did you enjoy the Auction? I know it was your first time.”

The second course is served, some slices of dark meat and fruit on frizzy greens.

I have an idea. Three bites, she said?

Very carefully, I divide the plate into three equal pieces. Then I load up my fork and shovel a giant helping into my mouth.

It's duck, and figs, and a dressing that's sweet and sour at the same time, and it's amazing. My cheeks are puffed out and it's hard to chew; there's so much food. The Countess glances at my plate and her mouth turns down. Ha. She never specified how big my bites could be.

I swallow and lick my lips.

“Oh, it was marvelous,” the woman gushes. Clearly, she's just happy to be included—she's almost bouncing up and down on her chair. “The Duke of the Scales was so pleased that I was able to return home with such an impressive surrogate. He is certain our daughter will be perfect.”

I hazard another glance at Violet as I prepare my second bite. She's studying the royals, looking back and forth between the Countess and the old woman in the red dress. Probably figuring out who is who. Unless she has already. I just can't bring myself to care.

Something clicks behind Violet's eyes, a look I've seen before when she would advance up an Augury level or master a difficult phrase on the cello. She's figured it out. I bet she knows who everyone at this table is now.

If I could
talk
to her. Even for a second. If I could just hear her voice again.

“It seems as though everyone who can is having a daughter this year!” the Electress exclaims.

“No doubt the recent birth of your son has had great influence over the ladies of the Jewel,” Violet's mistress says in a dry tone.

The Electress's laugh is more annoying than her voice, if that's possible. “Oh yes, I suppose that is true. And the Exetor wishes to get little Larimar betrothed as soon as possible.”

I stuff my second bite of duck into my mouth.

“He
must
, Your Grace,” Violet's mistress says. “Once he announces your son as heir to the throne—as we all expect him to do at the Exetor's Ball—the child must be betrothed within a year. It's the law.”

“I'm well aware of the laws of this city,” the Electress snaps.

“And yet you bought a surrogate,” the old woman in red says. Her voice has more authority than her wrinkled skin and white hair would imply. “Why have a daughter so soon?”

“Well,” the Electress says, leaning forward a little, like this is a girls' overnight and not a royal dinner. “It is my husband's wish to see his line continue through our son, but I have always hoped for my daughter to rule when I am gone. I feel a woman would possess more sensitivity to the needs of her people. And I'd like to give some young man from the Bank the same opportunity I was given by our beloved Exetor. It only seems fair, to give back in some way
to the circle I was raised in. Wouldn't you agree, Pearl?”

She clearly aims her little speech at Violet's mistress, but every royal at the table looks like they've just bitten into a lemon. A muscle in the Countess's jaw is twitching. I prepare my last bite of duck with a gloating sense of satisfaction.

Violet's mistress doesn't take the bait. “Whatever Your Grace thinks is best,” she says in a deceptively warm voice. She looks at the Countess. “And what about you, Ebony? Will the House of the Stone be welcoming a daughter along with everyone else? Or will we be seeing you again at next year's Auction?”

Again?
That sounds ominous. How many surrogates has the Countess had? And . . . what happened to them? I pause, my fork on my plate, my stomach suddenly feeling uncomfortably full.

The Countess pops a fig in her mouth and chews it slowly. “Oh yes, I believe I will start with a daughter,” she says. “Boys can be so terribly difficult, don't you think?”

Violet's mistress blushes and the Electress giggles.

“Yes,” she says. “How is Garnet, by the way? Keeping out of trouble, I hope?”

Garnet. Another stupid Jewel name. You can't even tell if it's a boy or a girl.

“He is in his room at the moment,” Violet's mistress says tersely. “Studying.”

Suddenly, the double doors burst open and a young man staggers in. His skin is pale and his blond hair is slicked back except for a few unruly locks that have fallen in his eyes. His shoulders are broad and his shirt is partially unbuttoned. He has the air of someone who knows how
good-looking he is.

“Mother!” he cries, raising his empty glass toward Violet's mistress, so I assume he's her son. His gaze is unfocused as it slides around the rest of the room, like he's only just noticed there are other people here. “I beg your pardon, ladies. Didn't realize there was a dinner party tonight.”

His eyes land on Violet and I stiffen.

He'd better keep his hands off her.

“Oh, right,” he says. “The Auction.”

The Electress and that sad, not-popular Duchess are laughing into their napkins. The Countess looks smug, an expression that only accentuates the cruelness in her eyes and mouth.

“Garnet, my darling,” Violet's mistress says in a voice like razor blades. “
What
are you doing?”

“Oh, don't mind me,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “Just needed a refill.”

While I don't particularly like this guy, I have to applaud his audacity. He swaggers over to the bar cart and pours himself a generous helping of what I'd guess is whiskey. Violet's mistress is on her feet in an instant.