The Jewel (21 page)

Standing in the doorway is a boy. Not a boy, a young man—he looks to be about the same age as the Duchess's son. Tall and slender, with tousled brown hair and a strong jaw, his mouth curves a bit at the corners, like he's holding back a smile. One hand rests in the pocket of his pants and his shirt is open at the collar.

But it's his eyes that have me pinned in place. They are a soft gray-green, and they look at me in a way I haven't been looked at since I started my life in the Jewel—like I am a girl, a person, not a surrogate. And yet, it's something more than that; they look at me in a way that makes me feel hollow and strangely buzzy.

“Hello,” he says. His voice is soft, musical, lovelier than any instrument—my cello would sound harsh compared to it.

He looks at me expectantly. I have no idea what to say.

“I didn't hear you come in,” he says finally. “My apologies if I've kept you waiting.”

I can only stare. His mouth curves into a full smile and I feel my lungs contract, making it very difficult to breathe. “It's all right to be nervous. I know you haven't been here very long. The Jewel can be a little overwhelming.”

I barely manage a nod, which is better than nothing. How does this boy know who I am?

He shuts the door behind him. The room feels very small with just the two of us in it.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asks pleasantly. I don't think I can move; my lips feel like they've been glued together. I want to say something, but my brain isn't working right. All I can do is watch him, the easy grace of his movements, the curve of his mouth, those exquisite gray-green eyes. He laughs and my heart swells up like a balloon, filling my mouth and throat. “I know you haven't had a companion before, but you can speak to me. It's all right. I'm here for you.”

Hope unfolds inside me, spreading through my chest and legs. He's here for
me
?

“Why?” I croak, and my cheeks flush with embarrassment at the sound of my voice.

He seems glad to have finally gotten a response out of me, though. “Didn't your mother ever explain to you about companions?”

I shake my head.

“But surely one of your friends must have had one?”

I think for a moment. “Do all companions . . . look like you?”

He laughs again, louder this time. “Not exactly, but yes.”

“Then no,” I reply. “Definitely not.”

His face turns thoughtful. “Why don't we sit down?”

“Um, okay.” I bang my shin against the corner of the coffee table as I move to sit on the sofa.

“Are you all right?” the boy asks.

“I'm fine,” I gasp, trying to ignore the pain in my leg. Am I always this clumsy? It feels like my limbs have disconnected from the rest of my body and don't quite know what to do with themselves.

“Well,” the boy says. “Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?”

No one has asked me that question in so long. “What do you want to know?”

He leans back and drapes one arm over the top of the couch. I am hyperaware of his body, the shape of his hands and arms, the light skin stretched over taut muscle. I wish my cheeks would stop burning. I wish we could open the window.

“Anything. Everything. What do you enjoy doing most?”

“I . . . playing music.”

“Really?” His eyes light up. “What instrument do you play?”

“The cello.”

“That's one of my favorites.” He smiles. “You know, I saw Stradivarius Tanglewood play at the Royal Concert Hall last year.”

Suddenly, I forget to be nervous. “You did? Live? In person?”

“You're a fan, I take it.”

“A
fan
? Stradivarius Tanglewood is the most talented cellist in the last century! He's . . . I mean, how could anyone not . . .” I can't frame the sentence correctly.
Fan
seems like such a trivial word. I nearly wore out the gramophone listening to Tanglewood's records at Southgate. He was an inspiration.

“I'm surprised you didn't go,” the boy says. “It was an amazing concert.”

“I bet it was. Did he play the minuet in D Minor?”

The boy looks delighted. “He did. Though my favorite is the prelude in G Major. I know it's fairly simple but—”

“It's one of my favorites, too!” I didn't mean to shout—the boy looks a little alarmed. “It's, um, the first piece I ever learned to play,” I add, in a calmer tone.

“Perhaps he'll perform again in the next few months. I'd love to take you. Though, I must admit, I prefer Reed Purling.”

My jaw drops. “Reed Purling? Are you joking? Purling is inferior to Tanglewood in every way possible! Technique, style, his phrasing is always terribly clunky, he has the emotional range of a doorknob . . .” I used to have quite a few arguments about this at Southgate with my music teacher. “It's like comparing a finely cut diamond to a piece of quartz.”

The boy laughs. “I've never met a Bank girl with such love and knowledge of music.” His hand crosses the small space between us and, very gently, he traces his fingertips down the side of my face. “I cannot wait to get to know you.”

A riot starts in my chest, my heart pumping so loud it's embarrassing, but all I can focus on is the feel of his fingers against my skin and the way it sends a strange sort of shivery heat through my veins.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, his words filter through into my consciousness. “What do you mean, ‘a Bank girl'?”

He pulls his hand away, his gray eyes wary. “What do you mean, what do I mean? You're from the Bank.”

Despair punches through my chest, clouding my vision like a fog, leaking all the color out of the room. Of course. I should have known. He thinks I'm someone else. I'm not even supposed to be here.

He studies my expression. “You're not from the Bank?”

I shake my head, my throat swollen. “The Marsh,” I manage to whisper.

He jumps up like I've electrocuted him. “No,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “No.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Please tell me you're not the surrogate.”

The word hits me like a slap in the face, and when he looks at me again, his eyes are different and I know he's seeing me the way everyone else does, the way that identifies me as what I am, not who. He doesn't see
me
anymore.

The truth is plain on my face. I can feel it there, betraying me, shouting at him that I'm forbidden, that I'm dangerous. That I'm not allowed.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, glancing around like someone might be watching.

“I . . . I . . .”

He grabs my arm. “You need to go. Now.”

Suddenly, there is a knock on the door I came through. We both freeze, identical expressions of panic on our faces. “Just a moment,” he says, his voice remarkably calm, given the situation. He puts a finger to his lips and pulls me over to a closet, pushing me inside and closing the door. It's dark and smells like mothballs. I crouch low and press one eye against the keyhole.

He runs a hand through his hair, fixes his shirt, and opens the door. “Hello,” he says, sounding just as light and casual as when he first spoke to me.

“Good afternoon.” The voice is thin and reedy, and I recognize it immediately—the Duchess's niece.

No. He can't be here for
her
.

“My aunt is being insufferable at the moment,” she continues. “I'm sorry I'm late.”

“Not at all,” the boy says warmly. “Please, come in.”

I see a glimpse of purple fabric, but the boy's figure blocks my view of the girl as he closes the door. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks.

“No.”

He moves out of my keyhole-shaped line of sight. There is a long silence.

“Aren't you going to speak to me?” the girl asks petulantly.

“Certainly. Of course. My apologies. Why don't you tell me about yourself?”

I hate that he asks her the same question he asked me.

“Aren't you supposed to say nice things to me? All my friends who had companions said they told them how pretty they were all the time.”

If I hadn't been so desperately hoping for it, I might not have noticed the slight hesitation before he says smoothly, “You're very pretty.”

There is a rustling of skirts, and then the girl moves into view, and I can't help feeling a hint of smug satisfaction at the fact that she is definitely
not
pretty.

“Come here,” she demands, and I grind my teeth together. I don't like the way she's speaking to him. The boy moves back into view. “I've never had a companion before.”

“I'm aware of that. Your aunt wishes the best for your future, and so she enlisted my services.”

The girl snorts. “My aunt doesn't care a diamante about me. She wants me married and off her hands as soon possible.”

The boy shrugs. “That could be true, I don't know. Her Ladyship does not confide in me.”

The girl toys with a ruffle on her dress. “So . . . you're going to teach me how to be pleasing to a man?”

What? No. Absolutely not. He can't be here for
that
. Can he?

The boy's mouth curves seductively. “I am here to teach you how to make a man become pleasing to you.”

I can't blame the girl for her expression, her beady little eyes widening, her mouth slightly open. “When do we start?” she asks.

He laughs. “Soon. This is just an introduction.”

“Oh.” She frowns as I exhale with relief. Then she holds out her hand. “I'm Carnelian, Carnelian Silver. But you probably already knew that.”

Carnelian. What a stupid name.

The boy takes her hand and presses his lips lightly against it. “It is very nice to meet you, Carnelian. I'm Ash Lockwood.”

Ash. His name is Ash . . . I mouth it silently to the dark closet and smile.

“We're allowed to kiss, aren't we? My friend Chalice had a companion and she said they were allowed to touch and kiss and everything.” Carnelian watches Ash greedily, eager for him to confirm her hopes.

Did I imagine it, or did Ash's eyes flicker to my closet? “We have plenty of time to discuss the rules of my service,” he says. “But I imagine it's nearly time for you to dress for dinner.”

“Will you be at dinner tonight as well?” Carnelian asks.

“Yes. So I will need to change, too.”

Carnelian looks him up and down. “I think you look perfect just as you are,” she says, almost shyly. “Maybe living here won't be so bad anymore.”

She walks to the door and waits for Ash to open it for her.

“It was very nice to meet you, Carnelian Silver,” he says.

She smiles back in what I'm sure she thinks is a winning way. “It was nice to meet you, too, Ash Lockwood. I'll see you soon.”

He closes the door behind her and leans his head against it, eyes closed. For an agonizing second, I wonder if he's forgotten about me. But then he strides across the room and throws open the closet door.

“Do you have any idea how difficult that was, with you in here?” he hisses.

“It wasn't my fault.” I scramble to my feet but my legs have cramped and I lose my balance. Ash catches my elbow to steady me and my pulse quickens.

“Get out of here,” he says. “Quickly. Don't tell anyone you've seen me or spoken to me or . . . or . . . anything. Do you understand?” For the first time, I see a crack in his façade. He seems genuinely terrified.

“Who would I tell?” I say quietly. “Nobody talks to me. Nobody listens.”

I see a flash of something that might be pity in his eyes. “Get out of here,” he says again.

I stumble to the door, stopping with my hand on the knob. “I don't . . . I don't know the way back.”

Ash sighs. “Neither do I,” he says with a shrug. “I'm sorry. I can't help you.”

I stare at him for a long moment, wondering if I'll ever see him again.

“What?” he asks.

“I've never met anyone like you before,” I say. Then I blush furiously—that didn't come out the way I'd intended.

But something about my words make him laugh, a cold laugh without humor, and he sinks down onto the sofa and puts his head between his hands. “Please,” he says wearily. “Just go.”

My cheeks still burning with embarrassment, I slip through the door before I say something else I might regret.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Fifteen