The White Rose

by Amy Ewing

“Do you know the combination?” I whisper.

  Ash stares at the lock. Several seconds pass. I’m about to remind him that we’re pressed for time, when he begins to turn it, first right, then left, then right again.

  The lock clicks.

  Ash yanks open a door, completely disguised within the wall.

  “Get in,” he hisses. I go first, pulling Raven in after me. Ash closes the hidden door behind us.

  I turn and pull up short. The companion house isn’t quite what I was expecting. Six short redbrick buildings are scattered around a large green lawn. Winding gravel roads weave through them, and there’s a pond to my left that’s beginning to freeze over, surrounded by little copses of trees. Gas lamps are set at intervals throughout the grounds.

  It’s actually very pretty.

  “The station is on the other side,” Ash whispers. “This way.”

  We follow him down one of the roads, gravel crunching under our feet, the heels of my shoes wobbling. Everything is still and shadowy.

  Suddenly, the back door of one of the houses opens, freezing us in our tracks, as a figure steps out onto the path in front of us. There is the scratchy sound of a match being lit, then the end of a cigarette flames up like a tiny ember. The figure sees us and laughs.

  “Been out to the Row again, Till?” he says. His voice is deep. “Madame’s out but Billings is on patrol. You better get them inside quick.”

  “Rye?” Ash says, moving forward. The figure steps toward us into the dim light. He’s a young man about Ash’s age, but taller, with dark skin that reminds me of the lioness. Tight black curls frame a very handsome face with broad features. His eyes, like chips of flint, are wide with surprise.

  “Ash?” he says. “What—how—what are you doing here? The whole city’s looking for you! And what’s with your hair?” He glances from me to Raven. “This is a pretty strange time to start experimenting with working girls.”

  “They’re not working girls,” Ash says. “We need to get to the train.”

  “The train’s gone,” the boy named Rye replies, frowning. “It’s in the Smoke.”

  My heart sinks. What do we do now?

  “Will you help us?” Ash says. “We need to hide. Until the train gets back.”

  Rye takes what I feel to be an inordinate amount of time before answering. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales a thick stream of smoke. Then he flicks the cigarette into the darkness. “Sure, man, I’ll help you out. You’re going to have to tell me how you escaped from Landing’s Market with about a thousand Regimentals crawling all over the place. Come on.”

  We follow Rye inside, to a hall that smells like dried flowers and wood smoke, then up a flight of stairs and down another hall. My body is tense, my nerves coiled up like watch springs. I don’t know who this boy is, but I’ll trust him if Ash does. But there are so many other boys living in this place. I felt much safer at the warehouse.

  Rye opens a door, switches on a light, and ushers us inside.

  We walk into a very large, very pleasant bedroom. Two beds are pushed against opposite walls. The décor is all white with gold accents. A striped couch and matching armchair are clustered together by the one large window. But the most dominant features of the room are the enormous gilt-framed mirrors that hang over two vanities, if a vanity is something one could find in a boy’s dormitory.

  One bed is pristine, its owner’s vanity boasting a neat array of jars and bottles and combs. The other bed is unmade, with various articles of clothing strewn over the blankets, and its vanity is a mess, open jars and spilled face creams and a scattering of little orange pills.

  “Home, sweet home,” Ash mutters as he looks around.

  “Is this your room?” I ask. Raven hovers by the door, as if uncertain about this place.

  “Rye and I are—were roommates,” Ash says. His expression abruptly changes, and I follow his gaze to the neater vanity. He walks to it as if in a dream and picks up a silver-framed photo. Clutching it in both hands, he sinks onto the bed.

  “Is that . . .” I sit beside him and stare at the photograph. “Is that your family?”

  Ash nods. The photo is black-and-white, taken in front of a very shabby-looking house. A broad, imposing man with Ash’s nose has his arms around two stocky boys, both of whom are grinning at the camera with Garnet-worthy expressions of mischief. A woman stands beside them, and she looks so very much like Ash it’s startling. She has both her hands on a little girl’s shoulders. The girl has a wild tumble of curly hair and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. Though they look nothing alike, she makes me think of Hazel.

  “Is that Cinder?” I ask. Ash nods again. “She’s lovely,” I say. “Where are you?”

  He clears his throat. “I took the picture. One of our neighbors had bought a photographic camera. He showed me how to use it.”

  He turns the frame over and removes the back. Very carefully, he takes out the picture, folds it in half, and puts it in his pocket, leaving the empty frame on the vanity.

  “So,” Rye says, bursting our bubble of privacy. “Care to explain exactly what in the Exetor’s name you’re doing here? And who these girls are?”

  Raven shoots him a glare. He has flopped onto his bed and is unscrewing the cap on a little vial. The liquid inside is tinged blue.

  Ash sighs. “Since when did you start using?”

  Rye shrugs and removes a thin tube of glass from the vial. He tilts his head back and shakes a drop from the tube into each eye.

  “You don’t even want to know what I had to do for my last client,” he says, blinking and wiping the excess liquid from where it’s spilled down his cheeks. “I need this.” He laughs, a heady, relaxed sound. “Better hope you never get assigned to the House of the Downs. That woman has some very strange appetites.”

  I remember the Lady of the Downs from Garnet’s engagement party. She seemed like any other royal woman. I don’t want to think about what she does behind closed doors.

  “She went through about six companions before her daughter finally got engaged,” Rye continues. “Bale was the last one. I think he’s still recovering—he hasn’t had a client since he got back. Neither have I, for that matter. Not that I’m complaining.” He laughs again. “I guess that’s not a problem for you anymore, is it? No more clients.” He leans back against his pillow and sighs. “Remember the Lady of the Stream? We both had her, right? She was something else.”

  “He doesn’t do that anymore,” I say.

  Rye chuckles. “What are you, his girlfriend?”

  “We need to get on the train,” Ash says. “And we can’t hide in this room waiting for it to come back.”

  “You can’t go anywhere now, brother, all the buildings are locked,” Rye says. “Might as well stay here for the night.”

  “This place is rotten,” Raven says. “I don’t like it here.”

  “We’ll leave soon,” I say.

  She moves to stand in front of one of the mirrors, staring at her reflection. “I let them take your eyes away,” she says to me. “Pluck them out like little jewels and offer them to me as gifts. They made me choose and I chose wrong, always, every time.” Raven strikes her fist against her temple twice before I grab her wrist to stop her.

  “I am Raven Stirling,” she mutters. “I am looking in a mirror. I am real. I am stronger than this.”

  “Okay, Ash, you’ve got to explain,” Rye says, staring at me and Raven with a mingled look of incredulity and suspicion. “What. Happened. All we hear is that you raped some surrogate and—”

  “He didn’t rape anyone,” I snap.

  Rye’s eyes widen. “No,” he says to Ash. “You’re not saying . . . she’s the surrogate?” All the hazy laughter in him vanishes as he jumps off the bed, his expression deadly serious. “They need to get out. Now. I’ll help you, but I’m not risking my life for some surrogate. Are you crazy? Do you know what—”

  “I love her,” Ash says. He makes a gesture with his palms
open, like he’s offering his words in surrender. “I fell in love with her, Rye.”

  Rye runs a hand through his black curls. He sits on the edge of his bed and rests his chin on his hands. He looks from me to Ash and back again. I feel ridiculous in this stupid outfit. I wish I could unzip my skin and show him the place inside me where Ash lives, tangled up in blood and bone and muscle, impossible to separate or remove. I want him to see that we are the same.

  “Prove it,” Rye says, as if in response to my thought.

  “We got caught together,” Ash says. “That’s what really happened. You know me. Do you honestly think I’d force myself on a surrogate? Do you think I’d even look at a surrogate? I was very good at my job. She . . .” He smiles my favorite, secret smile. “She took me by surprise. But once I allowed myself to love her, I couldn’t take it back.”

  “So you risked execution for her?” Rye asks.

  “I did.”

  “You risked Cinder’s life for her, too, then,” he says.

  Ash’s jaw tightens. “I know.”

  For some reason, this thought had never occurred to me. Cinder’s life is wrapped up in Ash’s profession.

  I am dumbstruck. He knew. He knew and he loved me anyway. My stomach squirms with guilt.

  Rye chews on his lower lip, mulling over Ash’s words, then shakes his head. “Get some sleep. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

  He glances back at me with a wondering look, as if I were something out of a fairy story, like the water spirit from The Wishing Well—something that doesn’t exist in real life. Then he pulls off his sweater in one fluid movement. His dark skin is smooth over a very muscular chest and heat flames in my cheeks. In my peripheral vision, I see Ash roll his eyes.

  “Good night, Rye,” he says.

  Rye flashes a grin at me. “Unless you want me to find you some X,” he says to Ash.

  “Good night, Rye,” Ash says again.

  “What’s X?” I ask as Raven and I head to the bathroom to wash the makeup off our faces. “Another drug?”

  Ash’s face flushes. “Black-market contraceptive.”

  I gasp. “What?” Contraception is outlawed in the Lone City. Everyone knows that.

  Ash starts opening the drawers of his dresser, pulling out bedclothes, and keeping his face turned away from me. “There’s a serum that can cause a man to be infertile for several hours. However, it’s quite unpleasant to use, and if caught with it, the sentence is death.”

  “Why is it unpleasant to use?” I ask as he hands me an oversize cotton shirt.

  He winces. “You have to inject it into a very sensitive area.”

  “Oh,” I say, my eyes widening.

  By the time we are washed and changed into the makeshift pajamas, Rye is snoring lightly.

  “You two take the bed,” Ash says. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  I help Raven under the covers and turn to him.

  “Cinder,” I say, “I didn’t even think . . . what will happen to her?”

  He pauses, looking down. “I don’t know.”

  “Isn’t there . . . can’t we do something? Help her somehow?”

  He barks out a laugh. “Violet, we can’t even help ourselves.”

  He’s right. I struggle for something to say, words of comfort or inspiration, but there’s nothing. Saying I’m sorry isn’t enough. And saying I wish this hadn’t happened is a lie.

  Ash misreads my expression. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, running his hands down my arms. “Rye will help us.”

  “And you’re sure we can trust him?” I ask.

  “I trust Lucien on your say-so,” Ash snaps. “Can’t you trust Rye on mine?”

  “Of course,” I say, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice.

  He sighs. “Let’s try to get some sleep for now. We all need it.”

  As I crawl under the covers, Raven leans her cheek against my shoulder. My head sinks into the pillow, and it’s been so long since I’ve slept in an actual bed that I’m asleep in moments.

  Eleven

  I WAKE UP SOMETIME IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING, to the sound of murmured voices.

  “. . . was an accident,” Ash is saying. “She wasn’t even supposed to be in that wing of the palace.”

  “So when did you know?” Rye asks.

  “I’m not sure,” Ash says. “It’s hard to explain. But once I saw her, I couldn’t . . . unsee her. If that makes sense. We don’t look at them, you know? The surrogates. But suddenly, she was a person, this smart, beautiful girl who was treated so badly. You should hear her play the cello, Rye—it’s like being transported to another world. She made me feel human again. She made me want things I thought weren’t meant for me.”

  “It must make a nice change, being with someone your own age who isn’t a House Girl,” Rye snorts.

  “Don’t be glib,” Ash says. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  “You haven’t seen me in months,” Rye retorts. “You don’t know what suits me now.”

  “Dosing yourself with blue? Is that who you are?”

  There’s a heavy sigh and the creaking of a mattress. “I couldn’t hold out anymore. Emory’s dead. Miles is so strung out he’s about to be Marked and tossed out on the streets. Jig is dead. Trac is starting to cut where it shows. Birch is about to age out. You’re a fugitive. Who do I have left?”

  There’s a long silence.

  “Emory’s dead?” Ash says.

  “Yeah.”

  “But he was always so—”

  “I know.” Rye’s voice is hard.

  “I didn’t mean to leave you like this,” Ash says.

  “Don’t start acting like you’re responsible for everyone’s problems. I make my own choices. So do you.”

  “None of us chose to be companions, Rye.”

  “Sure we did.”

  “Being lied to or bribed or coerced doesn’t qualify as making a choice. If you knew what being a companion actually entailed, would you do it?”

  “I had to,” Rye says. “You know better than anyone. My family needed the money.”

  “Exactly. They didn’t give us any other option.”

  “I don’t see the point in thinking like that.”

  “Neither did I. Violet changed that for me. Surrogates don’t have an option, either. And yet, I treated them like furniture, like accessories. I didn’t see them as people. I was as bad as the royalty I hated so much.” He sighs. “I don’t want to be like them anymore. I won’t.”

  “So where are you going, exactly?” Rye asks, after a pause. “Do you honestly think there’s any place in any circle of the entire Lone City where the royalty can’t find you? And not any member of the royalty, but a Founding House? You should’ve fallen in love with a third-tier surrogate.”

  I can practically hear Ash’s eyes roll. “We have some . . . help. From someone who can be trusted, even if I don’t like him.”

  Rye chuckles. “Jealous of another man?”

  “Hardly,” Ash says, but there’s something off in his tone that makes me think he’s lying. That’s strange. Why would Ash be jealous of Lucien?

  “You know,” Rye says, “it’s weird that your escape is all over the papers, but a surrogate escaped and there hasn’t been a word about it. No gossip, no whispers, no nothing. You’re the hot topic, but your girlfriend . . . I mean, wouldn’t that really be a big story?”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Ash says. “The Duchess is an incredibly smart, ambitious woman. If she hasn’t revealed Violet’s absence to the Jewel, she must have a reason.”

  At that moment, Raven sits bolt upright, making everyone in the room jump.

  “Someone’s coming,” she hisses.

  Ash is on his feet in an instant.

  “Get in the bathroom,” he says. Raven and I untangle ourselves from the covers and run, leaving Ash to remake the bed as fast as he can. Rye watches all of this with a confused expression.

  “What’s happening?” he a
sks.

  “If Raven says someone’s coming, someone’s coming,” Ash says. He finishes with the bed and hurries to join us in the bathroom. “We’re not here,” he warns Rye and slams the door shut.

  Raven is curled up in the bathtub, hugging her knees. I perch on the edge of the tub. Ash stays pressed against the bathroom door. He puts his finger to his lips and I nod as he turns off the light.

  We hear the door to the bedroom open and the sounds of Rye scrambling out of bed.

  “Good morning, Madame.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Whitfield.” The voice is like a honey-covered blade—sharp and sweet all at once. Ash sinks to the floor, holding his head in his hands. I can’t help myself—I shift to kneel by the door beside him and press my eye against the keyhole.

  For a moment, I see nothing but Rye’s messy vanity and the striped sofa by the window. Then a woman sweeps into view and reclines on the sofa, directly in my line of sight.

  It’s impossible to tell how old she is—she wears a lot of makeup, and though she wears it well, I have the distinct impression her face has been altered, her skin tightened to remove wrinkles. Her eyes are slightly feline. Her body is wrapped in satin, and pearls drip from her neck and ears. She is large, but not disgustingly fleshy like the Countess of the Stone—Madame Curio is all curves, large breasts and wide hips. She has the air of someone who has seen a lot of life.

  “Have you fully recovered from the Lady of the Downs’s service, Mr. Whitfield?” she asks. “I know she requires quite a bit of endurance.”

  “It was a pleasure, Madame. I am quite well, thank you.”

  I can’t see Rye, but if I didn’t know better, I’d absolutely believe him. Madame Curio smiles.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I have a new client for you. You’ve been particularly requested in fact.”

  “I am honored, Madame. Who might the young lady be?”

  Madame Curio’s smile widens. “Carnelian Silver, of the House of the Lake.”

  My heart skips a beat. Madame Curio traces a finger down her cheek, eyeing Rye thoughtfully. “The Duchess asked for you personally. A Founding House. It’s very impressive. Let us hope you don’t ruin this opportunity like your former roommate did.”