The House of the Stone (6 page)

“I like this one,” the Countess says.

“So do I,” the doctor murmurs.

“Violet,” I whimper, so soft that they don't hear me. I need Violet. She's the only one who will understand.

O
NCE THE DOCTOR AND THE
C
OUNTESS ARE GONE
,
THE
straps come off.

Frederic puts the leash back on, which at least means we're leaving this terrible, beautiful room. My head aches. I hesitantly reach up and touch my skull. There is a tiny scar, the length of my fingernail, about four inches above my left temple.

“Take it away, Emile,” he says.

Emile is here. I didn't notice him come in, but I'm so grateful Frederic won't be taking me back to my cage that I almost start crying again. Almost.

And I want to go back to my cage. I hate that I do, but I do. I don't understand this place, beauty mixed with horror. I'd rather be where things look the way they are.

But Emile doesn't take me to the dungeon. We go up, up, up, back to the room that makes me nervous now, with its plush furnishings and fancy paintings and canopied bed.

“I will be staying with you tonight,” Emile says as he locks the door behind him and removes the leash.

I sink down onto the closest piece of furniture. I think it might be a table, I don't know.

“What . . . happened . . . to me?” I gasp. I hold my head in my hands, as if I can squeeze the fake memory from it.

“You may shower if you wish.”

I look up at him. His blue eyes are earnest, but urgent. I don't think this is a request.

I nod once. Force my shaking legs to hold my weight.
Somehow make it across the soft carpet to the powder room.

There's no door on it. I just want something to slam, something to close out the world and give me a tiny moment of peace.

I fall over the toilet and vomit until my throat is raw and there is nothing left to throw up. My mother's skinless face repeats over and over in my mind.

It wasn't real
, I tell myself. I might say it out loud. Emile never comes in, but I feel his presence. I'm grateful he stays away. What a ridiculous thing to be grateful for.

I fall asleep on the cold tile floor.

W
HEN
I
WAKE UP,
I'
M IN BED.

The soft, giant canopied bed. It feels as good as I thought it would, except that it reminds me of the medical chaise-bed.

“Good morning,” Emile says pleasantly.

He's still in his lady-in-waiting dress, sitting up in one of the armchairs.

“Did you sleep like that?” I ask. My head is fuzzy.

“I did.”

It looks uncomfortable, which gives me a hollow sense of satisfaction.

“I'll have breakfast brought up,” he says. “Why don't you shower?”

My mouth tastes awful, like stale vomit. He walks to the wall by my bed and pulls on a long piece of fabric. I assume that means breakfast is on its way. I should feel hungry but I don't. All I can think is what today will bring.

“What is she going to do to me now?” I ask.

Emile smiles such a fake, bright smile, I think I might throw up again. “Today you're going out!”

My eyes narrow. Something is off. He whips off my covers and shoos me out of bed. “Get showered now. It's going to be a big day!”

The fact that everything he says seems to contain several exclamation points only adds to my unease.

But I do want a shower.

And I certainly need one.

Emile stands guard while the water runs over my body, but a few glances in his direction confirm he's doing his best not to focus on me. He appears to be very interested in a knot on the wooden doorframe.

I take a longer shower than my first one, and get the water as hot as I can make it. But there's a cold inside me that won't go away. Emile finally turns off the tap.

“Now let's get you ready,” he says cheerfully.

“Stop it!” I shout. “Stop acting like we're going on some fun adventure. Stop sounding so irritatingly chipper. Do you know what they did to me yesterday? Do you
get it
?”

Emile is in front of me in a second, his mouth so close to mine at first I think he might kiss me.

“Of course I know,” he hisses. “I know a great deal more than you do. Do you know how many surrogates I've seen pass through this house? Ten. One for every year I
have worked here. I assume you have noticed by now that there are no other women in this palace. Just you and the Countess. The doctor's appointments serve a purpose, but the equipment that Frederic creates? That is just fun for her. You are the target on which she can focus all her rage. All her hatred. So follow my lead. When I act happy, it is because you have at least the slimmest, slightest chance of being
happy
today.”

I am stunned into silence. Emile turns away and I follow him without thinking, wrapping a towel around my body and standing numbly in front of a closet full of dresses I don't want to wear. Emile talks to himself, musing about this fabric or that. All the dresses he handles are black. That does not make me think “Happy Day.”

Ten surrogates have lived in this room before me. And how many others before that?

“Ah,” Emile says. “This will be perfect.”

He holds out a long black dress with an accordion skirt and lace top. I don't even glance at myself in the mirror when he sits me at the vanity to attack my face and hair again. I don't trust mirrors anymore.

The food arrives. Cinnamon rolls and hot coffee and fresh peaches. This time I eat everything.

Emile finally pronounces me finished, then steps back to admire his work.

“You really are beautiful,” he says.

I stare at him. I don't know what he expects me to say to that.

We sit in silence for a while.

“Would you like to know where you're going?” he asks.

“No,” I lie.

His mouth twitches.

The door opens and the Countess walks in. I can't help it—I jump to my feet. I don't know if I'm preparing to run or fight or if I just feel more confident standing.

Frederic is right behind her, carrying some black lace in one hand and—my stomach drops—that horrible jewel-encrusted helmet thing from the wall of torture. The Countess sees me looking at it and smiles.

“I can have five Regimentals come in and beat you bloody and Frederic will fix you up as good as new,” she says. “And you will still wear everything I want you to wear. But that will make us late, and I despise being late. So be a good girl and stand still.”

The memory of my mother's face, melted and distorted, keeps my feet glued to the ground. Frederic fastens the black lace to the crown of my head and pulls it over my face like a veil. My stomach turns as he gently places the helmet over my head.

But it's not a helmet, really.

It's a muzzle.

It pushes my jaw shut, leaving space only for my eyes. But there must be some kind of visor on it, because the last thing I see before Frederic pulls it down is the Countess's gleeful expression.

“Oh, Frederic,” she says as everything goes dark, “it's perfect.”

O
NCE AGAIN,
I'
M LED ON THE LEASH THROUGH THE PALACE
, unable to see, waving my hands in front of me like an
idiot.

Every time I catch myself doing it I stop, but it's deeply instinctual. I hear the whispers again, this time commenting on the horrible muzzle.

“So much nicer than last year's.”

“Oh look, he's used sapphires
and
emeralds.”

“Such attention to detail.”

I don't know what Emile was playing at thinking this day would make me happy in any way. Until I feel a warm breeze on my skin and hear the distinct sound of a motorcar engine.

I'm going out.

Out means Violet.

I'm muzzled so I can't really smile, but my whole body is beaming. I slide into the motorcar awkwardly and don't even flinch when the Countess's arm brushes against mine.

I'm going to see Violet
, I tell myself.
Violet will make it okay.

We don't drive in as many circles this time, and at some point, we start going up what feels like a very long, large hill. The motorcar slows and the visor is lifted. There's a click and the muzzle is removed. I stretch out my jaw with relief.

We're in front of a massive palace that looks like it's made of liquid gold. It's more opulent than anything I've seen, with towers and domes and other various appendages jutting out all around. The road we're on is packed with motorcars. I see black-clothed royalty mixed with black-veiled surrogates and my heart lifts.

Oh, Emile
, I think.
You were right.

Somewhere in that crowd is Violet. I know it. I
feel
it.

The Countess yanks on my leash. “The same rules apply as last time,” she says. “Remember that.”

I give her my coldest stare. It feels lukewarm.

The driver opens the door for her and she pulls me out of the car. We enter the throng of women and almost immediately that unpopular Duchess is on top of us.

“Oh, Ebony, how awful,” she says.

Blondie is by her side, veiled and nervous, attached to her mistress by a leash like mine. I'm glad I'm not the only one who has to wear this thing. A couple of glances around tells me every surrogate is chained to her mistress.

The Countess shrugs. “I am not surprised.”

“Do you think it was
her
?”

“Of course it was her. We'll never be able to prove it, though.”

I search the sea of veils, hoping to see Violet, but everyone looks the same.

Suddenly, there is a blaring of trumpets and the doors to the palace open. Silence falls as a man even
I
recognize steps forward, surrounded by Regimentals.

The Exetor. He looks older than in his pictures.

“Her Royal Grace thanks you for your support during this sad time,” he says. “But she will not allow any surrogate within these walls. If you wish to pay your respects, you must leave them here. Protected, of course, by my own personal guard.”

Blondie's mistress gasps, like he's just announced he's going to remove her limbs or something.

The Countess sighs and shakes her head. “Amateur,”
she says. She unclasps the chain that connects us from her wrist and fastens it on mine. Then, without a word or a glance in my direction, she strides off through the crowd toward the palace.

She is the only one who has this reaction. The other Duchess hurriedly follows her lead, though with a lot of reluctance, but many of the women are whispering and frowning. Eventually, though, they all give in and a steady stream of black flows into the palace as a file of red surrounds the surrogates. The Exetor's guard carry rifles and seem bigger and more imposing than the other Regimentals I've seen. Though maybe I'm just imagining that.

They tighten the circle around us, and Blondie and I bump into each other. It occurs to me that she knows Violet, at least what she looks like.

“Have you seen the other girl from the dinner?” I ask. “The one with black hair and purple eyes?”

“Be quiet,” she hisses. “I don't want to get in trouble.”

“Are you kidding me? They're not here. How will they know?”

She sniffs and makes a big show of folding her arms across her chest and turning away from me.

Coward.

I turn to another girl and am about to ask her the same thing when a thought occurs to me.

The royalty—our mistresses—are not here.

This is my chance. I'm not going to waste it asking stupid surrogates questions they don't know or are unwilling to answer. If I want to see Violet, I have to find her myself.

I take a deep breath and as loud as I can shout, “Violet!”

A few girls shrink away from me like I'm diseased, but a couple brighten at my boldness.

“Violet!” I shout again.

“Raven!”

She's here!
Her voice makes my knees weak, but my heart pumps in my chest with sweet, unabashed hope. Strong. Brave. Immediately, I'm running in the direction of her voice, pushing past surrogates who take up my mantle, calling out names of their friends.

“Fawn!”

“Scarlet!”

“Ginger!”

But I can still hear my name—Violet's voice getting closer—and then there she is and I'd know her anywhere, even with a stupid veil over her face. We collide into each other, and I wrap my arms around her, feeling her familiar form, and I don't ever, ever want to let go.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

Without thinking I reply, “I'm all right, are you—”

Gunshots rip through the air as the Regimentals fire their weapons, and Violet and I break apart as the crowd of surrogates huddles together. She grabs my hand, and I clutch hers like it's a lifeline.

“How is the palace of the Lake?” I ask. “Does the Duchess treat you well?”

“I . . . I don't know,” Violet says. “She hit me.” My stomach clenches. “But then she gave me a cello. And the food is great.”

I let out a laugh for the first time in what feels like years. Violet is a terrible liar. She is not being subjected to the same
treatment as I am—she'd never be able to hide something like that. She is all right. She has food. She has a cello.

Violet is all right.

I am filled with an overwhelming sense of relief. She smiles at me.

“What about the Countess of the Stone?” she asks.

I give her my best everyone-can-go-screw-themselves snort. “No. I don't think the Countess and I are going to get along very well.”

Her face crumples.

“Why?” she asks. “What do you mean?”

“Don't worry about me, Violet.” I curl my lips into what I hope is a confident grin. “I'm going to make her rue the day she bought me.”

“Raven, don't,” she pleads. “She could hurt you.”

“Yeah. I know.” My mother's melted face appears in my mind. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

“No.”

“You will. And then you'll see. Or maybe not,” I say, because she's looking even more concerned. “Maybe the Duchess is different. But the Countess is . . .” I choose my words carefully. “There's something
wrong
with her, Violet.”

“Raven, you're scaring me,” she says.

And then I see that I can't tell her the truth. I can't share this burden with her.

I won't take her hope away.

But I have never felt so alone in my entire life.

I squeeze her hand to reassure her.

“I'll be fine,” I say, and I'm proud at how true it sounds.
“Don't worry about me.”

She opens her mouth, looking like she's going to press for more information, when I'm mercifully saved by another volley of gunshots as the royal women begin to trickle out of the palace.

“I don't want to leave you,” she whispers.

“Me neither,” I say. A sob wells up in my throat, but I choke it down and hitch a brave smile on my face. “But we'll see each other again. Founding Houses, right?”

“Right,” Violet says. Women begin collecting their surrogates, and I easily spot the Countess's enormous figure. Her threats are real and I'd like to keep my tongue where it is.

“She can't see me talking to you,” I say. And before Violet can say anything else, I've released the warmth of her hand and melted into the sea of black veils.

I keep the hand she held clenched tight into a fist, as if I could hold the feeling of her hand in mine, as if it were something tangible. The Countess finds me and reattaches my leash to her wrist.

Do your worst to me
, I think as she leads me back to the motorcar.
You can't hurt my friend. Violet will be all right.

I keep that thought close to me as she puts the muzzle back on.

I keep it close as I'm led back to my cage.

I nurture it like a candle flame, keeping it safe and warm and bright.

Because if I don't . . . I'm not sure I'll survive this place.