The Jewel

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

dedication TK

Cover

Disclaimer

Title

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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One

T
ODAY IS MY LAST DAY AS
V
IOLET
L
ASTING.

The streets of the Marsh are quiet this early in the morning, just the plodding steps of a donkey and the clinking of glass bottles as a milk cart rolls by. I throw off my sheets and slip on my bathrobe over my nightdress. The robe is a hand-me-down from my mother, dark blue and worn at the elbows. It used to be huge on me, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, the hem dragging on the floor. I've grown into it over the past few years—it fits me now the way it used to fit her. I love it. It's one of the few items I was allowed to bring with me to Southgate. I was lucky to be able to bring as many as I did. The other three holding facilities are stricter about personal items; Northgate doesn't allow them at all.

I press my face against the wrought-iron bars on my window—they are arched and curl into the shape of roses, as if by making a pretty pattern, they can pretend they're something they're not.

The dirt streets of the Marsh glow dull gold in the early-morning light; I can almost imagine they're made of something regal. The streets are what give the Marsh its name—all the stone and concrete and asphalt went to the wealthier circles of the city, so the Marsh was left with a thick brown mud that smells briny and sulfuric.

Nerves flutter like tiny wings in my chest. I will get to see my family today, for the first time in four years. My mother, and Ochre, and little Hazel. She's probably not so little anymore. I wonder if they even want to see me, if I've become like a stranger to them. Have I changed from who I used to be? I'm not sure if I can remember who I used to be. What if they don't even recognize me?

Anxiety thrums inside me as the sun rises slowly over the Great Wall off in the distance, the one that encircles the entire Lone City. The wall that protects us from the violent ocean outside. That keeps us safe. I love sunrises, even more than sunsets. There's something so exciting about the world coming to life in a thousand colors. It's hopeful. I'm glad I get to see this one, ribbons of pink and lavender shot through with streams of red and gold. I wonder if I'll get to see any sunrises when I start my new life in the Jewel.

Sometimes, I wish I hadn't been born a surrogate.

W
HEN
P
ATIENCE COMES FOR ME,
I'
M CURLED UP ON MY
bed, still in my bathrobe, memorizing my room. It isn't much, just a small bed, a closet, and a faded wooden dresser. My cello is propped in one corner. On top of the dresser is a vase of flowers that gets changed every other day, a brush, a comb, some hair ribbons, and an old chain with my father's wedding ring on it. My mother made me take it after the doctors diagnosed me, before the Regimentals came and took me away.

I wonder if she's missed it, after all this time. I wonder if she's missed me, the way I've missed her. A knot tightens in the pit of my stomach.

The room hasn't changed much since I came here four years ago. No pictures. No mirror. Mirrors aren't allowed in the holding facilities. The only addition has been my cello—not even mine, really, since it belongs to Southgate. I wonder who will use it once I'm gone. It's funny, but as dull and impersonal as this room is, I think I'll miss it.

“How are you holding up, dearie?” Patience asks. She's always calling us things like that, “dearie” and “sweetheart” and “lamb.” Like she's afraid of using our actual names. Maybe she just doesn't want to get attached. She's been the head caretaker at Southgate for a long time. She's probably seen hundreds of girls pass through this room.

“I'm okay,” I lie. There's no use in telling her how I really feel—like my skin is itching from the inside out and there's a weight deep in the darkest, lowest part of me.

Her eyes scan me from head to toe, and she purses her lips. Patience is a plump woman with gray streaks in her wispy brown hair, and her face is so easily readable, I can guess what she's going to say next before she actually says it.

“Are you sure that's what you want to wear?”

I nod, rubbing the soft fabric of the bathrobe between my thumb and forefinger, and scoot off the bed. There are perks to being a surrogate. We get to dress how we want, eat what we want, sleep late on the weekends. We get an education. A good education. We get fresh food and water, we always have electricity, and we never have to work. We never have to know poverty—and the caretakers tell us we'll have more once we start living in the Jewel.

Except freedom. They never seem to mention that.

Patience bustles out of the room and I follow behind her. The halls of Southgate Holding Facility are paneled in teak and rosewood; artwork hangs on the walls, smudges of color that don't depict anything real. All the doors are exactly alike, but I know which one we're going to. Patience only wakes you up if you have a doctor's appointment, if there's an emergency, or if it's your Reckoning Day. There's only one other girl on this floor besides me who's going to the Auction tomorrow. My best friend. Raven.

Her door is open, and she's already dressed, in a pair of high-waisted tan pants and a white V-neck. I can't say if Raven is prettier than me, because I haven't seen my reflection in four years. But I can say that she is one of the most beautiful surrogates in Southgate. We both have black hair, but Raven's is cropped short, stick straight and glossy—mine falls in waves down my back. Her skin is a rich caramel color, with eyes nearly as dark as her hair, shaped like almonds and set in a perfect oval face. She's taller than me, which is saying a lot. My skin is ivory, an odd contrast with my hair color, and my eyes are violet. I don't need a mirror to tell me that. They're what I was named for.

“Big day, huh?” Raven says to me, stepping into the hall to join us. “Is that what you're wearing?”

I ignore her second question. “Tomorrow will be bigger.”

“Yeah, but we can't choose our outfits tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or . . . well, ever again.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “I hope whoever buys me lets me wear pants.”

“I wouldn't get your hopes up, dearie,” Patience says.

I have to agree with her. The Jewel doesn't seem like the type of place where women wear pants, unless maybe they're servants who work in the unseen places. Even if we get sold to a merchant family from the Bank, dresses will probably be the required attire.

The Lone City is divided into five circles, each separated by a wall, and all of them but the Marsh have nicknames based on their industry. The Marsh is the outer circle, the poorest. We don't have industry, we just house most of the laborers who work in the other circles. The fourth circle is the Farm, where all the food is grown. Then the Smoke, where the factories are. The second circle is called the Bank, because it's where all the merchants have their shops. And then there's the inner circle, or the Jewel. The heart of the city. Where the royalty lives. And where, after tomorrow, Raven and I will live as well.

We follow Patience down the wide wooden stairs. Scents from the kitchen waft up the staircase, fresh-baked bread and cinnamon. It reminds me of when my mother would make sticky buns on my birthday, a luxury we could almost never afford. I can have them whenever I want now, but they don't taste the same.

We pass one of the classrooms—the door is open and I pause for a moment to watch. The girls are young, probably only eleven or twelve. New. Like I was once. Back when
augury
was just a word, before anyone explained to me that I was special, that all the girls at Southgate were. That thanks to some genetic quirk, we had the ability to save the royalty.

The girls are seated at desks with small buckets beside them, and a neatly folded handkerchief next to each one. Five red building blocks are spread out in a line in front of every girl. A caretaker sits at a large desk, taking notes—behind her on the chalkboard is written the word
GREEN
. They're being tested on the first Augury, Color. I half smile, half wince, remembering all the times I took this test. I watch the girl closest to me, turning an imaginary block in my hands as she turns a bright red one in hers.