The Jewel (25 page)

“Raven!” I gasp, moving quickly and cautiously to her side.

“Shhh,” she hisses. “She can't know I've left her.”

She jerks her head over her shoulder. I see the enormous back of the Countess of the Stone, talking with a woman I recognize as the Lady of the Flame. “I've been looking everywhere for you,” Raven says.

Once I get over the shock of seeing her, I notice how thin she is. Gaunt, even, her cheekbones more pronounced, and there are dark circles under her eyes.

“Are you all right?” I whisper.

Raven smiles, her lips stretched tight across her face.

“You look beautiful,” she says. “Just the way I remember you.” Her gaze becomes unfocused. “Do you know, sometimes I wonder if I imagined my life at Southgate. Do you ever feel that way?”

“No,” I say. “What are you talking about?”

But Raven doesn't seem to hear me. “There was another girl. She was our friend. She was pretty and silly and she had blond hair. What was her name?”

A lump forms in my throat. “Lily,” I say. “Her name was Lily.”

Raven sighs with relief. “Yes. Lily. I think I was mean to her sometimes.”

She rubs one of her arms absentmindedly, and I see that the golden bracelets are actually handcuffs, attached to each other by a fine, linked chain.

“What are those?” I say, aghast.

Raven's smile is frightening. “She doesn't like me very much. I told her I wouldn't give her what she wants. She thinks she can take my memories away, but I won't let her. I won't forget you. I promise, all right? I won't forget you.”

“Raven, you're scaring me,” I say.

“You won't forget me either, will you Violet?” Raven says, backing away.

“No,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. “Never.”

Raven hurries to her mistress's side just as the Countess of the Stone turns to take a canapé from a passing tray.

A hand wraps around my arm and I jump.

“I thought you'd have found your way back to your mistress by now.” Lucien appears at my elbow, a warning in his eyes. “Please allow me to assist you.”

I follow him, my mind reeling with the images of Raven's gaunt face, the golden cuffs around her wrists, her insistence that I don't forget her.

“Here she is, my lady,” Lucien says, and I blink—we're back with the Countess of the Rose and Carnelian. “Good as new.”

The dance ends and the couples begin to leave the floor. The Duchess and Ash will be here any moment. But I can't seem to pull my face together.

“Here,” Lucien says, grabbing a glass from a passing waiter. “Have a refreshment. There's no need to look so embarrassed. Everything will be all right.”

There is an edge to his voice, and I hear the double meaning in his words and wonder if he knows about Raven, but then he bows and disappears into the crowd.

“You certainly know your way around the dance floor, Mr. Lockwood,” the Duchess says, laughing as they join us again.

“As do you, my lady,” Ash replies.

Carnelian pouts a little. The Duchess's gaze sweeps the crowd. “I suppose I should find my husband. Ametrine, let us talk again before we leave.”

“Of course,” the Countess says.

The Duchess glances in my direction, and I'm grateful for the champagne—it gives me something to do with my hands, and an excuse to hide my face. And it explains the flush in my cheeks and the brightness of my eyes. She snatches the flute out of my hands.

“You do not drink without my permission,” she says sharply, handing the glass to a waiter. Suddenly, there is a loud banging, and the music dies down. The Electress and Exetor stand and the crowd falls silent, the men bowing and the women sinking to the ground. My skirt billows around me as I curtsy, my corset poking uncomfortably against my hips.

“We thank you for attending our annual ball,” the Exetor says, his voice carrying over the packed room. “You are dear to our hearts and crucial to the continued survival of our great city. We raise our glasses to you in thanks.”

The Exetor and Electress raise their flutes—the Electress's smile looks a little forced. The crowd straightens up and follows suit.

“This year is sure to be a very exciting one for our family,” he continues. “May I present to you all . . . my son and heir, the future Exetor.”

A nurse in a white cap appears in between the Exetor and Electress, holding a baby in her arms. He is dressed in cloth-of-gold with rubies and pearls sewn into the fabric. His tiny face is scrunched up, and as the royalty begin to clap and cheer, he starts to wail, one long sustained note. The Exetor gives the nurse a sharp look, and the baby is whisked out of the ballroom, his cries fading into the applause.

“Now, let us have some entertainment!” the Electress says. “There are so many new surrogates here this evening. Shall we see whose is the most talented?”

It's amazing, the royalty's ability to ask a question without it really being a question at all. Maybe this is why the Duchess gave me the cello—not as a gift or a reward, but in preparation for some sort of surrogate competition. I glance at her, worried she'll volunteer me, but her eyes are fixed on the Exetor.

“Mine is a dancer, Your Grace,” the Duchess of the Scales calls out. “The best I have ever seen.” The iced cake, beside her, turns pale.

The Electress laughs gaily and claps her hands. “Wonderful! Clear the floor.”

I feel pity for the girl as she is escorted to a section of the dance floor just in front of the royal podium. The crowd surges forward to get a better view. The iced cake's blond ringlets tremble, her eyes darting to her mistress, who nods sharply. I don't want to think about what might happen to her at home if she doesn't perform well.

The girl stops at the edge of the dance floor and removes her shoes. Then, to a chorus of gasps and cries of shock, she unties her skirt and lets it fall to the ground, standing in only her petticoat and bodice.

“Oh my!” the Electress exclaims.

The Duchess of the Scales seems pleased by the attention. “It's the only way she can dance, Your Grace,” she says. “Otherwise, the skirt is too long.”

The Electress giggles. “I see. Does she require any particular music?”

“No, Your Grace,” the Duchess replies with a superior smile. “She can dance to anything.”

The Electress calls to the orchestra. “Play a nocturne.”

A lone violin starts, a string of melancholy notes quickly joined by a second violin, viola, and cello. I can't help noticing that the viola is just slightly out of tune, the A string a hair sharp.

The iced cake closes her eyes, lifts her arms above her head, and begins to dance.

She is beautiful. I've never seen anyone move with such graceful fluidity—it's like her bones are made of rubber, able to bend and stretch and create shapes that surely no normal body is capable of. I feel like she's telling me a story with every spin and jump. In a strange way, it reminds me of how I feel playing cello.

The song ends, and the iced cake curves into a delicate final position. The Electress begins to clap. Quickly, the crowd joins in and I can't help clapping myself—watching the iced cake was like being in a dream that wasn't quite my own, and I enjoyed it immensely.

The iced cake sinks into a curtsy, then quickly collects her shoes and skirt, and joins her mistress.

“That was stunning,” the Electress says, and the clapping stops abruptly. “Wasn't it, my darling?”

“Stunning,” the Exetor agrees.

“I can't imagine anything more pleasing.” The Electress smiles at the Duchess of the Scales, who flushes with pleasure and curtsies. “Alexandrite, I think you may have acquired the most talented surrogate in the entire Auction.”

“I would have to disagree with that, Your Grace.”

A large intake of breath comes from the crowd, and a cold shiver of fear creeps up the back of my neck. The Duchess of the Lake is still staring at the Exetor, her black eyes glittering in the light of the chandelier. I see the hint of a smile form on his lips.

If the Electress notices this subtle exchange, she doesn't show it. On the contrary, she looks delighted. “Really? You think your surrogate can outshine Alexandrite's?”

The Duchess is practically radiating smugness. “I am certain she can.”

“Oh, I do love a good competition. She must perform at once, don't you agree, my darling?”

The Exetor taps a finger against his wineglass. “What is her skill, Pearl?” he asks.

Something flickers in the Duchess's eyes. “She plays the cello, Your Grace.”

The Exetor nods. “Take her to the stage,” he commands to his footmen. An iron claw grips my arm.

“Do not disappoint me,” the Duchess snaps, and then, almost as an afterthought, adds, “please.”

I'm marched toward the orchestra, sensing the crowd's eagerness at the challenge, their twisted desire to watch me fail. The stage comes closer, and I trip on my skirts as I'm pulled up the stairs—I hear a smattering of laughter and my cheeks burn.

A man with a gray mustache passes his cello to me with reluctance. I take it, wrapping my fingers around its polished wooden neck, and hold out my other hand for his bow.

I take a deep breath and turn to face my audience. The Exetor and Electress have left their podium—they stand at the foot of the steps, no more than ten feet away. The Duchess is just behind the Exetor's right shoulder, the Duke at her side. Carnelian and Ash stand together close by. And behind them, a mass of faces, all turned toward me, all eyes in the room watching my every movement. The bow trembles in my hand. I've never played in front of this many people before. My imaginary audiences in the Duchess's concert hall were always friendly and encouraging. Gingerly, I sit on the edge of the chair, adjusting my skirts so that the cello rests comfortably between my knees. Its shape relaxes me a little, and I lean its neck on my shoulder.

“Do you have a preference for composer, Your Grace?” the Duchess asks, though whether she's talking to the Exetor or the Electress, I can't tell.

The Electress answers. “I should very much like to hear whatever she enjoys playing the most.”

There is some murmuring from the crowd, and I see a few women smirk, but I don't know how that's meant to be offensive, and at the moment, I don't really care. I have to play my best. I take another deep breath and think.

Whatever I enjoy playing the most . . .

In a flash, the entire scene before me changes, because I know exactly what I want to play and I'm not afraid anymore.

The prelude in G Major. The first piece I ever learned. I'm sure the Duchess would rather I play a more modern, complicated piece, something to impress or intimidate. But the prelude reminds me of Raven, and Lily, and all the girls who came with me on that train. It reminds me of the dining hall at Southgate and my tiny bedroom and a cake with Hazel's name on it, of a time when laughter meant something, and of friendship and trust.

I draw my bow across the strings and begin. The notes fall effortlessly over one another, a waterfall of sound, and I leave this ball and float away to a simple music room that smells like wood polish and the only faces watching me are those of girls who wish nothing more than to hear me play. And not because I'm gifted, not because it makes me different or special in any way, but because I love it. The memories burn inside me like a candle flame, and the bow flies across the strings, the notes climbing higher and higher and I feel free, really free, because no one can touch me in this place, no one can hurt me, and as I draw the bow across the final fifth, a chord that reverberates throughout the cavernous room, I realize that I am smiling and a tear trickles down my cheek.

The room is silent.

I look up and meet a pair of gray-green eyes, no longer soft but blazing. Ash doesn't look away, and neither do I. His gaze is fierce, and open, and it makes me feel alive. He isn't looking at a surrogate—he's looking at
me.

Then the Exetor begins to clap. The applause is picked up, and soon the noise is deafening, but I feel oddly removed from the situation; the clapping is muffled in my ears, because a glint of gold has caught my eye, and I see the only face that could pull me away from Ash's.

Raven.

She stands out so clearly among the sea of faces, her gold-chained hands pressed against her chest, and she looks happy, truly happy. Our eyes meet, and I cross two fingers on my right hand, and press them against my heart, the symbol of respect from the surrogates of Southgate and a sign that, no matter what, I will never forget her.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Eighteen