by Amy Ewing
Raven hides her smile in a mouthful of eggs and hash browns. Lily looks a little confused for a second but recovers quickly.
“So did you hear? About the Electress?” She looks at us expectantly, but Raven is more interested in her food and I’ve never paid much attention to the politics of the Jewel. But some of the girls follow all the gossip.
“No,” I say politely, spearing a piece of cantaloupe on the end of my fork.
Lily puts the magazine on the table. The Electress’s young face stares out at us from the cover of The Daily Jewel, above the headline ELECTRESS TO ATTEND AUCTION.
“Can you believe it? The Electress, at our Auction!” Lily is beside herself. She loves the Electress, like many of the girls at Southgate. Her story is quite an unusual one—she is from the Bank, not true royalty at all, but the Exetor saw her during a trip to one of her father’s shops and fell in love and married her. Very romantic. Her family is royalty now, of course, and living in the Jewel. A lot of the girls see her as a sign of hope, as if their fortunes could be changed like hers. I don’t see what’s so bad about being a shopkeeper’s daughter in the first place.
“I never thought she’d come,” Lily continues. “I mean, her precious little boy was only born a few months ago. Just imagine—she could choose one of us to carry her next baby!”
I want to shred the lace tablecloth with my fingernails. She makes it sound like we should be honored, as if it were our choice. I don’t want to carry anyone’s baby, not the Electress’s or anyone else’s. I don’t want to be sold tomorrow.
And Lily looks so excited, like it’s a real possibility that the Electress would bid on her. She’s only Lot 53.
I hate myself as soon as I think it. She is not Lot 53, she is Lily Deering. She loves chocolate, and gossip, and pink dresses with lace collars, and she plays the violin. She comes from a horrible family and you’d never know it because she has a nice word to say about everyone she’s ever met. She is Lily Deering.
And tomorrow, she’ll be bought and paid for, and living in a strange house under a strange woman’s rules. A woman who might not understand her, and her endless, boundless enthusiasm. A woman who might not care, or know how to speak to her.
A woman who will force her own child to grow inside Lily, whether Lily wants it or not.
Suddenly, I am so angry I can hardly stand it. Before I realize it, I’m on my feet, hands balled into fists.
“What—” Lily begins, but I don’t even hear her. I catch only a glimpse of Raven’s surprised expression before I march through the tables, ignoring the furtive, curious looks from the other girls, and then I’m running out of the room and up the stairs, slamming the door to my bedroom.
I grab my father’s ring and shove it onto my thumb; the biggest finger I have and the ring is still too big for it. I curl my fingers into a fist around the chain.
I pace back and forth across the tiny cell of my room—I can’t believe I thought I’d miss it here. It’s a prison, a place to contain me before I’m shipped off to become a human incubator for a woman I’ve never met. The walls start to close in and I stumble into my dresser, knocking everything off it onto the floor. The brush and comb make tiny slapping sounds as they bounce off the wood, and the vase shatters, strewing flowers everywhere.
My door opens. Raven looks from me to the mess on the floor and back again. Blood pounds in my temples, and my body is quivering. She picks her way across my room and wraps her arms around me. Tears well up and spill over, trickling down my cheeks and seeping into her blouse.
We’re quiet for a long time.
“I’m scared,” I whisper. “I’m scared, Raven.”
She squeezes me close, then starts picking up the scattered shards. I feel a hot surge of embarrassment at the mess I’ve made, and bend down to help her.
We put the remains of the vase back on my dresser and Raven wipes her hands on her pants. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says.
I nod and we walk, hand in hand, down the hall to the powder room. The girl who dropped the icy glass is in there, dabbing at her nose with a wet cloth—her nosebleed has stopped, but her skin is covered in a light sheen of sweat. She starts at the sight of us.
“Out,” Raven says. The girl drops the cloth and hurries out the door.
Raven takes a clean facecloth and soaks it with water and lavender soap.
“Are you nervous—” I almost say “about the Auction,” but change my mind. “About seeing your family again?”
“Why would I be nervous?” she says, wiping my face with the wet cloth. The scent of lavender is comforting.
“Because you haven’t seen them in five years,” I say gently. Raven’s been here longer than I have.
She shrugs, dabbing the cloth under my eyes. I know her well enough to drop the subject. She rinses out the cloth and starts running a comb through my hair. My heart thrums as I think about what will happen after this day.
“I don’t want to go,” I confess. “I don’t want to go to the Auction.”
“Of course you don’t,” she replies. “You’re not insane, like Lily.”
“That’s mean. Don’t say that.”
Raven rolls her eyes and puts the comb down, arranging my hair over my shoulders.
“What’s going to happen to us?” I ask.
Raven takes my chin in her hand and looks straight into my eyes. “You listen to me, Violet Lasting. We are going to be fine. We’re smart and strong. We’ll be fine.”
My lower lip quivers and I nod. Raven relaxes and gives my hair a last pat.
“Perfect,” she says. “Now. Let’s go see our families.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Two
ELECTRIC STAGECOACHES TAKE US THROUGH THE DUSTY streets.
Thick velvet curtains protect us from the flakes of dried mud that swirl through the air—the ones that used to stick to my skin as a child. I peek through the fabric, unable to help myself. I haven’t been outside the holding facility since I was twelve.
The streets are lined with one-story mud-brick houses; some of the roofs are rotted or caving in. Children run half naked in the streets, and potbellied men lounge in alleys or on stoops, drinking strong spirits from bottles hidden in paper bags. We pass an almshouse, its shutters closed, its doors padlocked. On Sunday, there will be a huge line down this street, families waiting for whatever food and clothing and medicine the royalty has donated to help the unfortunate. However much they send, though, it’s never enough.
A few streets later, I see a trio of Regimentals pushing an emaciated boy away from a greengrocer’s. It’s been so long since I’ve seen any men besides the doctors who examine us. The Regimentals are young, with large hands and noses, and broad shoulders. They stop harassing the boy when my coach rolls past, standing at attention, and I wonder if they see me peeking through the curtains at them. I quickly cover the window.
There are four of us in the coach, but not Raven. Her family lives on the other side of Southgate. The Marsh is like the tire of a bicycle, encircling the outer reaches of Lone City. If the Great Wall should ever crumble, we’d be the first to go, consumed by the terrible ocean that surrounds us on all sides.
Each circle of the city, with the exception of the Jewel, is divided into four quarters—North, South, East, and West—by two spokes that form an X. In the middle of each quarter in the Marsh is a holding facility. Raven’s family lives on the eastern side of Southgate, mine to the west. I wonder if Raven and I would ever have met, if we hadn’t been diagnosed as surrogates.
No one speaks in the coach, and I’m grateful for that. I rub my wrist, feeling the hard circle of the transmitter they implanted just under my skin. We all got one before we left for our homes. It’s only temporary—they’ll dissolve in about eight hours. It’s Southgate’s way of enforcing the rules: Do not talk about what go
es on inside the holding facility. Do not talk about the Auguries. Do not talk about the Auction.
The coach drops us off, one by one. I’m last.
My whole body is trembling by the time I reach my house. I listen for some sign that my family is out there, waiting for me, but I only hear the dull thud of my pulse in my ears. It takes all my strength to reach out and turn the brass handle on the carriage door. For a fleeting moment, I don’t think I can do it. What if they don’t love me anymore? What if they’ve forgotten me?
Then I hear my mother’s voice. “Violet?” she calls timidly.
I open the door.
They stand in a line, wearing what must be their best clothes. I’m shocked to see that Ochre has grown taller than my mother—his chest and arms are muscled, his hair cropped short, and his skin tough and tanned. He must have gotten a job in the Farm.
My mother looks so much older than I remember, but her hair is still the same red-gold color. There are deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
Hazel, though . . . Hazel is almost unrecognizable. She was seven when I left, eleven now. All arms and legs, her sad, tattered pinafore hangs loose on her bony frame. But her face is just like Father’s; she has his eyes, exactly. We have the same hair, long, black, and wavy. This makes me smile. Hazel edges a little closer to Ochre.
“Violet?” my mother says again.
“Hello,” I say, surprised by my formality. I step out of the carriage and feel the thick marsh-dust between my toes. Hazel’s eyes widen—I don’t know what she thought I’d be wearing, but probably not a nightdress and bathrobe. None of my family is wearing shoes. I’m glad I’m not, either. I want to feel the dirt beneath my feet, the grimy dust of my home.
There is a second of awkward silence, then my mother stumbles forward and throws her arms around me. She is so thin, and I notice a slight limp that I’m sure she didn’t have before.
“Oh, my baby,” she croons. “I’m so happy to see you.”
I inhale her scent of bread and salt and sweat. “I missed you,” I whisper.
She wipes the tears from her eyes and holds me out at arm’s length. “How long do we have?”
“Until eight.”
My mother opens her mouth, then closes it with a tiny shake of her head. “Well, then. Let’s make the best of it.” She turns to my siblings. “Ochre, Hazel, come hug your sister.”
Ochre strides forward—when did he get so big? He was only ten when I left. When did he become a man?
“Hey, Vi,” he says. Then he bites his lip, like he’s worried about addressing a surrogate so informally.
“Ochre, you’re huge,” I tease. “What has Mother been feeding you?”
“I’m six feet,” he says proudly.
“You’re a monster.”
He grins.
“Hazel,” my mother says, “come say hello to your sister.”
Then Hazel, my little Hazel, who I used to sing to at night, and sneak cookies to after lights out, and play Jewel-in-the-Crown with in our backyard, turns her back on me and runs into the house.
“SHE JUST NEEDS A LITTLE TIME,” MOTHER SAYS A FEW minutes later, as she pours me a cup of chrysanthemum tea.
But time is something I don’t have.
I take a sip of tea and try as hard as I can not to make a face. I’ve forgotten the bitter, astringent flavor, my taste buds so used to coffee and fresh-squeezed juice. Guilt slides into my stomach as I swallow.
My mother and I sit at the wooden table on chairs that my father made. The house is smaller than I remember it. Only one room for the kitchen and sitting area. There is a sink, a little paraffin stove, a side table with a cabinet underneath for plates and cutlery. There is only one couch, its stuffing poking out in places, and a rocking chair by the fireplace. My mother used to knit in that chair. I wonder if she still does.
“Hazel doesn’t remember me,” I say glumly.
“She does,” Mother replies. “Just . . . not how you are now. I mean, goodness, Violet, look at you.”
I look down. Do I really look that different? My arms are plumper than hers, and my skin has a healthy pink flush to it.
“Your face, sweetheart.” My mother laughs gently.
My throat goes tight. “I . . . I haven’t seen my face in a while.”
She purses her lips. “Would you like to see it now?”
I can’t swallow. My hand slips into the pocket of my robe and I squeeze my father’s ring. “No,” I whisper. I don’t know why, but the thought of my reflection terrifies me. I stare at my mother’s hands, folded in her lap—they are gnarled with arthritis, blue veins popping out like rivers in a topographic map.
“Where’s your ring?” I ask.
Her cheeks turn pink and she shrugs.
“Mother,” I press, “what happened to your ring?”
“I sold it.”
I can feel my eyes bugging out of their sockets. “What? Why?”
She looks at me, her expression defiant. “We needed the money.”
“But . . .” I shake my head, bewildered. “What about the stipend?”
A yearly stipend is given to the families of the surrogates, compensation for the loss of a daughter.
My mother sighs. “The stipend isn’t enough, Violet. Why do you think Ochre had to drop out of school? Look at my hands; I can’t work as much as I used to. Do you want me to send Hazel to the factories? Or the orchards?”
“Of course not.” I can’t believe she would even suggest that. Hazel is too young to withstand the brutal labor in the Farm—there’s barely an ounce of muscle on her. And she’d never survive the Smoke. I cringe at the thought of her operating some heavy piece of machinery, choking on the dust that saturates the air.
“Then don’t judge how I provide for this family. Your father, rest his soul, would understand. It’s only a piece of gold.” She wipes her hand across her forehead. “It’s only a piece of gold,” she mumbles again.
I don’t know why I’m so upset. She’s right, it’s just a thing. It’s not my father.
I squeeze his ring one last time, then take it out of my pocket and place it on the table. “Here. You can have this back now. I can’t keep it anyway.”
There is a look in my mother’s eyes as she picks up the ring, and I see what it cost her to sell hers.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“Can I keep the bathrobe?” I ask.
She laughs, and her eyes glitter with tears. “Of course. It fits you so well now.”
“It’ll probably get thrown out. But I’d like to keep it for as long as I can.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “It’s yours. I’m surprised they let you visit us in your pajamas.”
“We can wear whatever we want. Especially today.”
Silence falls, pressing down on me like a pillow, smothering all the things I want to say. A fly buzzes in the window over the sink. My mother strokes the back of my hand with her finger, her expression distant, worried.
“They do take good care of you there, don’t they?” she asks.
I shrug and look away. I can’t really talk to her about Southgate.
“Violet, please,” she says. “Please tell me. You can’t imagine how hard it’s been. On me, on Hazel and Ochre. First your father, and . . . look at you, you’re all grown up and . . . and I missed it.” A single tear escapes and runs down her cheek. “I missed it, baby. How am I supposed to live with that?”
A lump forms in my throat. “It’s not your fault,” I say, staring very hard at her hands. “You didn’t have a choice.”
“No,” my mother murmurs. “No, I didn’t. But I lost you, all the same. So please, tell me some good has come out of it. Tell me you have a better life.”
I wish I could tell her that I do. I wish I could tell her the truth, about the three Auguries and the years of pain and the endless tests and the doctor visits. I wish I could tell her how much I’ve missed her, how there is more tenderness in her finger strokin
g my hand than in all the caretakers combined. I wish I could tell her how much I love playing the cello, how good I am at it. I think she’d be proud of me, if she knew. I think she’d like hearing me play.
The lump in my throat is so swollen I’m amazed I can still breathe. My mind flits back to that awful day when the Regimentals came, a memory that is so old, so tangled, like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. Me, crying, screaming, begging her not to let them take me. Hazel’s eyes, wide and pleading, her tiny hands clutching my ragged dress. The cold glint of a Regimental’s gun. And my mother, pressing her lips against my forehead, her tears saturating my hair as she says, “You have to go with them, Violet. You have to go with them.”
Suddenly, the room is too hot. “I—I need some air,” I gasp, pushing my chair back and stumbling out the back door.
The backyard is just a patch of dry earth and yellowing grass. But I feel better as a cool breeze tickles my skin, rustling the leaves of the lemon tree in the center of the yard. The lemon tree that never once produced a lemon. What was that song Father used to sing?
Lemon tree, very pretty
And the lemon flower is sweet
It was some sort of analogy about the dangerous nature of love, but all I remember thinking whenever he sang it was how much I wanted to eat a lemon. It was the first thing I tried when I got to Southgate. In my excitement, I bit right through the rind, the sourness so shocking.
“You look different.”
I whirl around. Hazel is sitting on an upturned bucket against the wall of the house. I didn’t even see her.
“That’s what Mother says.” My voice comes out a little breathless.
She studies me for a moment. Her eyes are sharp and intelligent. It hits me again how much she looks like our father.
“She says you’re going to the Auction tomorrow,” Hazel says. “That’s why they’re letting you see us.”
I nod. “They call it Reckoning Day. To . . . settle the accounts of your past before starting your future.” I don’t know why I say it. The phrase I’ve heard from the mouths of caretakers a hundred times tastes bitter in my mouth.
