The Jewel (8 page)

“Yes,” I say. “She was.”

The girl nods. “My best friend came here with me, too. But she was Lot 131. I haven't seen her since the train.”

“Which holding facility are you from?”

“Northgate. They came with me,” she says, indicating the iced cake and the lioness. “But they aren't my friends.”

“I'm Violet,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “Are we allowed to tell each other our names?”

“Oh. Probably not.” I sigh.

The girl bites her lip. “I'm Dahlia,” she says. Then she smiles shyly. “I think you're the prettiest of all of us. Especially your eyes. You must've had a really good prep artist.”

“I did. What about you?” It doesn't look like she got prepped at all.

“She wanted me to look pathetic. That's what she said. To intrigue the buyers.” Dahlia chews nervously on her thumbnail.

The door Raven left through opens. Lot 193 is taken. A few seconds later, Lot 194 follows.

There are only six of us left. The room feels cavernous. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, dripping with pink crystals and bathing the room in a rosy glow. There is no furniture. Just the dark pink carpet and mauve-painted walls. It's like being inside a giant mouth.

“Are you scared?” Dahlia asks quietly.

Now that it comes to it, the hazy feelings I couldn't identify in the prep room have sharpened to a point. Fear. It stabs at my lungs, claws at my stomach, burrows into the base of my skull. I feel it like something other, something outside of me. My palms itch, and sweat beads in my armpits.

“Yes,” I say.

“Me too.” Dahlia gnaws at the nail on her index finger. All her nails have been chewed right down to the quick.

“What's your lot number?” I ask.

Her body freezes. “What's yours?”

“197.”

She scratches her nose and looks down. “200,” she mumbles.

Before I can really comprehend this tiny, tattered girl as the most desirable surrogate in the entire Auction, the door opens again.

It's as if time speeds up. I watch surrogates 195 and 196 leave, one right after the other, too quickly, surely they shouldn't be leaving quite so quickly, wasn't there more time in between the other girls? And then the door is opening again and the Regimental with the dark eyes who brought me to this room is there and he calls my lot number but my feet are cemented to the floor.

Dahlia nudges me. “You have to go, Violet.”

The lioness smirks and whispers something to the iced cake, who giggles.

I blink. “It was nice to meet you, Dahlia,” I say. Then I force my feet to move, one in front of the other, and the Regimental comes closer until he's looming over me. Our eyes meet, and my fingertips tremble, fear and anticipation merging into a hard knot at the base of my skull. Without a word, he bows and turns, and I follow him into the dark.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

Six

T
HE DOOR CLOSES BEHIND ME AUTOMATICALLY, AND FOR
one terrifying moment, all there is is darkness.

Then I hear a low hum, and a narrow hallway is illuminated on either side by a path of small square floor lamps. Their yellowish-green light shoots straight up, showing me the way without revealing where I'm going. The Regimental is a black outline in front of me, his pace slow and even. A weight presses harder against my chest with each step I take, the invisible walls closing in around me. I hear Lucien's voice in my head, telling me I'll be fine, and Raven's, too, saying she'll never forget me. I hold on to them, like talismans, trying to keep the fear at bay.

The hallway curves to the left. Then the floor lamps end abruptly and the Regimental stops. Silence.

“Where are we?” I ask. My voice is hushed and tiny. For ten long seconds, the Regimental says nothing; then, stirred by some unseen command, he turns to me.

“I thank you, Lot 197, for your service to the royalty. Your place is marked. You must go on alone.” He bows low, and steps back so he is behind me.

A rounded, golden door engraved with the various crests of the royal families begins to glow. I have no idea what lies behind it, and suddenly panic seizes me so completely that I think I might pass out. But Raven went through this door. And so did Lily.

My fingertips tremble as they graze the ornamented metal. As if the door was waiting for my touch, it swings open, and suddenly I find myself blinded by a brilliant light.

“A
ND NEXT UP, LADIES, WE HAVE
L
OT
197. Lot 197, please take your mark.”

The voice is polite, almost pleasant, but I'm having a hard time focusing on what it's saying.

I'm in an amphitheater, rings of seats spiraling upward, but the seats aren't normal seats, they're chaise lounges, and sofas, and one even looks like a throne. And in each one sits a woman, her eyes focused on me, her clothing extravagant beyond anything I saw in my prep closets. Rippling, colorful satins; delicate silks; lace; feathers; crinoline; cloth-of-gold—glittering fabrics sewn with jewels, they are nothing like the ones the dolls in the Waiting Room were wearing. These women are masterpieces, living sculptures of elegance and nobility.

“Lot 197, please take your mark,” the voice says again. I see him now, a man in a tuxedo standing to my left behind a wooden podium. He is very tall, his dark hair slicked back. Our eyes meet and he inclines his head.

There is a silver X in the middle of the circular stage. My knees shake as I approach it, this walk by far the longest of all the long walks I've taken today. I hear a rustling of whispers, like a light breeze running through the amphitheater. The man waits until I've reached the X. Then he removes a white candle from inside the podium and places it in a brass holder. His eyes scan the room once before he strikes a match and lights the candle. The flame glows bright blue.

“Lot 197, ladies. Age sixteen, height five feet seven inches, weight one hundred and thirty pounds. Unusual eye color, as you can see. Four years of training, with scores of 9.6 on the first Augury, 9.4 on the second, and a tremendously impressive 10.0 on the third. Prodigious skill with stringed instruments, particularly the cello.”

It is frighteningly bizarre to hear myself described this way; a set of statistics, a musical instrument, and nothing more.

“The bidding will start at five hundred thousand diamantes. Do I hear five hundred thousand?”

A woman in a blue silk dress, a massive diamond necklace roped around her neck, raises a silver feather.

“Five hundred thousand from the Lady of the Downs, do I hear five hundred and fifty thousand?”

A dark-skinned woman raises a tiny set of bronze scales with one hand, sipping champagne from a crystal flute with the other.

“Five hundred and fifty thousand, do I hear six hundred?”

The bidding continues. My value climbs to seven hundred, then eight, then
nine hundred thousand
diamantes. My brain has a hard time wrapping its head around such a sum. I can't seem to breathe normally—my lungs feel compressed, like they're being squeezed in a vise. The women don't speak, they just raise an object that signifies their House; I don't recognize them all, and the auctioneer doesn't always address them by title. Suddenly, I wish I'd paid more attention in royal culture and lifestyle class.

“Nine hundred and fifty thousand, do I hear one million?”

A young woman, seated in the chair that looks like a throne, raises a tiny scepter with a diamond the size of a chicken's egg perched on its tip. I feel a collective intake of breath from the other women, and notice the auctioneer's eyes flicker for an instant toward the candle. It has burned halfway down.

“One million diamantes to Her Royal Grace, the Electress. Do I hear one million five?”

The Electress. I am shocked by how young she looks, even younger than in the photographs I've seen of her, almost like a child playing dress-up. Her gown has puffed sleeves and a wide brocade skirt, her lips painted a very bright red. I try to determine if there is anything particularly Bank-like about her, but she looks pretty much the same as all the other women in this room.

I notice a woman in the row above staring at her—the woman's almond-shaped eyes remind me of Raven's.

“One million five to the Countess of the Rose,” the auctioneer says, and I am pulled back to the present. An older woman on a chaise lounge is holding up a golden rose. A few seats away, a heavy woman glares at her—no, heavy isn't the right word. Fleshy would be more accurate. The woman's bulk is squeezed into a black satin dress, leaving her doughy arms bare. Her face is pudgy and her eyes are . . . cruel. I can't think of another word to describe them.

“Do I hear two million?” the auctioneer asks.

The diamond scepter is raised immediately. Then the rose. Then the scepter. My heart slams against my ribs, the rush of my blood roaring in my ears. Could I really be sold to the Electress? It seems foolish that I'd never considered it—I guess I'd always figured the Electress would go for Lot 200. Why go for fourth best when you can have first?

The candle is burning lower now, milky wax dripping down the bronze holder, the blue flame burning brighter as it nears its end. The bidding increases, and my value soars to five million diamantes, an unimaginable sum. It's clear that I will either be the surrogate for the Electress or the Countess of the Rose—all the other woman have stopped bidding. My chest tightens and I fight the urge to gnaw on my lower lip.

Then it happens.

“Do I hear six million diamantes? Six million?”

The woman with Raven's eyes holds up a tiny blue mirror.

The candle goes out.

“Sold!” the auctioneer cries, and all my muscles turn to jelly. “Sold for six million diamantes. To the Duchess of the Lake.”

S
OLD
.

The word revolves around my brain without really making sense.

I am sold.

For a flicker of an instant, I meet the dark eyes of the woman who has bought me: the Duchess of the Lake. Then, suddenly, I am sinking through the floor.

The X is on a platform being lowered down, down below the stage, away from the Auction. This time, I welcome the darkness. It feels safe. I look up and see another platform closing over the circular space where a few moments ago I stood, like a total eclipse. And just before it closes completely, I hear the auctioneer's voice.

“And next up, ladies, we have Lot 198.” I wonder which girl is crossing the stage—the lioness or the iced cake. “Lot 198, please take your mark.”

The Auction goes on.

“Lot 197?”

I start, aware that I've stopped moving. And it's not completely dark, just dim. I'm in an empty room with concrete walls, circular like the amphitheater above it, and riddled with doors.

“Lot 197?” A woman in a simple gray dress frowns at me. She is holding a clipboard, and her eyes scan it briefly.

I don't think I can speak yet, so I just nod.

The woman nods curtly in response. “Duchess of the Lake. This way.”

She opens one of the doors and I follow her down a narrow hallway. There are no glowglobes here—the only light comes from a few flickering torches set in high brackets. Their flames cast strange shadows along the walls, a stark and unsettling contrast to the warm light of the glowglobes in my prep room.

The hallway ends in a plain wooden door and the woman opens it—I follow her into a small, domed room made of octagonal stones that give me the feeling of being inside a beehive. A fire burns low in the grate, casting a dim light on a simple table and chair. There's a lumpy black cloth on the table. Otherwise, the room is empty.

“Sit,” the woman says. As soon as I sink into the chair, my muscles begin to shake, and I have to put my head in my hands and take deep breaths through my mouth.

I am sold. I am property. I will never see my family or Southgate or the Marsh ever again.