The White Rose

by Amy Ewing

  “She’ll pay for this,” I say. “Raven, I promise.”

  “How, Violet? How are we supposed to do that? Look at me.” She gestures weakly to herself. “I am broken now. And I’ll never be the same. I am damaged beyond repair.”

  I sit up on my knees and look her straight in the eye. “Listen to me,” I say. “You were there for me in Southgate when I was scared and when I was weak. You gave me courage. If you think I’m not going to do the exact same for you, then you’d better think again. You were with me every single day I was in that palace. You were my strength. Now let me be yours.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to help you get better. I’m going to protect you.”

  Raven’s hand slides once more over her stomach. “Can you protect me from this?”

  I look down. The lump in my throat is so big it’s hard to breathe.

  She rests her cheek on my fingers. “I’m so tired, Violet. Can I go to sleep now?”

  “Of course,” I say. My voice is rough and low.

  “You won’t leave, right?” she asks, panic rising in her tone.

  “No,” I say. “I’m going to be right here.”

  I stretch out my legs as she settles down so she can use my thigh as a pillow. Within minutes, her breathing has slowed, her body relaxing. I brush her hair away from her face. She looks like my Raven from before.

  She still is, I tell myself.

  “Is she all right?” Ash asks softly, from his seat by the door.

  “I don’t know,” I reply.

  Gradually, the light fades, night usurping day. The warehouse grows dark and cold. I fold my arms across my chest and try to stop shivering. Ash comes over and puts an arm around me. I lean into him, grateful for his presence as much as his warmth.

  “You’ve saved a lot of people recently,” he says.

  “Not yet,” I remind him.

  “I think you might be selling yourself a bit short.”

  I don’t say anything because I’m not feeling particularly proud or saviorlike at the moment.

  “Will your plan work?” I ask. “Can we get out through the companion house train?”

  “I don’t know, Violet. But I don’t know what else to do. Like you said, we can’t stay here.”

  I nod and we sit in silence. I should probably sleep but my mind is racing. So many things I don’t want to think about—Raven in a cage, Lily being pregnant, Annabelle lying lifeless on the floor of my bedroom . . .

  “What was it like?” I ask Ash after a while. “At the companion house. You’ve never talked about it.”

  His body stiffens and I know he wishes I hadn’t asked. But after a moment, he says, “It was very pleasant. They took extremely good care of us.”

  I smile. “You’re lying.” I shift under his arm. “You’re using your companion tone. The excessive politeness. You only use it when you’re lying.”

  There is another long moment before he whispers, “It was awful.”

  I sit up so I can look him in the face. The dim light creates shadows around his eyes. He won’t meet my gaze, but I don’t look away. The seconds tick past.

  “You don’t want to know,” he says finally. “Trust me.”

  “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked. You’re talking about boys being kidnapped and girls being used for sex and I feel like there’s this whole part of your life I don’t understand. What happens in that place?”

  Ash’s whole body seems to harden again. “You want to know what life in a companion house is like?” he says, and his voice is sharper than I’ve ever heard it. “Fine. After I was bribed away from my family at the age of fourteen, I was trained for a year, educated in art, history, mathematics, music, dueling . . . It was nice, at first. Then on my fifteenth birthday, I was called to Madame Curio’s room, where she taught me some things I hadn’t learned yet. That was the first time I had sex.”

  An unpleasant prickle crawls up my spine.

  “Then my lessons changed. They brought girls to me. Madame said I had to please them. I didn’t want to—the girls were so scared. I was scared. But you don’t go against Madame. My teachers watched. They judged and instructed me. It was humiliating. Then they sent me off to charm daughters during the day and sleep with their mothers at night. I’ve slept with women old enough to be my grandmother. All because Madame Curio saw me outside the clinic and thought I was handsome.”

  Ash stands abruptly. He starts pacing back and forth, his mouth twisted, his hands clenched.

  “Do you understand how much I hate how I look, hate my face?” he says bitterly. “Do you know how many times I’ve put a razor to my eye and thought about using it? But I always had Cinder to keep me sane. Cinder needed me. If I ruined my face, I would lose my position, and with it, the money for her medicine. I’ve seen it happen many times. Do you know what the suicide rate is for companions? No one does, because it’s not talked about. Because who cares, right? But I have known six boys who have taken their own lives—and those are only the ones I’ve known personally. The ones who don’t kill themselves cut their bodies, but not in places you could see—usually behind the knees or between the toes. Or they dope themselves with opiates, until their addiction is noticeable and then they’re Marked and tossed out onto the streets. Some develop violent predilections for sex, abusing the House Girls or consorting with common prostitutes. And for every friend you make, you lose three, and it doesn’t matter how, and it doesn’t matter why, because there are always new boys being brought in, and you’re just one in a hundred, as disposable as the latest fashion trend.” He looks at me with a viciousness I’ve never seen before. “So that’s how it was in the companion house.”

  I am speechless. I want to arrange my face into some kind of calm or understanding expression, but I can’t make my muscles work. I assumed the companion house would be similar to Southgate. But drugs? Violent sex? Suicide? “That’s not who you are, though,” I say.

  “That IS who I am!” Ash shouts. Raven wakes up with a start. “You don’t want to know about this, Violet.”

  “Please don’t fight,” Raven says, holding her head in her hands.

  “We’re not,” I reassure her. “Ash and I were . . . talking.”

  Raven’s presence has calmed Ash down.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says to her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You don’t want to go back to that place,” Raven says, rubbing her eyes. “You’re frightened.”

  There is a stunned silence. Raven turns to me, her eyes focused on something far away.

  “He loves you, do you see that? He loves you and he hates himself and he’ll never, never be good enough, not for you or his family or anyone. He was stolen, taken away and twisted, and everything that was pure inside him was left to rot and decay. He’s ashamed.” She returns to the present and looks at Ash. “We all have things we are ashamed of.”

  Ash’s lips are parted, his eyes wide. “How did you—”

  The door to the warehouse slides open and we all jump.

  “Got it,” Garnet says, dropping a large canvas sack onto the floor and shutting the door. “Everything you asked for is in there.” He takes in the room, me and Raven on the floor, Ash standing over us with a shocked expression. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No,” I say, getting to my feet.

  “Then get changed and get going,” Garnet says. “I told Lucien and he’s pretty—”

  The arcana starts to buzz. I rip it out of my bun as Lucien starts speaking.

  “I don’t like this plan,” he says.

  “I don’t like it, either, Lucien, but it’s not like there are a variety of other choices. You want me safe and in the Farm? This is our best bet.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  I throw my hands up. “Well, you do plenty of things I don’t like,” I say. “But I trust you. You have to trust me.”

  “I do. It’s him I don’t trust.”

  “If you’re referr
ing to Ash, you can trust him, too.”

  “Violet, once you’re on the grounds of the companion house, I can’t help you. You’ll be totally on your own.”

  I glance at Raven, then Ash. “No,” I say. “I won’t.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I sigh. “I do. And I don’t want to argue with you, Lucien. I’m trying to do what you wanted me to. I’m trying to survive.”

  There is a pause. “I know, honey,” he says wearily.

  “What’s happening in the Jewel?” I ask. “Is there anything we should know about?”

  I can almost hear Lucien smile. “Well,” he says. “The Duchess is enjoying an unusual upswing in popularity. It seems your rape”—I wince at the word—“and the companion’s evasion of capture have painted a very sympathetic picture. Everyone wants an audience with her.”

  “What happened to . . .” My throat tightens as I picture my bedroom, the last time I saw it. “To Annabelle?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucien says. “She was most likely cremated at the morgue. Nothing has been said about it in the servant circles. Except to show sympathy for Cora, of course.”

  I frown. “Why Cora?”

  “Didn’t you know?” Lucien says. “Cora was Annabelle’s mother.”

  “What?” I gasp. I’d never considered who Annabelle’s family might be. I feel ashamed that I never thought to ask. I try to think whether I’d ever seen Cora act in any way motherly toward Annabelle. But in all my memories, she was always ordering her around like any other servant.

  I wonder how she can stand to live there, to serve the woman who killed her daughter.

  “I have to go,” Lucien says suddenly.

  The arcana goes silent and falls. I hold out my hand in time to catch it.

  Raven is staring at the space where it once hovered, awestruck.

  “Was that . . . real?” she says.

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “But now we have to change our clothes.”

  Ash has already riffled through the sack and is holding some fabric in his hands.

  “Violet,” he begins, but I shake my head.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “It’s not,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to yell.”

  “I know.” The companion house sounds about a hundred times worse than Southgate. I wouldn’t want to go back to it either. But this isn’t the time for arguments or apologies.

  Ash nods and holds out the canvas bag.

  Ten

  RAVEN AND I GO TO THE BACK OF THE WAREHOUSE FOR some privacy.

  I open the canvas sack—a swirl of bright colors, frothy foams of lace, and the sheen of satin are all jumbled together. I dump out the contents of the bag and sort through it. There doesn’t seem to be enough fabric. Though I suppose that’s the point.

  “All right,” I say to Raven with forced cheerfulness, holding up two pairs of stockings. “Which color do you want—red or pink?”

  She shrugs, and I hand her the red stockings. She pulls off the brown servant’s dress and I see a welt the size of my fist at the base of her spine, bluish-red veins radiating out of it.

  “Oh, Raven,” I gasp. Raven puts a hand to the welt, covering it, like she’s embarrassed.

  “The needles were worse,” she mumbles as she yanks the stockings up and touches her scalp with her fingers.

  The dresses are more like undergarments. Flimsy lace skirts and corsets that leave our arms and shoulders bare. Raven is so thin the corset is loose on her, but mine is extremely tight, revealing much more flesh than I’m comfortable with. I wish I had a scarf or something.

  There’s some makeup in the bag, lipstick in a garish shade of red, blush for our cheeks, and black liner for our eyes. We put it on each other, though neither of us have much training or skill in this particular area.

  “All right,” I say, shoving our old clothes into the sack. “Let’s go.”

  The looks on Ash’s and Garnet’s faces when we emerge from the back of the warehouse are both flattering and uncomfortable. At least with Ash, I know it’s nothing he hasn’t seen; Garnet is an entirely different story. And he stares at Raven like he’s never seen her before. With the makeup on, she doesn’t look as drawn, and you can definitely see hints of her old beauty. Her skin is noticeably healthier, the caramel tint a nice contrast with the ivory satin corset.

  Raven notices him staring. “What?” she says aggressively.

  He looks away quickly. “You better get going,” he says to Ash.

  Ash has also changed into an outfit similar to the one he wore the first day I met him—beige pants and a white collared shirt, with a long overcoat. I wonder if that’s the standard companion uniform.

  “You’re going to want to keep close to me,” Ash says. “It’s pretty cold.”

  “I suppose we don’t get coats,” I say.

  Ash flashes me a half smile. “Covering up would be a bit beside the point.”

  I’m not worried about myself, but Raven is so exposed . . .

  Even as I think it, she shoots me a look. “I’ll be fine,” she says.

  “I hope this works,” Garnet says.

  “You and me both,” Ash replies.

  Garnet looks at each of us, opens his mouth, closes it, then runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, well . . . good luck.”

  He turns and leaves the warehouse.

  “Ready?” Ash says.

  “Wait,” I say. “Your face is everywhere in this circle. What if . . .” I’ve never performed an Augury on a person before, but I don’t have the luxury of doubt right now. I reach up and wrap my hand around a fistful of his hair.

  “What are—” Ash starts to ask, but I’m already focusing on the Augury.

  Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.

  Shoots of blond spread out from my fingertips, changing Ash’s hair from brown to gold. My head throbs.

  “There,” I say, rubbing my left temple. “Maybe that will help a bit. We don’t need you getting recognized again.”

  Ash musses his hair and pulls his hand back to look at it, as if maybe the color had come off. “Wow,” he says.

  We leave the warehouse and keep to smaller, darkened streets, receiving only a few disapproving glances. Most of the neighborhood is deserted. It must be nearly midnight. The air is frigid—within seconds my teeth start chattering. Ash wraps his arm around my shoulders.

  We walk for about twenty minutes before we come to what is unquestionably the shabbiest part of the Bank I’ve seen yet. All the buildings are old and decrepit, with sagging porches and boarded-up windows.

  “All right,” Ash says. “Just . . . both of you put your arms around me. And it wouldn’t hurt to pretend we’re all drunk.”

  I can’t help thinking a glass of wine—or two, or twelve—wouldn’t have been a bad idea. This whole street screams danger. Raven drapes her arm across Ash’s shoulders and I slide my arm around his waist.

  Only one block in, we come upon the first tavern. Then another. And another. Loud music—fiddles and a banjo and drums—pours out onto the street when the doors to one abruptly bang open, two men wrestling with each other, throwing punches, getting knocked to the ground. It reminds me too much of how my father died. I tighten my hold on Ash and we pick up our pace.

  We pass a trio of men who are visibly intoxicated. They whistle at me and Raven. One of them approaches Ash and says, “You interested in sharing? I got some prime blue, if you want to make it a party.”

  “Piss off,” Ash snaps. “Get your own slag.”

  “Ash,” I hiss once the men have grumbled and shrugged and walked off. “Really.”

  Ash laughs once, a hollow sound. “Welcome to my world.”

  We turn down another street and I’m immediately assaulted by a wave of scent—a strong, flowery perfume that doesn’t quite hide the smell of something slightly sour underneath.

  “Hey, handsome,” a young girl, no older
than fourteen, calls from in front of a garishly painted pink-and-yellow house. She’s wearing less clothing than Raven and I. “Want another date?”

  “Piss off,” I shout.

  She shrugs and lights a cigarette.

  “Very convincing,” Ash whispers into my neck.

  “This place is awful,” I whisper back.

  “It’s called the Row,” he says. “The East Quarter’s number-one destination for sex and drugs.”

  “Is that what blue is?” I ask.

  He nods. “A form of opiate. The liquid has a bluish tinge, hence the nickname.”

  We pass three brothels and a couple more taverns before we finally reach the end of the Row. The change is disturbingly sudden—one second, we’re surrounded by seedy buildings, the next, we’ve emerged into a neat little park, lit with gas lamps. A clock tower across the square tells me it’s after midnight. A couple sits on a bench nearby and a man is walking his dog a few yards away, but other than that, the streets are deserted.

  “Almost there,” Ash mutters. We cross the park quickly. The man with the dog sees us and shakes his head, muttering to himself.

  When we reach the opposite side, Ash grabs my arm.

  “Stop,” he says.

  A wall stretches out along the entire length of the street, topped with tiny spikes. It reminds me of Southgate, how enclosed it was, like a fortress in the middle of the Marsh.

  Two Regimentals are patrolling outside of it. My heart leaps to my throat.

  “Kiss me,” Ash murmurs. I press my mouth to his, for the first time not thinking about his lips or his body against mine, only aware of his heart hammering in time with my own. I listen for a shout or an alarm to be raised.

  Finally, he pulls away. I turn and see the backs of the Regimentals as they round the corner. “Let’s go. Quickly.”

  Raven and I hurry along behind him as he crosses the street, running his hand along the rough stone. He stops abruptly. “Here,” he says.

  I only see more wall. Ash grips something and pulls, and a piece of stone breaks away, revealing a large black combination lock.