Garnet's Story

by Amy Ewing

“Mm,” I say.

  “I had a lovely companion,” Coral says dreamily. “His name was Rye. He was very funny.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that. Fortunately, now that we are freed from the restraints of our mothers and the duty of the party, Coral doesn’t seem to require an active participant to keep a conversation going.

  “I collect miniature tea sets, you know,” she says. “I’ve got almost two hundred of them. The largest collection in the Jewel.” She lifts her chin proudly. “Some of them even date back to the time of Diamante the Great.”

  Miniature tea sets? She couldn’t just read books or do needlepoint like a normal girl? Isn’t that what normal girls do?

  She’s in the middle of describing one set in particular, light blue with tiny detailed paintings of a flock of birds in flight, when I’m rescued by Mother and Father coming over to us. Mother calls for silence.

  “Thank you all for joining me in celebrating this very special occasion!” she exclaims. It doesn’t escape my notice that she leaves Father out the picture. “Let us raise a glass to the happy couple—Garnet, of the House of the Lake, and Coral, of the House of the Downs.”

  Glasses are raised and people cheer.

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

  I see her getting whisked away by William and then Mother is leading me out of the ballroom, Coral on my other side, and the entire party follows us up the main staircase and into the concert hall.

  “Your mother’s surrogate played so wonderfully at the Exetor’s Ball,” Coral says. “I didn’t know she was playing for us tonight!”

  “Me neither,” I say.

  We take our seats in the middle of the front row. I notice the Electress makes sure that the Exetor sits on her left, as far away from Mother as possible. A chair, a music stand, and the cello are already onstage. There are some whispers among the audience, and I see Carnelian murmur something to her companion that makes him frown a little.

  Then the surrogate walks on and the whole theater erupts in applause. I hope she plays that song she played at the Exetor’s Ball again. At least something good will come of this evening.

  She seems less nervous, maybe because she’s already done this before, and in front of a whole lot more people. She sets the cello between her knees and looks out over the sea of faces, like she’s Reed Purling or some other famous musician, like she’s been paid to be here. As if she is in command of this stage, at least for the moment.

  I have to respect her for that.

  She turns a page on the music stand, picks up her bow, and begins to play. To my delight, it is the same song from the Exetor’s Ball. I let the notes wash over me in a waterfall of sound. I think of my own cage again, of the course my life is on, and what I could do with it if I wanted, if I were free to decide. Who would I choose to marry? I think about all the girls I’ve ever kissed or smiled at or flirted with, and not one of them makes me feel anything. Aren’t you supposed to feel something? Or is that just an antiquated notion that got into my head from reading too many fairy stories as a child? There is certainly no love between my mother and father, or any of my friends’ parents, for that matter.

  It just never occurred to me how sad that is.

  The song ends and I applaud loudly along with everyone else. I glance down the line and see Mother looking smugly satisfied and Father looking bored. Carnelian is sulky as always, but her companion is frowning deeper, which is strange. I didn’t think they were allowed to frown.

  The surrogate reaches out to turn the page for the next piece and winces a little. She begins the next piece and something is clearly off—she seems to be sweating and her mouth is pressed into a hard line. Suddenly, her bow screeches across the strings and falls to the floor. She looks down at her lap in horror.

  The cello falls with a jarring crash, and everyone jumps. We can all see now why she faltered.

  Blood has seeped through her dress, bright red, and it keeps coming, sinking into her skirt, dripping to the floor. Her hands are sticky with it. I see her mouth something, and I think it might be “help.” I stand without thinking. She falls, and before I can even move, a white blur flies in from offstage.

  Lucien catches her before she hits the ground.

  “Get the doctor!” he shouts. Women start screaming, everything becomes confused.

  “What’s happening?” Coral asks.

  I don’t know. What is happening?

  Mother runs up to the stage, followed quickly by the Exetor, and I hurry after them as the crowd swells up around me. I hear the surrogate moan as Lucien lays her down gently. Blood has pooled on the stage, and her skirt is more red than green. Mother looks terrified.

  “The doctor is in the Bank,” she says.

  It occurs to me then that the surrogate could die. I know surrogates get killed all the time, but it’s one thing knowing it and another thing seeing it.

  “We’ll send for someone immediately,” the Exetor says.

  “There’s no time, we have to stop the bleeding.” Lucien is frantic. The calm exterior he does such an excellent job of maintaining has cracked and beneath it I can see a jagged slice of utter panic and fear. And I realize that Lucien loves this girl.

  “My lady, where is your medical room?” he asks. Mother can only stare. I’ve never seen her so undone. “My lady!”

  She starts. “This way,” she says.

  Lucien lifts the girl up carefully, as if she were made of glass, and carries her past Mother, past me, through the throng of royals looking both shocked at the turn of events and eager to spread the news of Garnet’s Bloody Engagement Party.

  Then Lucien and Mother and the girl disappear out of the hall. Father looks at a loss.

  “Well,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “shall we . . .”

  He nods out at all the guests.

  “I’ll do it,” I grumble, because Father can be so useless at formal events.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I call, and the hall falls silent. “Thank you so much for coming to my engagement party. I apologize for cutting the festivities short, but clearly, my mother’s surrogate is unwell. This is a time for family privacy.”

  “Of course,” the Electress says, not looking particularly disappointed at the evening’s turn of events. Then she addresses the room like this is her house and her party. “Let us leave the Duchess in peace and hope that her surrogate will survive this night. I know the loss of a surrogate all too well, and I would not wish it upon any of my fellow royalty.”

  That statement is ridiculous on several levels—first of all, she isn’t really royalty, and secondly, she would absolutely wish for a surrogate death to befall a rival House like ours. But it gets everyone to leave and for that, I’m grateful.

  “Shall I stay?” Coral asks, gripping my elbow.

  “What?” I say. “No.” Then, realizing that came out harsher than I intended, I add, “You should go home with your mother. I will . . . inform you of the surrogate’s status tomorrow.” I smile for good measure.

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” She beams at me as her mother comes to take her away.

  Slowly, the concert hall empties. I don’t know if I’m supposed to stand by the doors and see everyone out, but I don’t have the energy, and what’s the point of having a rebellious reputation if I don’t put it to good use when I need to?

  I stand on the stage, alone. The surrogate’s blood spreads out over the polished floor, surrounding her cello like a red lake, and that seems wrong, because she clearly loves this cello. I slip out of my tuxedo jacket, pick up the instrument, and start wiping the blood off of it. But my hands are clumsy and I end up smearing it around rather than cleaning it.

  There is a loud bang as the offstage door flies open. Annabelle rushes toward me, her eyes filled with tears as she takes in the blood on the floor, the cello in my hands. She looks up at me, her face full of terror and with a t
rembling hand writes:

  Dead?

  “No,” I say. “She’s in the medical room. I think Lucien is taking care of her. It didn’t . . . look good.”

  She claps a hand over her mouth and the tears spill over and fall down her cheeks. Then she rushes forward and yanks the cello out of my hands.

  “I was just trying . . . trying to clean it,” I say, but she can’t write with one hand full of cello. So she glares at me with a heated intensity, and then points fiercely at her own chest and I know she’s telling me that’s her job. There’s a protectiveness to the gesture, something that reminds me of Lucien’s face when he stared at the girl’s bleeding figure on the ground. Annabelle loves this surrogate, too.

  She whirls around and carries the cello out of the concert hall, and I stand onstage alone, until Mary and some other maids arrive to clean up the blood.

  Eight

  I STAY UP ALL NIGHT, SITTING IN MY PARLOR, STARING AT the arcana cupped in my hands, willing it to buzz.

  Is she okay? What happened? Am I in trouble? Should I have foreseen this? Was I too busy sulking about my engagement to notice something was wrong? Will Lucien release the details of my tryst with Cyan? Does Annabelle hate me?

  Questions repeat themselves over and over again, a revolving circle of the same thoughts and fears.

  How did this happen to me? Here I am, completely frazzled over the welfare of a surrogate. I don’t think I could even tell you what any other surrogate I’ve ever seen looks like. Blond, brunette, redhead . . . they are like dolls, dolls with blurry faces who don’t matter because who are they anyway? Nothing. Property. But Lucien’s face. And Annabelle . . .

  I don’t even know her name. Do they have names? I think they’re given numbers for the Auction. Maybe they’re born with numbers. Are they even born in the normal way? I’ve never seen them as truly human until I heard the girl cry out in pain tonight.

  Am I a terrible person?

  Pale gray light seeps under the curtains, the sign of a new day beginning. I rouse myself and am just about to give up and get into bed, when the silver tuning fork buzzes and rises up out of my palm.

  “Is she okay?” I ask, before he has a chance to speak.

  There is the faintest pause on the other end, and I think maybe I’ve surprised him in some way.

  “Yes,” he says, and he sounds impossibly weary. “She will live.”

  I exhale, and it feels like a breath I’ve been holding all night. My head buzzes with relief.

  “That’s good,” I say.

  “It is.” Again, there’s a hint of surprise in his voice.

  “What?” I demand, too tired and frazzled to be polite. “Did you think I didn’t care? Do you think I’m not human?”

  “No,” he replies. “I think you are royal.”

  I sense a veiled insult but I don’t understand it.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you do not see the world the way most of the people in this city see it.”

  I frown. “This city loves the royalty.”

  Lucien chuckles through his weariness. “Oh, Garnet,” he says. “You know nothing of this city. You know the Jewel and the Bank. The Jewel tolerates you because of your high status and the Bank loves you because you sell papers.”

  No one has ever, ever, spoken to me this way. I open my mouth to set him straight and let him know who is who in this relationship, but then all the air seeps out of me and I realize he’s right.

  I’m nothing. I’m a very fancy, very expensive waste of time.

  “Why did you even ask for my help, then?” I say.

  He sighs. “I did not ask you. I blackmailed you.”

  Right. I dig my knuckles into my eyes.

  “Lucien, what is so important about this girl? Why do you care about her so much?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Besides the fact that you have me shadowing her every movement?”

  “You have done a mediocre job of that, at best. And having someone followed or watched does not mean I care about them. I keep tabs on more people than you could ever conceive of. Why do you think this girl is any different?”

  “Your face tonight,” I say bluntly. “When she was bleeding and . . . and crying. It was obvious.”

  Another pause. This one stretches so long, I grow impatient.

  “Do they have names? The surrogates, I mean,” I say. “Where do they come from?”

  “They come from the Marsh,” he says curtly. “Surely you know that. And yes, they have names.”

  “All of them?” I wish I hadn’t asked as soon as the question leaves my mouth.

  “All of them.”

  “Well, what’s hers, then?”

  Lucien huffs. “Why do you care, Garnet of the House of the Lake, heir to the Duchess, member of a Founding House?”

  “Don’t throw titles at me. That’s not who I am.”

  “It isn’t? Then please, enlighten me. Tell me who you are. Tell me why you are worthy to know her name.”

  “Worthy?” I stand up, my pulse racing. “Are you telling me I’m not worthy to know the name of some surrogate?”

  “That is exactly what I am telling you. You split people into two groups; those who are royal and those who are not. Have you ever stopped to consider what the ‘nots’ feel about you? That they are human beings in their own rights, with hopes and dreams and feelings? And that they outnumber you ten to one at least?”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Because he’s right.

  “Do you know what happens to surrogates, Garnet?” Lucien continues, and his voice drops to a snakelike whisper.

  “They . . . they make royal babies,” I stammer.

  “And then?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

  “They die. Every. Single. One. Childbirth is lethal to them.”

  I have to repeat that last sentence over three times in my head before I understand it.

  So every single girl I’ve ever seen on a leash, or at a ball, or sitting mutely at a dinner table . . . they’re all dead.

  “That—that can’t be right. Why would . . . how could that happen?”

  At this, Lucien laughs outright. “Did you even think about the surrogates until I asked you to watch one? Could you describe one for me, besides Violet?”

  “Violet?” I say.

  Silence.

  “Is her name Violet?” I ask again, in a more commanding tone.

  “Yes,” Lucien replies grudgingly.

  “Oh.” Violet. Violet plays the cello. Annabelle cares about Violet. These sentiments seem different when I put them together like this. The surrogate is Violet.

  If Violet has my little sister, Violet will die.

  “So . . . what’s the plan? Are you trying to figure out some way for her to have a baby and survive?”

  “No.”

  “Then what? Come on, Lucien. Please. Trust me.”

  The wait for him to answer feels interminable.

  “Can I?” he asks finally. “What possible promise could you make that I would be certain of?”

  I think hard for a moment. Lucien doesn’t care about money or jewels or anything like that. He seems to care about people.

  “I’ll swear on Annabelle,” I say. “If I do anything to get the surrogate in trouble, she’ll be punished tenfold. And I’d never do anything to hurt her.”

  “Hm.” Lucien sounds impressed. After a moment, he says, “I accept this promise.”

  “Great, so what’s the plan?”

  “The plan,” he says dramatically, “is to get her out of the Jewel.”

  Nine

  HIS PLAN IS CRAZY. IMPOSSIBLE.

  It’s Lucien, so obviously he didn’t tell me any specifics, but there’s no way he could get her out of my mother’s house. Still, I keep looking for ways he might be able to do it. Sneak her out through the servant tunnels? Kidnap her at the Winter Ball? Hide her in a delivery crate?

 
And he won’t tell me where he’s taking her or what he plans to do with her once he gets her there. He might be the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.

  Violet stays in bed for several days after the miscarriage—Lucien does tell me about that, about why she was bleeding so much. I didn’t know being pregnant could be that dangerous. When she does leave her room, I only ever see her when she goes out into the garden. I watch her wander through the neat rows of shrubs from one of the upstairs windows. She seems to like the west wall, or at least she always sets out in that direction. Then she’ll disappear into the wilder parts of the garden or into the hedge maze.

  Meanwhile, my opportunities to watch her grow more limited. My wedding plans are in full force. Mother has decided that now I should be involved in every stage of the process, as if getting married weren’t punishment enough. I’m forced to sit through endless china showings (Coral would probably faint from delight), and food tastings (those actually aren’t so bad), and Mother insists I help her with the ever-changing seating chart.

  Coral and I are forced to attend various lunches and tea parties and dinners, sometimes with our mothers and sometimes without. It’s nice to get to know her a little before I marry her, but it’s also awful because she’s just not that interesting.

  Mother makes arrangements one afternoon for a tailor to come and begin work on my tuxedo. Obviously I wander around the library for a little while first, just to make sure I’m not on time. As I meander through the rows that hold all the dull histories of the various Electresses and Exetors, I hear two voices; Carnelian and another girl. My pulse speeds up and I move closer.

  “I’m not up to anything,” the other girl says, and I know it must be Violet. I’ve never heard her speak before, but something about the voice sounds like her. “I just . . . like books.”

  I hear Carnelian snort. “Right,” she says. “We’ll see.”

  I’m not going to let an opportunity to speak to the girl I’ve been watching for almost two months slip by.

  “Is there a problem here, ladies?” I ask. They both look startled as I emerge from the stacks.

  “What are you doing here?” Carnelian asks. “I thought you were supposed to be getting measured for your tuxedo.”