by Amy Ewing
I’m still giggling when the door across from me opens.
My heart jumps to my throat so quickly I choke on it. There’s no time to find a place to hide. A figure steps into the room and suddenly it doesn’t matter that I can’t hide, I couldn’t move even if I wanted to, and a wave of dizziness washes over me.
Standing in the doorway is a boy. Not a boy, a young man—he looks to be about the same age as the Duchess’s son. Tall and slender, with tousled brown hair and a strong jaw, his mouth curves a bit at the corners, like he’s holding back a smile. One hand rests in the pocket of his pants and his shirt is open at the collar.
But it’s his eyes that have me pinned in place. They are a soft gray-green, and they look at me in a way I haven’t been looked at since I started my life in the Jewel—like I am a girl, a person, not a surrogate. And yet, it’s something more than that; they look at me in a way that makes me feel hollow and strangely buzzy.
“Hello,” he says. His voice is soft, musical, lovelier than any instrument—my cello would sound harsh compared to it.
He looks at me expectantly. I have no idea what to say.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says finally. “My apologies if I’ve kept you waiting.”
I can only stare. His mouth curves into a full smile and I feel my lungs contract, making it very difficult to breathe. “It’s all right to be nervous. I know you haven’t been here very long. The Jewel can be a little overwhelming.”
I barely manage a nod, which is better than nothing. How does this boy know who I am?
He shuts the door behind him. The room feels very small with just the two of us in it.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asks pleasantly. I don’t think I can move; my lips feel like they’ve been glued together. I want to say something, but my brain isn’t working right. All I can do is watch him, the easy grace of his movements, the curve of his mouth, those exquisite gray-green eyes. He laughs and my heart swells up like a balloon, filling my mouth and throat. “I know you haven’t had a companion before, but you can speak to me. It’s all right. I’m here for you.”
Hope unfolds inside me, spreading through my chest and legs. He’s here for me?
“Why?” I croak, and my cheeks flush with embarrassment at the sound of my voice.
He seems glad to have finally gotten a response out of me, though. “Didn’t your mother ever explain to you about companions?”
I shake my head.
“But surely one of your friends must have had one?”
I think for a moment. “Do all companions . . . look like you?”
He laughs again, louder this time. “Not exactly, but yes.”
“Then no,” I reply. “Definitely not.”
His face turns thoughtful. “Why don’t we sit down?”
“Um, okay.” I bang my shin against the corner of the coffee table as I move to sit on the sofa.
“Are you all right?” the boy asks.
“I’m fine,” I gasp, trying to ignore the pain in my leg. Am I always this clumsy? It feels like my limbs have disconnected from the rest of my body and don’t quite know what to do with themselves.
“Well,” the boy says. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”
No one has asked me that question in so long. “What do you want to know?”
He leans back and drapes one arm over the top of the couch. I am hyperaware of his body, the shape of his hands and arms, the light skin stretched over taut muscle. I wish my cheeks would stop burning. I wish we could open the window.
“Anything. Everything. What do you enjoy doing most?”
“I . . . playing music.”
“Really?” His eyes light up. “What instrument do you play?”
“The cello.”
“That’s one of my favorites.” He smiles. “You know, I saw Stradivarius Tanglewood play at the Royal Concert Hall last year.”
Suddenly, I forget to be nervous. “You did? Live? In person?”
“You’re a fan, I take it.”
“A fan? Stradivarius Tanglewood is the most talented cellist in the last century! He’s . . . I mean, how could anyone not . . .” I can’t frame the sentence correctly. Fan seems like such a trivial word. I nearly wore out the gramophone listening to Tanglewood’s records at Southgate. He was an inspiration.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go,” the boy says. “It was an amazing concert.”
“I bet it was. Did he play the minuet in D Minor?”
The boy looks delighted. “He did. Though my favorite is the prelude in G Major. I know it’s fairly simple but—”
“It’s one of my favorites, too!” I didn’t mean to shout—the boy looks a little alarmed. “It’s, um, the first piece I ever learned to play,” I add, in a calmer tone.
“Perhaps he’ll perform again in the next few months. I’d love to take you. Though, I must admit, I prefer Reed Purling.”
My jaw drops. “Reed Purling? Are you joking? Purling is inferior to Tanglewood in every way possible! Technique, style, his phrasing is always terribly clunky, he has the emotional range of a doorknob . . .” I used to have quite a few arguments about this at Southgate with my music teacher. “It’s like comparing a finely cut diamond to a piece of quartz.”
The boy laughs. “I’ve never met a Bank girl with such love and knowledge of music.” His hand crosses the small space between us and, very gently, he traces his fingertips down the side of my face. “I cannot wait to get to know you.”
A riot starts in my chest, my heart pumping so loud it’s embarrassing, but all I can focus on is the feel of his fingers against my skin and the way it sends a strange sort of shivery heat through my veins.
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, his words filter through into my consciousness. “What do you mean, ‘a Bank girl’?”
He pulls his hand away, his gray eyes wary. “What do you mean, what do I mean? You’re from the Bank.”
Despair punches through my chest, clouding my vision like a fog, leaking all the color out of the room. Of course. I should have known. He thinks I’m someone else. I’m not even supposed to be here.
He studies my expression. “You’re not from the Bank?”
I shake my head, my throat swollen. “The Marsh,” I manage to whisper.
He jumps up like I’ve electrocuted him. “No,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “No.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Please tell me you’re not the surrogate.”
The word hits me like a slap in the face, and when he looks at me again, his eyes are different and I know he’s seeing me the way everyone else does, the way that identifies me as what I am, not who. He doesn’t see me anymore.
The truth is plain on my face. I can feel it there, betraying me, shouting at him that I’m forbidden, that I’m dangerous. That I’m not allowed.
“What are you doing here?” he hisses, glancing around like someone might be watching.
“I . . . I . . .”
He grabs my arm. “You need to go. Now.”
Suddenly, there is a knock on the door I came through. We both freeze, identical expressions of panic on our faces. “Just a moment,” he says, his voice remarkably calm, given the situation. He puts a finger to his lips and pulls me over to a closet, pushing me inside and closing the door. It’s dark and smells like mothballs. I crouch low and press one eye against the keyhole.
He runs a hand through his hair, fixes his shirt, and opens the door. “Hello,” he says, sounding just as light and casual as when he first spoke to me.
“Good afternoon.” The voice is thin and reedy, and I recognize it immediately—the Duchess’s niece.
No. He can’t be here for her.
“My aunt is being insufferable at the moment,” she continues. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Not at all,” the boy says warmly. “Please, come in.”
I see a glimpse of purple fabric, but the boy’s figure blocks my view of
the girl as he closes the door. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks.
“No.”
He moves out of my keyhole-shaped line of sight. There is a long silence.
“Aren’t you going to speak to me?” the girl asks petulantly.
“Certainly. Of course. My apologies. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
I hate that he asks her the same question he asked me.
“Aren’t you supposed to say nice things to me? All my friends who had companions said they told them how pretty they were all the time.”
If I hadn’t been so desperately hoping for it, I might not have noticed the slight hesitation before he says smoothly, “You’re very pretty.”
There is a rustling of skirts, and then the girl moves into view, and I can’t help feeling a hint of smug satisfaction at the fact that she is definitely not pretty.
“Come here,” she demands, and I grind my teeth together. I don’t like the way she’s speaking to him. The boy moves back into view. “I’ve never had a companion before.”
“I’m aware of that. Your aunt wishes the best for your future, and so she enlisted my services.”
The girl snorts. “My aunt doesn’t care a diamante about me. She wants me married and off her hands as soon possible.”
The boy shrugs. “That could be true, I don’t know. Her Ladyship does not confide in me.”
The girl toys with a ruffle on her dress. “So . . . you’re going to teach me how to be pleasing to a man?”
What? No. Absolutely not. He can’t be here for that. Can he?
The boy’s mouth curves seductively. “I am here to teach you how to make a man become pleasing to you.”
I can’t blame the girl for her expression, her beady little eyes widening, her mouth slightly open. “When do we start?” she asks.
He laughs. “Soon. This is just an introduction.”
“Oh.” She frowns as I exhale with relief. Then she holds out her hand. “I’m Carnelian, Carnelian Silver. But you probably already knew that.”
Carnelian. What a stupid name.
The boy takes her hand and presses his lips lightly against it. “It is very nice to meet you, Carnelian. I’m Ash Lockwood.”
Ash. His name is Ash . . . I mouth it silently to the dark closet and smile.
“We’re allowed to kiss, aren’t we? My friend Chalice had a companion and she said they were allowed to touch and kiss and everything.” Carnelian watches Ash greedily, eager for him to confirm her hopes.
Did I imagine it, or did Ash’s eyes flicker to my closet? “We have plenty of time to discuss the rules of my service,” he says. “But I imagine it’s nearly time for you to dress for dinner.”
“Will you be at dinner tonight as well?” Carnelian asks.
“Yes. So I will need to change, too.”
Carnelian looks him up and down. “I think you look perfect just as you are,” she says, almost shyly. “Maybe living here won’t be so bad anymore.”
She walks to the door and waits for Ash to open it for her.
“It was very nice to meet you, Carnelian Silver,” he says.
She smiles back in what I’m sure she thinks is a winning way. “It was nice to meet you, too, Ash Lockwood. I’ll see you soon.”
He closes the door behind her and leans his head against it, eyes closed. For an agonizing second, I wonder if he’s forgotten about me. But then he strides across the room and throws open the closet door.
“Do you have any idea how difficult that was, with you in here?” he hisses.
“It wasn’t my fault.” I scramble to my feet but my legs have cramped and I lose my balance. Ash catches my elbow to steady me and my pulse quickens.
“Get out of here,” he says. “Quickly. Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me or spoken to me or . . . or . . . anything. Do you understand?” For the first time, I see a crack in his façade. He seems genuinely terrified.
“Who would I tell?” I say quietly. “Nobody talks to me. Nobody listens.”
I see a flash of something that might be pity in his eyes. “Get out of here,” he says again.
I stumble to the door, stopping with my hand on the knob. “I don’t . . . I don’t know the way back.”
Ash sighs. “Neither do I,” he says with a shrug. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
I stare at him for a long moment, wondering if I’ll ever see him again.
“What?” he asks.
“I’ve never met anyone like you before,” I say. Then I blush furiously—that didn’t come out the way I’d intended.
But something about my words make him laugh, a cold laugh without humor, and he sinks down onto the sofa and puts his head between his hands. “Please,” he says wearily. “Just go.”
My cheeks still burning with embarrassment, I slip through the door before I say something else I might regret.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Fifteen
I FOLLOW THE HALLWAYS IN A DAZE, THROUGH THE GLASS corridor, left, right, right, left . . .
Everything looks the same but different somehow. I find myself outside the ballroom with no clear recollection of how I got there. My thoughts are lost in a pair of gray-green eyes.
I take one of the smaller staircases to the second floor and run into Annabelle. Her face is panicked, her anxiety wordless.
“I went for a walk around the palace,” I say, trying to sound innocent. “Is that not allowed?”
Alone?
“Yes.”
NO
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I hope my face looks apologetic. Annabelle presses a hand against her chest, and I notice that there’s sweat beading on her forehead. “Annabelle, I’m sorry,” I say, more sincerely this time.
Never w/o permission
Her writing is sloppy and slanted.
“Or I’ll be punished, right?”
Annabelle shakes her head and points at herself. My stomach drops.
“You’ll be punished?”
Annabelle nods.
“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise.” How selfish of me, not to have considered what might happen to her if I was caught.
The Duchess is waiting for us when we get back to my chambers.
“Where have you been?” she snaps.
“We were in the garden,” I lie, adding, “in the maze.” Just in case she checked and didn’t see us.
She ignores my explanation.
“I am having a family dinner tonight,” she says. “You will attend.” She looks at Annabelle. “Have her dressed and in the dining room at seven thirty.”
Annabelle curtsies.
“DOES THIS MEAN I’LL FINALLY MEET THE DUKE?” I ASK as Annabelle laces me into a pale silver dress with tiny sapphires sewn into a floral pattern on the skirt.
She nods.
“What’s he like?”
Annabelle shrugs and makes a face that I take to mean she doesn’t find him particularly interesting. She sits me at the vanity and starts curling my hair and pinning it up.
Ash’s face appears in my mind for the hundredth time in the last hour. The way he looked at me and spoke to me like a person, even for just a few minutes . . . it was like exhaling after holding my breath for too long.
I stare at my reflection—pink cheeks, tiny smile, bright eyes . . . the girl in the mirror looks truly happy, for the first time.
I’ve never thought much about kissing, but the idea of Ash’s lips against mine—
I giggle. Annabelle gives me a curious glance and I force the smile off my face.
I know I’m being stupid. I’ll never be able to kiss him. I’ll probably never see him again.
“Oh!” I cry, suddenly remembering. Ash will be at dinner tonight.
Annabelle stares at me with a mix of confusion and concern.
“Oh, um . . . that pin st
uck me. Sorry. I’m okay.”
Annabelle bites her lip and continues pinning my hair with unnecessary caution.
It feels like my lungs shrink to half their normal size while my heart beats at twice its usual pace. By the time Annabelle dabs some scent on my wrists and pronounces me finished, I’m practically hyperventilating.
“It’s perfect,” I say. My voice sounds a little strangled. The dress glows against my skin like moonlight, and Annabelle has adorned my hair with sapphire-and-pearl pins. My lips are glossed in pink, my eyes lined in pale purple, making their color stand out even more. I wonder if Ash will think I look pretty.
Stop it, Violet, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.
By the time we reach the main foyer, I’m wishing I wasn’t invited to this dinner. My nerves are as taut as my cello strings. When we stop outside the dining room doors, Annabelle stops and gives me a once-over, fussing a little with my skirts.
OK?
I nod, my throat too swollen to attempt speech. Annabelle jerks her head at the door and smiles.
Great food
I laugh nervously. She nods to the footman standing at attention by the door. He opens it and announces, “The surrogate of the House of the Lake.”
My stomach turns to water as I enter the dining room.
IT LOOKS THE SAME AS I REMEMBER.
Polished oak furniture, maroon walls, a candle-filled chandelier—the only difference is the company. To my left is the Duchess with two men in tuxedos. The Duchess wears a gown of deep blue silk and holds a flute of champagne delicately in her gloved hand. To my right, I see the red-haired Lady of the Glass, Carnelian, and—my heart somersaults—Ash.
It’s only been a couple of hours since I met him, but he’s somehow even more handsome than I remember. My whole body feels like it’s blushing.
Everyone looks up when I enter, except for Ash, who is suddenly very occupied with pouring Carnelian a drink.
I had sort of forgotten Carnelian would be here, too. I note, begrudgingly, that someone has dressed her in a very pretty beaded tunic, and her hair is styled more fashionably than I’ve ever seen it.
“Come here,” the Duchess commands me.
“So, this is the surrogate?” the taller of the two men asks. He is very thin, with coppery skin and a large nose. His eyes are dark, like the Duchess’s, but round, and they study me under thick black eyebrows. He takes a sip of amber liquid from a crystal glass. “I was wondering when I’d finally get to see her.”
