The Jewel (29 page)

But all I do is follow orders. Whether they're the Duchess's orders or Lucien's or the doctor's, I'm never in control. And if I'm going to run away and hide for the rest of my life, well, first I'm going to do one thing for me. Call it selfish or disrespectful or stupid—I don't care. At least I can look back on this—on being with Ash—and say
I
made a choice.

I'm giddy as I take my cello back up to my chambers.

The sky has darkened, and the fires have been lit against the cold November winds—two footmen are lighting the lamps when I arrive at the library. They bow to me before continuing with their work. Ash said the east wall, all the way toward the windows—the easiest route is to cut through the central reading area. I'm so aware of myself as I walk out into the wide circle of armchairs, the way my arms move, the length of each step.

And then I stop short, jerked back to reality by a familiar, pungent scent that makes my nose wrinkle.

The Duke is sitting in one of the chairs by the crest table, puffing on a cigar, a ledger open in his lap, a glass of amber liquid on the table beside him. His eyes are red-rimmed and he makes a notation in the ledger, muttering something that sounds like “frivolous woman.” I freeze. I've never seen the Duke in here before.

He looks up. “Oh. It's you.”

I don't know what to say, so I make an awkward curtsy.

He takes a long pull on his cigar, blowing out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. “Well?”

My eyes widen a fraction. Well what?

He laughs. “You aren't very smart, are you?” He taps the cigar against a crystal ashtray, then waves his hand in the air. “Aren't you here to get a book?” he asks, a little too loud, like I'm a child who doesn't understand his language.

“Y-yes, my lord,” I stammer.

“Get on with it, then.” He downs the rest of his drink and turns his attention back to the ledger. I curtsy again and head directly into the stacks, heart racing, eager to get away from him. Of all the days he had to come here.

I'm shaking as I get to the east wall then follow the shelves all the way to the windows. This tiny corner of the library is deserted, and I can see why. All the books look incredibly dull, dissertations on plants and animal husbandry and methods of irrigation. I wonder why the Duchess even has books like these. I run my fingers over the titles until I find the one I'm looking for: Cadmium Blake's
Essays on Cross Pollination
.

“You're late.”

I jump. Ash is leaning against a shelf on the other side of the aisle. His arms are folded across his chest, a playful expression on his face.

“Hi,” I breathe.

He grins and pushes off the shelf, taking a few steps toward me. “You didn't have any trouble finding the place, did you?”

“No, I just . . .” I make a face. “I ran into the Duke.”

“Yes, I thought I smelled his vile cigars.” Ash grimaces. “One of these days, I believe the Duchess will murder him in his bed.”

I laugh, but he doesn't, so I stop. Is he serious?

“So, um . . . what are we doing here?” I ask. It's a secluded place, sure, but still . . . there's the Duke, and the footmen lighting the lamps, and anyone else who feels like borrowing a book to be worried about. The concert hall was actually more private.

His mouth pulls up into a sort of crooked, half smile. “Can you keep a secret?”

I have to laugh. “Yes,” I say. “I can keep a secret.”

He joins me at the bookshelf and, with exaggerated care, pulls at the top of Cadmium Blake's
Essays on Cross Pollination
so that it tilts at an angle. The entire shelf swings open, revealing a dark space behind it.

Glowglobes hang from the ceiling, illuminating walls of plain, rough stone. A tunnel curves out of sight just ahead of us.

I can feel the blank shock on my face, and quickly snap my gaping mouth shut. “Where does it go?” I whisper.

Ash takes my hand, and I feel a jolt of excitement. “Come on,” he says, pulling me forward and closing the bookshelf behind us.

He presses a finger to his lips and squeezes my hand, leading me down the tunnel, which winds and curves so that I lose all sense of direction—sometimes, other tunnels branch off the one we're on.

At some point, we begin to climb, then the light stops ahead of us, and I see a smooth wooden door with a heavy iron handle.

Ash turns the handle and dull gray light leaks into the tunnel. He motions for me to go first.

I recognize the parlor immediately. It's the place where Ash and I first met. I remember the claw-footed sofa, the low coffee table, the armchair by the lone window. The window looks out onto the lake, but from a different angle than my room. Tiny rivulets of rain run down the panes of glass.

A quiet snap makes me turn. Ash has closed the secret door, which is hidden behind the oil painting of the man in the green hunting jacket with the dog at his side.

I glance at the two visible doors. One I remember sneaking in through. Does that mean the other one leads to his bedchamber? My ears feel hot.

There is an awkward silence. Ash runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks politely.

“Um, yes, all right. Thank you.” Everything felt secret and safe in the dimness of the concert hall and the darkness of the tunnel. In the cold, gray light of this parlor, I'm not entirely sure how to act. I take a seat on the sofa as Ash pours us tea from a pot on the side table.

“Well,” he says, handing me a cup and sitting down beside me.

“Well,” I say, for lack of a better idea.

The clock on the mantel ticks loudly. I take a sip of tea.

“Perhaps we should formally introduce ourselves,” Ash says. “I'm Ash Lockwood.”

“Violet Lasting,” I say, then I grin.

“Is something funny?”

“No, it's just . . . I can remember the exact moment when I thought Violet Lasting was gone forever.”

What am I talking about? Why would I bring that memory up now?

“When?”

I blink. “What?”

“When was that moment?”

“Oh.” I look down and speak to my tea. “At the ceremony on the train platform at Southgate. Before I came here.” That moment is so clear in my mind: the fat man with the ruby ring, the faces of all the other surrogates, the caretakers . . .

“Before you went to the Auction?” Ash asks.

I nod. “That morning.”

“You must have been very scared.”

I shrug.

“What was it like?”

“What do you think it was like?” I can't keep the bite out of my voice. “They made me stand on a stage, alone. Women offered to pay money for me. They took away my name. They took away my home. They took . . . everything.”

There is a long silence. I take another sip of tea. This isn't how I wanted our conversation to go, and I wish I could change the subject.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm—”

“They took my home away, too,” Ash says. I look up. His face is utterly serious. A lock of brown hair has fallen over his forehead and I have the strongest urge to brush it back, to run my fingers through his hair.

“They did?” I ask.

“The difference is, I let them.”

“Why?”

“My little sister was ill. I skipped school one day and took her to the free clinic. We waited all day to see the doctor. That was where Madame Curio found me.” He smiles at the memory, but his smile is incredibly sad. “‘I bet you drive all the girls crazy.' That's what she said to me. I had no idea what she was talking about.”

“What happened to your sister?” I ask.

“She had black lung. Common in the Smoke. Treatable, if you can afford the medicines. We couldn't. When we got home, Madame Curio was waiting for me. She said I could help Cinder—that's my sister. She said she could give me a job, money enough not just to pay for Cinder's medicine but to take care of my family, to make sure they never wanted for anything. Just one little condition: I could never see them again.” He swallows hard. “I left with her the next day.”

He puts his cup down on the table, his voice becoming formal. “I am so sorry. This is not . . . appropriate conversation. I shouldn't . . . I'm not accustomed to talking about myself so much. It's not permitted. I apologize.”

“We're breaking lots of rules today, aren't we?”

Ash grins and relaxes a little. “It would seem so.”

“That was a very brave thing you did for your sister.”

“It wasn't much of a choice.”

“Still,” I murmur. “If I had had a choice . . . well, I don't know what I would have done.”

“I don't believe that,” Ash says.

He's right. If it was Hazel being sent away on that train and I could save her by taking her place, I would do it in a heartbeat.

“How old were you?” he asks.

“Twelve.” I can still remember waiting in line at the testing office, holding my mother's hand. The cold, probing fingers of the doctor. The sharp smell of the antiseptic. The sting of the needle. “Testing is mandatory for all girls after . . . you know, once you . . . become a woman.” My cheeks burn and I can't look at him. “Anyway, that night they came for me.”

I blink away the memory, hiding my face in another sip of tea. It's gone cold.

“Sometimes, I feel like I'm remembering someone else's life,” Ash says. “Like that person doesn't exist anymore.”

“He does,” I whisper.

“It's hard to remember who you were when you're constantly pretending to be someone you're not.”

“I'm sure there must be some moments when you can be yourself,” I say.

Ash's whole face softens. “You haven't been here very long.”

I bristle. “Maybe not, but I can understand what you mean. Besides, you have more freedom than I do. You can talk whenever you want, and dress how you want, and go wherever you want. They treat you with respect.”

“Do you really think it's
respect
, when the Duchess eyes me at dinner, or Carnelian demands that I dance with her over and over? Do you think they care if I am tired or hungry, or if I actually hate dancing? They don't respect me, Violet. They own me.”

We're quiet for a moment, lost in our own thoughts.

“No, they don't,” I say suddenly, sitting up. Ash raises one eyebrow. “If they owned you, you wouldn't have come to the concert hall today. And if they truly owned me, I wouldn't be here.”

“That is a very optimistic way to look at it,” Ash says.

“You disagree?”

“I—” Ash sighs. “I've lived here too long. It's hard to be optimistic.” He cups his hand around my neck, stroking his thumb down the length of my jaw. “But I will say this—when I woke up this morning, it was like I could breathe again. Like some weight had been lifted and I felt like myself for the first time in years.”

“What happened this morning?”

He smiles. “I decided to find you.”

Silence wraps around us, but it's not an uncomfortable one. Ash moves his hand from my neck and rests it on the back of the sofa.

“What do you miss most?” he asks. “From your life before.”

“My family,” I say. I put my cold tea down on the coffee table. “Especially my little sister, Hazel. She's so grown up now.” I smile sadly. “She looks just like our father.”

“Who do you look like?”

I laugh. “No one. My father used to joke that my mother must have had an affair with the milkman.” Something warm and sad trickles into my chest.

Ash twines one of my curls around his finger. “Is he a good man, your father?”

“He's dead,” I say quietly.

His hand freezes. “Violet, I—I'm so sorry.”

“It's all right. It was a long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

He unwinds the curl. “May I ask what happened?”

I look out the window while I speak. “He was coming home after working the late shift in the Smoke. There was a fight outside a tavern by the train station—two men were beating another man badly. My father . . . he tried to stop them.” I swallow. “One of the men stabbed him. By the time the Regimentals brought him to our house, he was dead.” I close my eyes and the image appears—my father, blood and rain and mud soaking his clothes and skin, lying lifeless on our kitchen table. My mother wailing, making an awful, inhuman sound. I took Hazel and Ochre to our bedroom, but we could still hear her. The three of us huddled on the bed and cried all night. In the morning, Father was gone.

A tear drips down my cheek and I brush it away quickly, embarrassed. This is not the time to be crying. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I haven't thought about that night in a long time.”

“He was trying to help someone,” Ash murmurs. “That was a very brave thing to do.”

I shrug. “I guess.”

“I'm so sorry.”

We are quiet for a moment. “What about your family?” I ask.

“What about them?”

“I don't know. Tell me about them. Were you very close with your father?”

Ash chuckles once, a hard sound. “No. I was not close with my father. We did not . . . understand one another. I wasn't like my two older brothers. They're twins—Rip and Panel. They . . . I don't know, they like roughhousing and getting into fights and making a lot of noise, and they were much bigger than I was. I preferred the quiet. If we'd had any books in the house, I'm certain I would have been happy to sit by the stove and read.”

“Is that why you were out in the gazebo?” I ask. “At the Exetor's Ball. It was so loud inside.”

His hand curls around mine and all my focus pours into that place where our skin touches. “Yes, partly. And partly so I would stop staring at you.”

“Oh, sure,” I say, flushing.