The Jewel (32 page)

“Doesn't anyone
love
anyone here?” I ask. “Isn't there any part of you that just wants a child?”

The Duchess's face becomes very still. “I have loved more deeply than you can possibly imagine,” she says. For an instant, she looks like an entirely different person. I am too stunned to speak.

The Duchess seems to realize she's revealed too much of herself. She rises, straightening her skirts. “That's that then. As you may have heard, my son is engaged. The party is tomorrow evening. You will attend. I have arranged for you to play a small concert.” She looks around my room as if searching for the right words to end this conversation, then gives up. “Good night,” she says, without meeting my eyes.

As she leaves, I hear her say to Annabelle, “Make sure she looks stunning.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Twenty-Three

A
NNABELLE DOESN
'
T DISAPPOINT.

At five to seven, I stand outside the doors to the ballroom dressed in a pale green gown that makes the footman's eyes pop before he can stop himself. The bodice leaves my shoulders bare, and the skirt falls to the floor in layers like the petals of a flower, their edges woven with glittering crystals. A choker of diamonds wraps around my neck and diamond earrings hang from my ears.

There is a hum of voices coming from behind the door, along with light strains of music. The footman bows to me before opening it.

“The surrogate of the House of the Lake,” he announces. Only the people closest to him hear.

The ballroom is filled with men in tuxedos and women in colorful dresses—their laughter bounces off the painted ceiling. Garnet is standing woodenly beside a girl about my age; he looks miserable. The girl's blond curls and big blue eyes remind me of Lily. The Lady and Lord of the Glass are offering Garnet their congratulations. I wonder how their baby is. Their surrogate must be in one of the holding facilities now.

I find the Duchess, wearing a gown of pale gold with capped lace sleeves, and head toward her. She is in conversation with the Electress—I try to keep my expression neutral as I move to the Duchess's side.

“My goodness, isn't she just a vision,” the Electress gushes. She wears a gown of rich crimson velvet with a large dragon embroidered on its skirts—it seems like too much material for her small frame—and her lips are painted bright red. Like at the Auction, I am strongly reminded of a child playing dress-up. It's hard to imagine her experimenting on young girls, cutting out pieces of their brain. Though she probably has someone else to do that for her. “When do you intend to start trying?”

“When the doctor thinks she is ready, Your Grace,” the Duchess lies smoothly.

“You don't want to wait too long. The Lady of the Mirror's surrogate is pregnant already, and the Lady of the Star's as well. You don't want to get left behind.”

The Duchess shrugs and takes a sip of champagne. “I'm not worried, Your Grace. But I thank you for your concern.”

The Electress eyes me curiously. I grit my teeth and force the corners of my mouth up.

Lucien appears at her side, handing her a glass of champagne, and my heart jumps.

“Thank you, Lucien,” the Electress says brightly, before turning to the Duchess. “I hope you don't mind—it's from my own cellar. I've become terribly choosy about what I drink, so I decided to bring my own.”

I suppose I would, too, if my surrogate had been poisoned.

“Of course, Your Grace,” the Duchess says with a fake smile. I hear someone else being announced at the door, but I can't make out who.

“Oh! Lapis!” The Electress waves over a woman with auburn hair in a golden dress similar to the Duchess's. “Congratulations. The House of the Downs must be thrilled with this engagement.”

The Lady of the Downs sinks into a curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace. My daughter could not have hoped for a better match.”

We all look over at the couple—Garnet chooses this moment to scratch himself in a very inappropriate place. I barely stifle my laugh. The Lady of the Downs's cheeks redden.

“Yes,” the Electress says with a smirk. “He is quite a catch. Ah, Carnelian.”

My heart plummets so fast it leaves my head spinning. Carnelian and Ash join us.

I can't bring myself to look up, for fear that I might just fling my arms around him. It's been so long since I've seen his face. Instead, I stare at the ruby pendant hanging around Carnelian's neck.

“It will be your turn next, my dear,” the Electress is saying.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Carnelian replies. “I'm looking forward to it.”

A waltz begins to play and the Electress claps her hands together. “Oh, one of my favorites. I must dance. Excuse me, ladies, while I find my husband.”

The party continues, with dancing and laughter and lots of champagne, though Duchess makes sure to inform me straightaway that I'm not permitted to drink any this time. The Countess of the Stone doesn't appear to have been invited, so I don't get to see Raven again. I hope she's found my ribbon. I spend most of my time by a table piled with brightly colored macaroons, trying not to watch Ash on the dance floor and hoping Lucien will find an excuse to get me alone.

After a few hours, the Duchess calls for silence. She stands at one end of the ballroom, the Duke by her side, Garnet and his fiancée close by.

“Thank you all for joining me in celebrating this very special occasion!” the Duchess exclaims. “Let us raise a glass to the happy couple—Garnet, of the House of the Lake, and Coral, of the House of the Downs.”

Everyone raises their glasses and cheers.

“And now,” the Duchess says, “my surrogate will perform a short program for you. Shall we all proceed to the concert hall?”

A footman leads me out and down a different hall from everyone else's—I assume he's taking me to the backstage door—when he is intercepted.

“Her Ladyship requested that I escort the surrogate,” Lucien says. “You may go back to your post.”

The footman hesitates, then bows. “Of course.”

Once he's gone, Lucien smiles at me. “Shall we?” he says, offering his arm.

I grin and take it.

“How are you?” he asks.

The words get tangled in my throat. Lucien stops walking. He lifts my chin and studies my face.

“Has it happened?” he asks. I nod. “When?”

“Yesterday,” I whisper.

“So you don't know the results yet.”

I shake my head.

Lucien brushes my cheek with his fingers. “It's all right. It's not ideal, but we'll get through this. The Longest Night is just around the corner, right?”

I bite my lip. “Lucien, do you know about the Electress's plan? About lobotomizing the surrogates?”

Lucien raises an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”

“The Duchess.”

Lucien purses his lips. “Yes, I am aware of it. But we can't focus on that. And we have no idea if the operation will ever be performed successfully, so for the time being, let's concentrate on keeping you safe, shall we? Remember what our goal is.”

“But the other girls, Lucien. I can't—”

“Listen to me.” Lucien stops outside the backstage door and puts his hands on my shoulders. “This is not just about saving you. There is much more at stake here, Violet.”

A shiver runs through me. “What do you mean?” I whisper.

Lucien smiles a secretive smile. “It only takes one small stone to start an avalanche. I am going to help the other girls, in more ways than you can guess. I am going to help everyone under the thumb of the royalty. But none of that will matter if I can't help
you
.”

He opens the door before I can press him further. I can hear the chatter of my audience as they take their seats. My cello and music stand are already set up.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

My questions vanish as my stomach twists unpleasantly with nerves.

“Yes,” I reply.

He kisses me lightly on the forehead. “Good luck.”

I take a deep breath and walk out onstage, to thunderous applause.

This is so much better than at the Exetor's Ball. The excitement of the crowd is palpable, with none of the antagonism in the air. This audience is genuinely excited to hear me play, not eager to see me lose some ridiculous competition. I sit and prop my cello between my knees, then look out over the rows and rows of seats, all of them filled.

It's what I've always imagined, made into reality.

The Duchess has chosen my repertoire. I open the first page and find that she's selected the prelude in G Major to start—no doubt to remind everyone of my previous performance. I smile and begin to play.

Immediately, I know something is wrong. Instead of relaxing, the nerves in my stomach seem to get worse as the song progresses, like a dull cramp. I finish the prelude, and smile politely at the applause. It certainly wasn't my best performance, but they don't seem to notice.

I reach out and turn the page to the next piece—the movement sends a dull ache through my lower back, and I wince. The Duchess has chosen another prelude, this one in D Minor, similar to the nocturne the iced cake danced to. I lift the bow to the strings.

I only manage the first few bars before the pain becomes unbearable—my stomach is cramping severely, and my lower back is on fire. But it's not until I feel a wetness between my thighs that my bow falters, screeching across the A string and falling to the floor.

I look down at my lap and see a bright red stain, veins of color spreading across the pale green petals of my dress like the first Augury. But I'm not performing an Augury.

I don't realize I've dropped the cello until I hear the jarring crash of it hitting the floor. There is a flash of white from offstage in my peripheral vision. I press my hands against the stain, my fingers becoming sticky with blood, a dull thrumming in my ears muting all the sounds of the room.

“Help,” I whisper.

Then I fall.

I expect to hit the floor, but a pair of soft hands catches me.

Sound comes back in a rush.

“Get the doctor!” Lucien yells. There are shouts and cries, a confusing babble, and people are running up to the stage, but everything seems blurry. Another cramp wrenches in my gut.

I moan as Lucien lays me down gently on the stage and brushes a hand against my forehead.

Then the Duchess is standing over me. “The doctor is in the Bank,” she says. Her face is pale, her eyes full of fear. I've never seen her look scared before.

“We'll send someone immediately,” the Exetor's voice comes from somewhere to my right.

“There's no time, we have to stop the bleeding,” Lucien says. “My lady, where is your medical room?” The Duchess can only stare at me. “My lady!”

She starts. “This way.”

Lucien lifts me up in his arms—he is surprisingly strong—and carries me off the stage and through the concert hall. Concerned faces swirl around me in a golden haze, but one stands out clearly. Ash's gray-green eyes are wide with panic.

Pain rips through my abdomen, and I cry out.

“We're almost there, honey,” Lucien whispers in my ear. “Hold on. We're almost there.”

“It hurts,” I whimper.

“I know.”

I hear the grate of the elevator open, then darkness, then the bright lights of the medical room. Lucien lays me on the bed and I curl up in the fetal position, my hands soaked with blood.

“Is she all right?” The Duchess's voice is somewhere off to my left, strangled and frightened. “Is she going to be all right?”

Lucien's face fills my vision, and I feel his fingers probe my elbow, sinking a needle into my veins.

My eyelids grow heavy. Lucien's face blurs and becomes Ash's. I want to reach out and stroke his cheek, but I can't lift my arms. When he speaks, it's Ash's voice I hear, coming from the end of a long tunnel.