The Jewel (19 page)

I
WAKE UP EARLY ON
S
UNDAY MORNING.

I've been living in the Duchess's palace for a week.

Freedom
. The word, teasing and elusive, has been revolving over and over in my mind since I saw Lucien in the library, like a word I made up that has no meaning, until I remember it does. I desperately want to believe Lucien, that there's a way to get me out of here, but the thought of being disappointed tempers my enthusiasm. If I discover he was lying, or he made a mistake, or I imagined the whole thing . . .

My mind wanders to my family. Sundays are a day of rest. Ochre won't have to work, Hazel won't have school. I wonder what they're doing today. I hope, whatever it is, they're having fun. That they're happy. What would they think, if they could see me now, surrounded by all this luxury? They'd probably imagine I'm happy, too.

Maybe Lucien can get me back to them. I could see my mother again, and watch Hazel grow up. I could make my own decisions. I could choose what kind of life I want to lead.

I need to talk to Lucien again. I need him to promise me that this is real.

I sit up and ring for Annabelle.

“So,” I say, as she sets the breakfast tray on the table, “what does the Duchess want with me today?”

I try to sound casual, like I don't really care. I'm not sure I quite pull it off.

Nothing

“Nothing?”

Annabelle smiles.

Party last night D not feeling well

“Oh.” I take a sip of coffee. “Do I see the doctor?”

Annabelle shakes her head.

“What should we do?”

She thinks for a moment.

Garden?

“There's a garden?”

Annabelle grins.

G
AJ
B
AF
ISN
'
T REALLY THE RIGHT WORD.

The immense backyard of the palace is a riot of color as the leaves on the trees are changing, orange and red-gold. Fall flowers line the gravel paths interspersed with statues and birdbaths and fountains. It gets wilder as we walk farther from the palace walls, the trees becoming denser, the paths sometimes overgrown. There is a giant maze in the center of the garden, constructed out of hedges at least seven feet tall, and Annabelle and I get lost in it, playing a made-up combination of hide-and-seek and tag, laughing and chasing each other until we are out of breath. In the heart of the maze is an enormous greenhouse, where the Duchess's gardener grows all the flowers for the arrangements in the palace. It's warm and humid inside, and the air smells like moist earth mixed with a hundred different floral fragrances. I run my fingers along the fragile petals of an orchid, shades of lavender and magenta and cream blending into one another.

It seems like for every time the Jewel makes me angry or uneasy or sad, I discover something beautiful in it.

I
SEE THE DOCTOR EVERY DAY OVER THE FOLLOWING
week. Lucien does not return to the palace of the Lake.

Annabelle escorts me to the medical room instead of the Duchess, which is far more preferable. Every appointment begins the same way.

“Is it happening today?” I ask. Dr. Blythe smiles and shakes his head.

“No, Violet,” he replies. “Not today.”

The appointments are similar to the first, with the Auguries and the monitors, though one of them also includes an invasive exam.

I always hated those exams at Southgate—I close my eyes, cringing at the cold feel of the speculum, and try to pretend I'm playing music, running notes and phrasing over and over in my mind.

As the week progresses, however, the Augury tests become more difficult. Unsurprisingly, Dr. Blythe begins to focus more and more on Growth. Cut flowers are simple—their life is so weak and easy to manipulate. Smaller plants, like ferns or weeds, don't provide much of a challenge either. Saplings are slightly more difficult. It's really the repetition that becomes a struggle, and Dr. Blythe begins timing me, how long it takes to complete the task, how many times I can perform Growth before my nose begins to bleed, how long I can continue after until it becomes unbearable.

“Thank you, Violet,” he says at the end of every session. “That was very impressive.”

I never know what to say to that.

But the Duchess is true to her word, and my life—aside from those hours spent in the medical room—is actually quite pleasant. I'm allowed to move about the palace freely, though Annabelle is at my side at all times. My meals are always superb, and I get the feeling that the kitchen knows my likes and dislikes. I search the library every day for Lucien, but it's empty except for the occasional maid or footman, and sometimes the Duchess's niece—Annabelle and I always avoid her. We saw Garnet once, too, but he didn't stay very long. Annabelle was blushing so badly she made me hide with her in the romance section until he was gone.

I tell myself to be patient. I tell myself Lucien wouldn't have said something like that if he didn't mean it.

Sometimes, I sit in my favorite armchair in my tea parlor, a big, overstuffed one by the window, and watch the traffic coming in and out of the Duchess's palace. Annabelle fills me in on who's who. The Countess of the Rose visits often—Annabelle tells me that the Rose and the Lake are strong allies. Apparently, the Lake used to be allied with the Stone, but they had a falling-out about thirty years ago and have hated each other ever since. That goes along with what I witnessed at that first dinner.

“Do you know what it was about?” I ask.

Annabelle shrugs and shakes her head.

Happened after D's father died

“Oh. How old was the Duchess then?”

16

Something that might be pity stirs in my chest. It occurs to me that the Duchess and I have something in common, both our fathers dying when we were young.

The red-haired Lady of the Glass is another frequent guest, though I never see her pregnant surrogate again.

The dream of escape is so enticing and so impossible, sometimes I wonder if it's just that—a dream. I hold on to it for as long as I can, but as each day passes without Lucien, it slips a little further away.

O
NE AFTERNOON,
A
NNABELLE HOLDS OUT A PALE BLUE
coat for me.

“What's that for?” I ask. “I thought it was time for my doctor's appointment.”

Annabelle nods and shakes the coat a little, insisting I put it on. We don't go down the usual path to the elevator, but instead take one of the smaller staircases to the first floor. Passing the ballroom, Annabelle leads me out a back door into the garden. We walk along the neatly trimmed paths and past the hedge maze, to where the trees begin to grow dense and wild. Some of their leaves have already begun to fall, and their branches stretch and groan in the early November breeze.

The path ends at a massive oak tree. Its trunk is so thick, I could hide behind it easily without being seen. Its untamed canopy is just beginning to turn, the outer leaves tinged burnt orange and dull yellow.

“Good afternoon.” Dr. Blythe steps out from behind the tree. He wears a tan suit, one hand leaning on a silver-topped cane, the other holding a small black bag. It's strange to see him outside the medical room, and even stranger without his white doctor's coat.

“Why are we in the garden?” I ask. Dr. Blythe nods to Annabelle, who curtsies and hurries back down the path.

“Well, Violet,” the doctor replies, “today we are going to begin a sort of special project. Your abilities are indeed the most impressive that I have ever seen, and we have barely begun to test them. So I would like to present you with a challenge. It's good to have goals, wouldn't you agree?”

I frown, unsure of what he's getting at. “What do you want me to do?”

Dr. Blythe's warm eyes move from me to the oak tree. “Make it grow,” he says simply.

For a fleeting second, I think he must be joking. I take in the tree, its myriad branches, its tough, wrinkled bark, thick gnarled roots sunk deep into the earth. It must be very old.

I've never attempted anything like this, ever. “How?” I ask.

Dr. Blythe shrugs. “How did you make the flowers grow, and the ferns?”

“Yes, but . . .” I approach the tree warily. It's not only old, it's so
big
. I reach out and touch the rough bark. Something about this tree makes me feel like a child. It is nothing like the fragile, barren lemon tree in a dusty backyard. This oak has a presence.

I suck in a breath through my nose and hold it for a second. Then I find a crook where one of the smaller branches breaks off from the trunk and wrap my hand around it. The tree smells like dry earth and dying leaves.

Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.

Nothing.

I haven't felt nothing since my very first Augury lesson at Southgate.

I close my eyes and focus my mind.

Come on, Violet
, I tell myself.
You can do this.

Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.

My fingertips begin to tingle. The oak tree that suddenly fills my mind is not necessarily bigger, but full of color, its leaves more vibrant than they are now. It's in the middle of a field, a wide empty space with nothing but the wind dancing through its branches. I don't know where this image is coming from, but suddenly, the tree
reacts
.

I gasp and hold on tight to the branch because I don't want to break this connection. I have never felt so much energy before, so much ancient, thrumming power. My body courses with it, an alternate pulse to mine. The life in this tree is so potent, so very much
there
. These are no delicate wisps of gossamer to be pulled at and manipulated, these are thick cables of heat, rooted deep in the earth. I am overwhelmed by this pure, beautiful force of nature.

Very gently, I probe out with my mind, seeing if I can isolate just the one branch. In the instant the tree senses me, pain crackles down my spine and the taste of blood fills my mouth. I cry out and fall to the ground, my hand stinging where it touched the bark.

The ground tilts beneath me, and I can hear Dr. Blythe's voice, but his words are muffled. Blood pours from my nose into my mouth, and for a terrifying second, I can't breathe. I cough it out, violent shudders tearing through my body, and stay hunched over, waiting for the dizziness to subside. I feel at once fragile, exhausted, and buzzing with unfamiliar life, and it takes me a few seconds to understand.

The oak tree is stronger than me.

The world steadies itself, and Dr. Blythe's voice becomes clear.

“Violet? Are you all right?” He hands me a handkerchief and I hold it to my nose, sitting up carefully, so as not to touch the tree.

“I'm fine,” I say, but my voice shakes. My spine feels disjointed, like someone cracked every bone in it, and my head pounds but not in the usual way. It's not an ache so much as an . . . awareness. Like my brain has swelled up and my skull can't make room for it.

My nosebleed has stopped. Dr. Blythe cleans up my face, but the pretty coat Annabelle chose for me is spattered with blood.

“What happened?” Dr. Blythe asks.

I look at the oak and try to picture the warm flow of life inside it. “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing happened. I couldn't . . . I couldn't make it grow.”

Dr. Blythe sighs. “I suppose I shouldn't have expected you to. Very well.”

He helps me to my feet as irritation flares inside me. This is the first time he hasn't told me I was impressive. I don't
want
the compliment, but in this instance, I think I deserve it.

“Dr. Blythe.” Cora comes hurrying along the path, Annabelle trotting at her heels.

“Good afternoon, Cora,” Dr. Blythe says pleasantly.

“The Duchess needs to see her at once,” Cora says.

“Of course. We are finished for the day.”

Cora purses her lips at the sight of my bloodstained coat. “Take that off,” she says. I hand her my coat, which she passes to Annabelle. She frowns as she takes in my clothes.

“Is something wrong?” I ask. I like what I'm wearing—a simple navy dress with thin straps and a loose-fitting, gray cashmere sweater.

Cora sighs. “It'll have to do, there's no time to change you. Come along.” She turns to Annabelle. “I want the stains out of that coat.”

Annabelle nods.

Cora leads me to the main drawing room, which is decorated in shades of blue and silver. The Duchess is seated on a couch, her niece sitting beside her. The girl looks sullen, and her dirty-blond hair is pinned up into a plain little bun. Her eyes narrow when she sees me.

“Ah,” the Duchess says. “Here she is.”

It's then that I notice the two other women in the room. One is obviously royal; her gown is a rich, creamy satin, diamonds hang from her ears, and her face is heavily made up. The other is a surrogate. There is a silver collar around her neck—a fine chain connects her to the bracelet around the royal woman's wrist.

My stomach twists at the sight of the leash.

“This surrogate is going to make my daughter exceptional. She will stand out as no child ever has before,” the Duchess says. “An indisputable match for the young, future Exetor. And you should have absolute confidence that an alliance with my House will benefit the House of the Flame, both in reputation and wealth.”

This woman must be the Lady of the Flame. She owns the dairy that Ochre works at. The image of my brother comes back to me in a rush, that last dinner when he praised her House and how it treats its workers.

My eyes flicker back to the leash.

The Lady of the Flame looks me up and down skeptically. “I don't know, Pearl. You cannot be certain.”

“I am.”

“And what of the Houses of the Stone, and the Scales? They are also having daughters this year. So is almost every House that bought a surrogate and is lacking a daughter. My goodness, I myself am having a daughter this year, though I have no illusions about a match with the Exetor's son. But there are many who do. How can you be so sure the Exetor and Electress will choose yours?” Without pause, the Lady of the Flame turns her attention to the Duchess's niece. “Besides,
she
is not truly royal. I don't wish to put my son at any disadvantage. Our dear Exetor may survive the stigma, by my House is—”