The Jewel (11 page)

I study the women instead . . . the four founding Houses. These women are descendants of the original families who founded the Lone City. Obviously, one is the Duchess of the Lake. And one House was a flower, I remember that, too.

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

The Duchess's answering smile is venomous. “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 pipes up. “Nineteen years is a long time to wait. What admirable patience you have!”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the Duchess replies.

The first course is served, a salad of wilted greens, radish, pear, and asparagus, with a creamy dressing. It is so delicious I want to gobble it all down, but the Duchess only takes two bites before pushing her plate away. The tang of the dressing and the sweetness of the pear linger in my mouth after my plate is cleared.

“Tell me, Alexandrite,” the Electress says to the iced cake's mistress, as the next course of roast duck with frisee and figs is laid in front of us, “how did you enjoy the Auction? I know it was your first time.”

“Oh, it was marvelous,” the woman gushes. Her skin is the color of dark brewed coffee and she is young, nearly as young as the Electress. Her dress is made of glittering bronze silk—and then I remember her, holding up the set of bronze scales. “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.”

The Duchess of the Lake, the Duchess of the Scales . . . that leaves the two Countesses. I look back and forth between Raven's mistress and the mistress of the lioness—she is old, by far the oldest woman here, with wrinkled skin and hair so gray it's nearly white. She wears a brilliant red dress with long, elbow-length gloves. And then I recall her, too, bidding for me against the Electress. The Countess of the Rose.

“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,” the Duchess says wryly.

The Electress laughs. “Oh yes, I suppose that is true. And the Exetor wishes to get little Larimar betrothed as soon as possible.”

“He
must
, Your Grace,” the Duchess says with the barest hint of condescension. “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 replies sharply.

“And yet, you bought a surrogate,” the Countess of the Rose points out. “Why have a daughter so soon?”

“Well,” the Electress says. “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?”

This comment doesn't seem to go down well with any of the royal women at the table. The Duchess of the Lake is gripping her fork so tightly that her caramel skin has turned white across her knuckles. “Whatever Your Grace thinks is best.” She turns to Raven's mistress. “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?”

The Countess of the Stone. That's it. Lake, Rose, Scales, Stone. Lily would be proud. I bet Raven isn't even paying attention. The Countess of the Stone 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?”

The Duchess's cheeks flame pink and her eyes narrow.

The Electress giggles. “Yes, how is Garnet, by the way?” she asks. “Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“He is in his room at the moment, Your Grace. Studying.”

Suddenly, the doors to the dining room burst open, and a young man staggers in. I haven't seen any boys my age since I was twelve, except Ochre and he doesn't really count. This boy is . . . well, he's beautiful. His blond hair is slicked back, except for a few locks that have escaped and fallen over his forehead. He is tall, with broad shoulders, and his white collared shirt is partially unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. My cheeks burn, but I can't stop staring at him. In one hand, he grasps an empty crystal tumbler.

“Mother!” he cries, raising the glass like he's toasting the Duchess of the Lake.
This
is the Duchess's son? He looks nothing like her. His slightly unfocused gaze takes in the rest of the room. “I beg your pardon, ladies. Didn't realize there was a dinner party tonight.” His bright blue eyes land on me, and something seems to click. “Oh, right. The Auction.”

The Electress and the Duchess of the Scales are practically in tears, laughing into their napkins. A satisfied smile spreads across the Countess of the Stone's pudgy face. The Countess of the Rose looks politely embarrassed.

“Garnet, my darling,” the Duchess says, a steely edge to her voice. “
What
are you doing?”

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

He swaggers to a side table and uncorks a dark glass bottle, filling his tumbler. The Duchess is on her feet in an instant.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” she says, gliding to Garnet's side and grabbing his arm. I hear him mumble “Ow” as she walks him out of the dining room.

“And that, ladies, is why I feel this city should be left in the hands of a woman!” the Electress exclaims. The Duchess of the Scales and the Countess of the Stone explode with laughter.

For a second, I meet Raven's eyes. She raises an eyebrow, as if to say, “What is wrong with these people?” I press my lips together, fighting a smile, and give her a tiny nod.

“But that decision is not up to you,” the Countess of the Rose interjects. She is the only one not amused by Garnet's bizarre entrance. “It is the Exetor's choice, since the line passed through him.” She takes a small bite of frisee. “Of course, you are only a recent addition to the Royal Palace. Perhaps the subtleties of royal succession have not fully been explained.”

The Electress stiffens. “Clearly it has been too long since there has been any pleasure in
your
bedchambers, Ametrine, but there is no more powerful weapon of persuasion than a woman's body. I am quite capable of changing my husband's mind.”

I blush at the turn the conversation just took. Footmen come in to clear our plates, and I take advantage of the Duchess's absence, shoveling a few extra pieces of duck into my mouth.

“I meant no offense, Your Grace,” the Countess of the Rose says. “But remember that surrogacy is a very strange thing. You never know precisely what you are going to get. The Augury scores only tell you so much. Perhaps you will end up
preferring
for your son to succeed to the throne.”

“Doubtful,” the Electress replies. She beckons to one of the footmen. “Fetch Lucien. Now.”

My ears prick and I sit up straighter.

The servants begin serving the next course—smoked salmon with capers and candied lemon—and the Duchess returns.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” she says with a low curtsy.

“Oh, no need to apologize. It was rather exciting,” the Electress says. “In comparison, dinners at the Royal Palace are positively dull.”

The Countess of the Stone's wide mouth curves into an unpleasant smirk. I take a sip of wine and wait for the Duchess to sit down. I'm starving, and I hope she likes the salmon more than the other dishes, so I can actually eat a substantial amount of something.

Then I see a white dress and a topknot and my heart somersaults. Lucien glides into the room, holding a walnut and a silver bowl.

“Thank you, Lucien,” the Electress says. “Wait here.”

“Of course, my lady.” Lucien places the walnut and the bowl on the table and moves back to stand against the wall. Dahlia's eyes are wide with fear, almost pleading, as she looks back and forth between the bowl and the Electress. I hold my breath, wondering what the Electress is going to make her do. Across the table, I see that Raven's expression mirrors mine. The iced cake and the lioness watch intently.

“She was showing me the most magnificent trick earlier,” the Electress says. She turns to Dahlia eagerly. “Go on.”

Dahlia's lower lip trembles as she picks up the walnut in her small hand. Nothing happens. The Electress's eyes harden.

“Go on,” she repeats in a sharper tone.

Dahlia's fingers close around the walnut, and when she opens them, it has a slightly transparent look, like it's been turned to brown glass—she's using the second Augury, Shape. Her eyebrows knit together as she concentrates, and suddenly the walnut ripples, shifting and stretching like it's made of water.

I expect her to turn it into a simple shape, like a star or a flower, but instead she molds it into a miniature statue of the Electress. It's an incredibly difficult feat; Dahlia must be in an extreme amount of pain.

As if in response to my thought, Dahlia cries out and drops the statue—she grabs the silver bowl, coughing up a mixture of phlegm and blood.

The Electress holds up the statue, stunning in its detail, a perfect replica of herself. The royal women clap.

I feel sick. How could the Electress make her do that in front of all these people? These women are actually
applauding
the suffering and humiliation of a young girl.

“Isn't it marvelous?” the Electress says gaily. Lucien glides forward and takes the silver bowl from Dahlia. I see him slip her a handkerchief, so that when she looks up again, her mouth and nose are clean and free of blood.

“That will be all, Lucien,” the Electress says dismissively.

“Yes, my lady.” Lucien turns to leave and his eyes rest on me for half a second; the shadow of a smile passes across his face. I smile, too.

“An impressive exhibition,” the Duchess of the Lake says, cutting into her salmon. “Though you may want to keep your best linens away from her.”

“Oh, that doesn't happen every time,” the Electress says.

I blanch. How many times has the Electress made Dahlia perform an Augury? It's barely been a day.

The Duchess swallows a bite of salmon and dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “You may want to warm her up a bit before forcing her to sprint.”

“I will keep that in mind,” the Electress says, patting the top of Dahlia's head. The action is degrading to watch; two red spots appear on Dahlia's cheeks.

“Does she have any special skills?” the Duchess asks. “They don't always, you know. But I do prefer a surrogate with a bit of talent.” She takes a sip of wine. “Mine plays the cello.”

My fingers tighten around my fork, and my shoulders tense. Everyone is looking at me, except for Raven, who is glaring at the Duchess.

“That is something I would very much like to hear,” the Electress says. I glance at the doors, petrified, waiting for some footman to appear with a cello.

But the Duchess only smiles. “I am certain, Your Grace, that someday you will.”

The conversation continues about the surrogates' unique abilities—the iced cake is a dancer; the Countess of the Stone brags about Raven's skill with mathematics—then shifts to our Augury scores. They talk about us like they are discussing a pet or a prized racehorse. Like we can't hear them. Like we're not even there.

At long last, the dinner is over and the women are kissing one another's cheeks (or, not quite kissing; they all seem reluctant to touch one another), and the ladies-in-waiting are coming in with their cloaks. The Countess of the Stone also has a male lady-in-waiting—he looks just as unpleasant as his mistress, with a large, beaked nose and a mouth that turns down.

Raven is staring at me, her face set, determined, as if to say “I
will
see you again.” I try to smile at her with my eyes.

The Electress is the last to leave. Dahlia glances at me, terrified, and I do my best to give her an encouraging look, pressing my lips together, the corners of my mouth barely turning up. I hope she knows what I mean. I hope she'll be all right in the Royal Palace.

The Duchess traces a circle slowly around the rim of her wineglass with one finger, watching her guests leave like a cat with its prey. Then she sighs.

“That will be all for tonight,” she says, and though she doesn't look at me, she has to be talking to me. There's no one else in the room. Then she drifts through the door to her study, leaving me confused and alone.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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