by Amy Ewing
“Then what’s the point of all this?” I say. “Why am I here at all? Why did I come? I can’t help. I can’t . . .”
There’s a pause. I can feel Lucien gathering his thoughts.
“Do you remember,” he says, “when you asked me about Raven, back when you were still the Duchess’s surrogate? When you wanted to know where she lived?”
That feels like a million years ago. “Yes.”
“I thought it was so foolish of you. A complete waste of time. I was actually quite upset to realize she lived next door to you. I saw her as a distraction. A weakness.” He sighs. “But she was not a weakness. She is one of your greatest strengths. So is Ash. So is Hazel. The people you love make you strong, Violet. They make you brave and fearless. I wish there were some way I could make you see that.”
“But I’m not brave,” I say. “Not like you.”
Lucien chuckles. “No,” he says. “You are infinitely braver.”
I wish I could believe him. I have to try. Because this night has shown me that Lucien cannot solve all my problems for me.
I let his words form a shell around my heart, tough and sinewy. I must be strong. For my friends, for my sister, for this city. The only way to truly save Hazel is to destroy the royalty and surrogacy once and for all.
I am not a mere surrogate, bought and leashed and paraded around anymore. In the end, the royalty will know that.
And they will fear me.
Fifteen
THE DUKE IS BURIED TWO DAYS AFTER THE SHOOTING.
I sit on a stool in the kitchen the afternoon of the funeral, nibbling on a raspberry scone. The funeral is for family only, so I have an entire afternoon to myself.
I pick up the paper someone left on the table. “Tragedy Strikes Again!” the headline reads. “House Plagued by Misfortune.” And underneath, the very telling question, “Duchess’s Surrogate the Target?” The article doesn’t outright blame the Electress for the events of the party, but rumors are flying and this reporter is clearly aware of them. He strongly suggests that someone “influential and with a reason to want the surrogate dead” must have been behind the shooting. That goes in line with what everyone in the Jewel seems to be thinking.
I want to go see Hazel, but the doctor has moved back into the palace, like he did after I miscarried. Which makes the medical room extra dangerous to visit. I don’t know when I’ll get to see her again.
I turn the page and the next headline jumps out at me, along with a very familiar photograph, making me feel as if the floor has just dropped out from under my feet.
“Ash Lockwood Sighted?”
Ash’s face, the same one on the wanted posters from January, stares at me, the hint of a smile on his face, his hair smoothed back instead of tangled. Quickly, I read the article.
“Ash Lockwood, once one of the most highly sought-after companions in the Jewel, now a notorious fugitive, may have been sighted near his former companion house late last night. A man matching Lockwood’s description was seen lurking around the park near Madame Curio’s Companion House a little after midnight. The witness, a Mr. J. R. Rush, claims to have seen Lockwood while walking his dog. No doubt the Regimentals will be looking into the matter thoroughly. Lockwood is believed to be one of the leaders of the infamous Black Key Society, a band of rebels intent on vandalism and destruction, who have been linked to several bombings in the Bank and the Smoke and, most recently, the assassination of Magistrate Awl. He escaped the Jewel after raping the surrogate belonging to the Duchess of the Lake. Anyone with information on his whereabouts should contact their local law enforcement office immediately. The public is warned, however, that this individual is considered extremely dangerous.”
Ash has made it to the Bank! I want to stand up and whoop with joy. Maybe he’s already made contact with some companions. But it says nothing about Ochre. Have they been separated? Perhaps Ash left him someplace safe when he went to visit his old companion house. He’d never risk Ochre’s safety, I’m sure of that. Though Ochre may have a different definition of safe than Ash does. Worry and pride war inside me.
“Imogen, hand me that rosemary, will you?” Zara says, breaking into my thoughts. The mood in the palace is subdued. Even the normally bustling kitchen is quiet and mostly empty. A scullery maid named Clara scrubs pots in the sink and William rolls a cigarette by one of the stoves.
“Awful,” Zara mutters as I hand her the herb. She crunches the rosemary in her meaty fist and rubs it onto a roast. “He was a good man.”
“I didn’t know you knew the Duke so well,” I say.
“Not the Duke,” she snaps. “George, the footman. But no one cares that he’s dead, do they? No, it’s all weeping and sorrow over an alcoholic waste of space.”
“He wasn’t that bad, Zara,” William says. “Better than her, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, shut up, William, he always gave you special favors, that’s why you liked him,” Zara says, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
“Did they ever find out who those men were?” I ask. “Who they worked for?”
William adopts a bored expression. “The Electress, isn’t it obvious? She’s hated the Duchess for as long as she’s been married to the Exetor. And if her son marries the Duchess’s daughter, they’ll be stuck with each other for life. Wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing happened. I heard the Exetor’s sister’s death wasn’t really an accident.”
“She fell off a horse,” I say. “How do you fake that?”
“Did she?” William shrugs.
“Rumor and conspiracy theories,” Zara says. She glares at William. “And don’t even think of lighting that up in my kitchen.”
He is heading out the door to the garden when a small figure comes flying into the kitchen, screaming.
“Help! Help me, please!”
Hazel’s face is streaked with tears and there are scratches on her wrists and arms. She’s still wearing the fake stomach under a white, torn nightdress. Without the heels and the padded dress, she looks so much younger than she did at the party.
Zara gasps. I feel my mouth hanging open. I want to run to her, I want to shout her name, but I’m frozen with shock. How did she get here? How did she get out?
“Stop her!” another voice cries, and suddenly Cora runs into the room, her arm in a sling, two Regimentals on her heels. Hazel pelts in my direction, and my arms instinctively reach for her, but William grabs her around the chest.
“Let me go!” Hazel cries. Her eyes lock on mine. “She’s trying to kill me. She’s trying to kill me!”
“Five, Three, take her back to the medical room right now,” Cora commands. Hazel is struggling against William’s grasp.
I stand there, wide-eyed, feeling paralyzed and helpless. What do I do? Who is trying to kill her? Is she talking about the Electress?
The two Regimentals wrangle my sister out of William’s grasp. She bites Five’s hand and he swears.
“Calm down,” Cora says. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
Hazel spits in her face as they drag her away, wrenching her head around to meet my gaze one more time.
“She’s trying to kill me,” she says, her eyes flickering back to Cora. I hear her scream it one more time, her voice echoing over the stone floors, before it fades. Then she’s gone.
The four of us left in the kitchen are stunned into stillness.
Zara clears her throat. “I’d suggest we all forget what we just saw here,” she says.
Clara goes back to scrubbing pots with renewed fervor and William hurries out the door to smoke. I continue to stand stock-still, dumbstruck. Hazel was right here and I did nothing. I’ve never felt so useless.
She’s trying to kill me. And she looked at Cora when she said it.
Is Cora trying to hurt my sister? Then why save her life at the party?
“Imogen?”
I start. One of the footmen hovers in the doorway, looking nervous.
“Yes?”
He holds out a letter.
“This just came for Coral. From the Royal Palace.”
I numbly take the cream-colored envelope from him. Coral’s name is written in elegant script, in golden ink.
I bring it to her chambers in a daze, not seeing where I’m going, not focusing on anything but the image of my sister’s tearstained face, her last words still echoing in my ears.
When Coral arrives home hours later from the funeral, I give it to her and she rips it open eagerly.
“‘My dearest Coral,’” she reads aloud. “‘We would love to have you and your husband over for lunch in three days’ time at two o’clock. My deepest sympathies again on the loss of your father-in-law. We must all remain strong in these troubling times. Please send your reply back as soon as possible. All the very best, The Electress.’” She presses the letter to her heart. “How wonderful! We must respond right away, as she says. I’ve never received a personal invitation to the Royal Palace before!”
She quickly writes a response and gives me the letter to post. I find one bright spot in this situation—a trip to the Royal Palace means I get to see Lucien. I need his advice and guidance more than ever.
Sixteen
CORA SEEMS TO BE AVOIDING ME OVER THE NEXT FEW days.
She’s always with the Duchess, who has been looking tired, almost haggard, since Hazel’s escape. She never seems to be in her room when I’ve tried seeing her before bedtime. I finally manage to corner her by waiting outside her room the morning of Coral and Garnet’s luncheon at the Royal Palace.
“What’s going on?” I demand, and she jumps at the sight of me.
“Everything is fine,” she says, glancing up and down the empty hallway. “She got out when the doctor was distracted. She’s safe in the medical room now.”
“Safe?” I hiss. “She said you were trying to kill her!”
“Why would I do that?” Cora takes a step forward so my back is pressed against the wall. “The doctor gave her something to calm her down after the shooting. It was still in her system. She was confused. Disoriented. No one in this palace would want to hurt her.”
“But—”
“Look, I made a promise and I’m going to keep it,” Cora says through clenched teeth. “Just don’t forget to hold up your end of the bargain.”
Then she turns on her heel and storms off. I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes. I want to believe her. I want to believe that Hazel is safe.
But she isn’t. None of us are.
I make my way back up to Coral’s chambers, to prepare her for the luncheon.
Maybe Lucien can help me sort all of this out.
THE ROYAL PALACE IS JUST AS GRAND AS I REMEMBER IT.
Our motorcar winds its way up through the thick forest and past the topiary, which showcases birds and beasts crafted impeccably out of ten-foot-high hedges. We emerge into a large square with a fountain in its center, four boys blowing trumpets, water pouring out of their horns in thin arches.
The palace itself is crafted out of a burnished metal that glows like liquid gold. It climbs into the sky in turrets and spires and towers, its gleaming surface making me squint in the bright sunlight.
“I can’t believe the Duchess tried to advise us not to come,” Coral says as the chauffeur opens the door for her. “How could we refuse an invitation from the Royal Palace?”
The Duchess was not thrilled when she heard about this luncheon.
“You know what they’re saying, darling,” Garnet says with a casual glance in my direction. “Mother is simply trying to keep us safe.”
“Well, of course we’ll be safe,” Coral says, her chest swelling with pride. “Doesn’t she know my husband is a Master Sergeant in the Regimentals?”
Garnet’s expression softens and I feel my heart soften, too. Coral might be a royal, but she’s a sweet girl, really.
We walk up the low steps to the front doors, opened by footmen clad in blue and red, shiny brass buttons on their coats.
Lucien is waiting for us in the immense, circular foyer.
“Garnet, Coral, welcome,” he says warmly. “Their Royal Graces are eager to see you. Lunch will be served in the Lotus Garden. Please, follow me.”
He leads the way, Coral and Garnet arm in arm behind him, while I bring up the rear. I’ve been to the Royal Palace twice before, once for the Exetor’s Ball and again for the celebration of the Longest Night. But clearly, I haven’t even seen a fraction of it. Lucien leads us down wide halls lined with huge oil paintings, others with richly detailed murals. One hall’s floor seems to be crafted out of pure diamond. Another has lights that shift their color as you pass, changing from mauve to lavender to pale green.
We end up in front of a set of glass double doors. Lucien opens them and bows, gesturing Coral and Garnet outside. I stop in the doorway and can’t help the way my breath catches in my throat.
The Lotus Garden has no discernible walls, just lush greenery in a wide circle. And instead of rows of flowers or neatly cut grass, all around us is water. Crystal-clear water filled with lotus blossoms and lily pads. The soft white flowers float lazily, as frogs and fish dart around them. There is a flagstone walkway out to a large stone island in the center of the garden, where a white table and chairs sit underneath a wide umbrella, plates and cutlery laid out, a bottle of white wine chilling in a silver bucket in its center.
The Exetor and Electress are already sitting. The Electress waves.
“Garnet, Coral, you’ve arrived!” she calls out. “Wonderful. The chef is making lobster thermidor. I do hope that’s all right. Lucien, leave us. Show Coral’s lady-in-waiting to the green room, she can wait there until we’re finished.”
“Yes, my lady,” Lucien says with a bow, and we leave Garnet and Coral to their lunch.
As soon as we’re out of sight and alone, Lucien whirls around and envelops me in a hug.
“There’s so—” I’m about to tell him about Hazel’s escape when he interrupts.
“I wish to show you something. And we don’t have much time. This way.”
He glides down the hall and turns left, stopping at a large, gilt-framed mirror to pull on its right-hand side. It opens with a click, revealing a small landing with a stone staircase branching off it in both directions. We climb through the hole and walk up until we reach another hallway. Left, right, up a set of stairs, left, more stairs . . . I quickly lose track of where we are except that we are climbing high up within the palace. The halls are bustling with servants, and everyone bobs a curtsy or nods to Lucien as he passes.
We reach a simple wooden door—it’s locked, but Lucien takes out his key ring. A spiral staircase curls up, and when we come to its end, there is only another wooden door. This one has no lock.
Lucien opens it and I find myself staring at a bedroom. It’s plain, almost austere, and reminds me of my room at Southgate. A neatly made bed, a dresser, a small armchair by the window. There is a watercolor painting hanging on the wall, a meadow of blue flowers. A closet door is slightly ajar.
“Is this . . .”
“My room,” Lucien says, and he doesn’t look at me. I feel embarrassed. This is so personal. Why did Lucien take me here?
Then he crosses the room to the closet, pulls aside the row of hanging lady-in-waiting dresses, and reveals a hidden door.
It is made of metal and has no discernible handle. Lucien takes his arcana off his key ring and inserts it into a depression in the center of the door. The tuning fork begins to buzz, then the door clicks open. Lucien holds out his hand and the arcana drops into his palm. Once it is secured safely back on its ring, he pushes the door wide.
“Yours will open it as well,” he says. “As will Garnet’s and Sil’s.”
I leave the bedroom behind and walk into the secret room. The door swings shut, plunging us into darkness for a moment before lights begin to switch on one by one.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“My workshop,” Lucien says.
Bookshelves line the wall behind me and the one opposite, books crammed in wherever there is space. Where there isn’t, stacks of books pile up on tables or under chairs. The wall to my left is plastered with maps and illustrations and scraps of paper with hastily scribbled notes. There is a large drawing table with three glowglobes hovering over it like miniature suns. An easel is set up in a corner, a collection of paint tubes on a nearby table, their guts spilling out in shades of magenta and lavender and lemon yellow. A large screen, like the one Dr. Blythe used when giving me Augury tests but larger, is mounted on the wall among the papers, glowing faintly.
The center of the room is dominated by a long wooden table, covered in strange equipment. There are glass beakers in every shape and size, some filled with bubbling liquids, others smoking in hues of gray and gold, some with flames burning underneath, some that emit faint humming sounds, like a faraway arcana. There is a mortar and pestle filled with crushed leaves that give off a minty scent and another one with black things inside that look like peppercorns. Thin copper coils twist out of several beakers and into others.
The wall to my right is entirely filled with clocks. Large and small, some fancy, some plain, some made of intricately wrought metals, others just simple white faces with wooden frames.
I see a familiar-looking object, lying half-buried under a sheaf of papers on the drawing desk. I pick the slate up in trembling hands.
“Yes,” Lucien says softly, and I jump. “I made Annabelle’s slate. That was a prototype.”
My fingers tighten around it briefly before I set it back down on the table.
“Why are you showing me this?” I ask.
“I felt it was time. The Auction draws closer every day. No one has ever seen this place. Besides, you are so opportunely available now.” Lucien moves a pile of books off of an armchair and indicates that I should sit. He pulls up a stool from in front of the easel. I notice that there are the beginnings of a drawing on it—the rough outline of a girl’s face with long hair. I would be willing to bet it’s Azalea.
“It’s incredible,” I say.
