The White Rose

by Amy Ewing

  “A plan involving a surrogate?” I say. “But she doesn’t have one.”

  “Yes, but no one in the Jewel besides me and Lucien know that. Oh, and that new companion you guys told me about, since he obviously saw you, Violet.”

  “His name is Rye,” Raven reminds him.

  “How is he doing?” Ash asks, putting the brush down.

  “Fine, I guess. I haven’t talked to him, he doesn’t know about the Society or anything. Carnelian is still moping over you, if you can believe it. She talks about you all the time to him. I think she’s hoping he’ll tell her some quality Ash Lockwood stories. It’s sort of sad, actually.”

  “But what about the surrogate plan?” I say. I don’t want to waste time talking about Carnelian. “What could she be thinking?”

  “Like I said before, she doesn’t confide in me. And I’m trying to play the perfect son, you know, marriage has straightened me out, no more late nights in Bank taverns, that type of thing.” He pauses. “But she’s definitely up to something. She took a letter to the Exetor last night. Delivered it personally. The last time my mother delivered her own mail was . . . well, probably never.”

  “And the Society?” Ash asks, scattering a handful of feed to the chickens pecking around in their pen. “What are they up to? Any developments?”

  “You’d have to ask Lucien about that,” Garnet says. “All I know is what I’ve read in the papers. And that’s because I know to look for it.”

  The Society has been vandalizing royal property, hitting specific targets in the Smoke and the Farm. Mostly magistrate offices and Regimental barracks, like Ash had suggested, though Lucien would never admit that Ash had a good idea. They are finding weaknesses in places where the royalty have their claws in the lower circles. They haven’t taken credit for it, though there was one mention of a black key being drawn on the door of a post office. Lucien didn’t sound too happy when he told us about that.

  Neither did Ash, but I think that’s because he’d rather be out with the vandals. I know he’s frustrated by our isolation, and his lack of an active role in this revolution. I can see it in his face now and the tense set of his shoulders.

  “I’m going for a run,” he says. He scratches one of the goats behind the ears and stalks out of the barn.

  Ash runs the perimeter of the White Rose at least twice a day. I think it helps him channel all that pent-up energy.

  “Was it something I said?” Garnet asks.

  “No.” I sigh. “He’s just frustrated.”

  “Tell me about it. At least he doesn’t have to sit through a lecture on the difference between bone china and porcelain.”

  “And which do you prefer?” Raven teases.

  “Oh, bone china, definitely. Did you know it’s the whitest of all dinnerware?”

  Raven and I laugh.

  “I have to go,” Garnet says abruptly, and the arcana goes silent. Raven catches it before it hits the hay bales. She hops off them and hands it back to me.

  “What do you think the Duchess is up to?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. It’s worrying that she still talks as if she had a surrogate.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “You don’t think she stole one from some other royal woman?”

  “I think that would have been front-page news.”

  “Probably.” Raven purses her lips. “I’m going to make some tea. Want some?”

  I nod. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

  As soon as she is out the door, I sigh and throw my arms out wide.

  I become the air.

  Hundreds of pieces of hay rise up as I join with the element. It’s exhilarating, the sense of weightlessness Air gives me. It’s like flying with my feet on the ground. I soar up to the very top of the barn, bringing the hay with me.

  Turnip stamps her feet.

  The arcana buzzes in my hand and I release my connection with the element.

  “She’s on her way to you,” Lucien says. Pieces of hay drift down and land in my hair and Turnip’s mane. She shakes her head and lets out a snort.

  “The lioness?”

  “Lot 199, yes.”

  I hate that neither of us know her name.

  “What did you tell her?” I ask.

  “I didn’t tell her anything,” he says. “We can’t approach this in the same way I did with you. I’ll get the girls to you the safest way I can.”

  “Which is how?”

  “My original plan,” Lucien says, with a bite of impatience. “I dosed her wine with the serum. In the nick of time, too. I think the Countess of the Rose was about to arrange for her to have an accident.”

  I shudder at his meaning. “So . . . she’s going to show up here and have no idea what’s going on?”

  “I’m doing my part,” he says, “you have to do yours. She’ll be on the two o’clock train arriving at Bartlett Station tomorrow afternoon. Look for the key.”

  “I always do,” I say.

  IT’S VERY COLD THE NEXT DAY. I WRAP MY SCARF TIGHTER around me and pull down the earflaps on my hat.

  Sil gave me a ridiculous pair of goggles to wear, tinted to hide my eyes. Just to be safe, in case anyone is looking for me.

  “I want to come,” Ash says, as he hooks up Turnip to the cart.

  “Not a chance,” Sil says from the driver’s seat. Ash spares her a cold look before turning back to me.

  “I want to come,” he says again. “I want to do something.”

  “I know,” I say. “But . . . it’s too dangerous. What if someone recognized you again?”

  “With your pretty face, you can bet someone will call the Regimentals as quick as you can say Halma,” Sil says.

  “Violet disguised me once,” he says. “She could do it again.”

  “Ash . . .” I hesitate. “That was using the Auguries. I don’t . . . I don’t want to use them anymore.” This is only partly true. I can still use the Auguries, but it’s more concern for Ash’s safety that holds me back. I won’t risk his life.

  “Right,” he says curtly. “I get it.”

  “Will you take care of Raven for me while I’m gone?”

  “Raven can take care of herself now.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “We’ll be back soon. Maybe . . . maybe you can come next time.”

  Ash nods, but I know he doesn’t believe me. He gives Turnip’s flank a pat, and storms off to the barn.

  I sigh and climb up next to Sil.

  “That companion is getting on my nerves,” she says.

  “He’s not a companion anymore,” I say as the cart lurches forward. “I wish you and Lucien would remember that. And he’s . . . frustrated. He wants to help.”

  “How is he supposed to help? Seduce our way into the Jewel?”

  “You don’t understand anything about him.”

  Sil laughs.

  The ride through the forest is very different from that night Lucien brought me here. The sky is a clear, cloudless blue, the air cold and crisp. My irritation fades, replaced by my excitement at finally being out of the boundaries of the White Rose.

  “We need to make a stop first,” Sil says.

  “Where?” I ask. I’m not sure I realized how stir-crazy I was going, but now that we’re out in the world again, I’m bursting with energy.

  “I have to run an errand for His Royal Keyness,” she says.

  We emerge from the wood and I gasp—when I arrived in the Farm, it was dark and I was in a barrel for most of the journey. Now that I can see it . . . there is so much space. I’ve become used to the wide field surrounding the White Rose, the familiar ring of trees that encompass my whole world.

  I’d forgotten how big the real world actually is.

  Fields stretch out as far as I can see. We’re on top of a hill, and in the distance, nestled in a little dip between hills, there is a small town, chimney smoke and pointed rooftops. A big farmhouse looms off to my right, amid neatly trained rows of yellowing grass. I wonder what will be growing he
re when the seasons change. My most vivid memory from that fateful train ride to the Jewel is the colors of the Farm. The pinks, the oranges, the greens . . . everything is dull yellow and rusty brown now.

  But I still find it beautiful.

  “Which Quarter are we in?” I ask.

  “The South,” Sil says.

  “My brother, Ochre, works in the South Quarter,” I say. It’s nice to feel close to someone in my family, even if it’s only pretend. The South Quarter is huge—he could be anywhere.

  Thinking of Ochre makes me think of Hazel. Again, I worry about the timing of this plan. We’ve got to stop the Auction before she can be tested. I wish it wasn’t so far away. October feels like ages from now. It’s only January.

  As we pass through the town, I find it hard not to gape at everything. The people, women in long wool dresses and thick cloaks, men in overalls and big furry hats; the houses, shingled in dark reds and yellows; the grocer’s, the magistrate’s office, the tool-and-seed store. And then I have to laugh at myself because I lived in the Jewel for three months and saw so many incredible things and now I’m awed by a greengrocer.

  We pull up in front of a tavern. A painted sign, carved in the shape of a tree, creaks in the wind. Bold letters on it proclaim the tavern’s name, THE WISHING WELL. I smile, wondering whether the owner is a fan of the children’s folktale. There is a white square of paper plastered to a signpost out front. I can barely make out the words.

  WANTED. FUGITIVE.

  The paper is weathered and faded, but Ash’s face is still clearly recognizable. It sends a shudder through me. I was right to keep him at home. Sil ties up Turnip.

  “Keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking,” she mutters. “We won’t be here long.”

  The Wishing Well has a broad wooden porch and a balcony overlooking the street. Strains of music can be heard from behind its windows, which are framed with white lace curtains. Its facade is painted a friendly yellow. It is a very far cry from the taverns I saw on the Row, in the seedy area of the Bank.

  The interior is as pleasant as the exterior. The bar is made of dark, polished wood, with three shelves behind it containing gleaming bottles of spirits in all shapes and sizes. A mirror on the wall lists the specials of the day in big, loopy handwriting. Tables are scattered across the pale wooden flooring, only about a handful of them containing customers. A wizened old man on a barstool sips whiskey from a dusty glass tumbler, riffling through the Lone City Herald. A man in a striped shirt plays piano in the far corner of the room.

  “Sil!” the barman cries, emerging through a pair of swinging doors that lead to, I’d guess, the kitchen. He carries a plate of roast chicken and green beans smothered in almonds. My stomach gurgles. “Be right with you.”

  He hurries off to deliver the food while Sil and I take seats at the bar. I notice that Sil chooses bar stools as far away from the smoking man as possible.

  “He knows he’s not supposed to call me that,” Sil grumbles.

  “Do you have a code name, too?” I ask.

  Sil’s lips pucker, and her cheeks darken ever so slightly. She ignores me and instead grabs an extra copy of the Herald and pretends to scan through it.

  “It’s been quite some time since last I saw you,” the barman says, coming over to us. He pulls a bottle off one of the shelves and takes out two glasses. “The usual? And who’s your young friend?”

  “No one,” Sil says, putting down the paper. “And she’s not drinking.”

  The barman must be used to Sil’s bluntness—he nods and pours two helpings of whiskey into the glasses, taking one for himself. Sil downs hers in one gulp.

  “Here.” She removes a brown-wrapped parcel from inside her coat. “Something to help the Shepherd boy.”

  The barman’s face falls. “Ah, yes. He seems to be recovering well, considering.”

  “Considering what?” I ask. Sil throws me a sharp glance.

  “His grandfather wanted to sell him as a lady-in-waiting,” the barman says in a hushed voice.

  “But he botched the job,” Sil says. “Damn near killed that poor boy.”

  “How awful,” I gasp.

  “Yes.” The barman eyes me suspiciously and I drop my gaze. He turns to Sil. “Do you have any message from the Black Key?”

  “Do I ever come here without one?” she says. Her forehead crinkles in concentration as she recites, “Third from the right, fourth from the left. Westing’s Inn. Looks like gin.” She nods appreciatively at herself. “That’s it. And don’t write it down this time. That’s missing the whole damned point.”

  The barman nods, muttering the cryptic message over to himself.

  “I’d better be off,” she says. She slaps a couple of diamantes on the bar. The two glittering silver coins are engraved with the face of Diamante the Great, the Electress who started the first Auction.

  “No charge,” the barman says, waving the money off. But Sil leaves it, and we walk out into the cold air. I grab the paper on my way out.

  “What was that about?” I ask as we climb back into the cart and start off down the busy thoroughfare.

  “Weapons,” Sil grunts. “Lucien’s got some people making them in the Smoke and shipping them here. But it’s hard. Can’t make or ship more than a few at a time. Slow going for a revolutionary force made up of farmers and factory workers. And forgetful barmen.”

  I think about the Seamstress and the Cobbler and the Thief, the only other members of the Society that I’ve met. Without them we would never have made it to the Farm but . . . while immensely helpful in espionage and escape, they don’t seem like the makings of an army. Certainly not one that could win against the united force of the Regimentals.

  Sil seems to read my mind. “Not your job,” she says, cracking the reins to send Turnip into a trot. “We’ve got a train to catch.”

  “What did you give him for that boy?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Powdered red willow bark and clove. Should help numb the pain some.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “He’ll live.” She doesn’t sound optimistic.

  I open the paper and flip through it. There was a party at the Lady of the Light’s palace that got a bit out of hand—a few royal sons started throwing fists at one another. The paper notes that “it was a scene worthy of Garnet of the House of the Lake, but marriage seems to have tempered the Jewel’s most-notorious bad boy’s disposition.”

  I scan the other pages. There’s a birth announcement that sets my teeth on edge. “The House of the Willow welcomes a baby girl. Name to be announced.” No mention of the surrogate. Another girl dead because of them.

  I turn the page and my breath catches in my throat. The Duchess’s face stares out at me. Her dark hair is swept up and studded with pearls, and she wears a dress with a plunging neckline. It’s like I can feel her eyes on me, and their cold cruelness sends a chill up my spine. The headline reads, DUCHESS OF THE LAKE GRANTED PRIVATE AUDIENCE WITH EXETOR.

  This must have to do with the letter Garnet said she delivered. But what is she up to?

  Bartlett Station is about thirty minutes outside the town, in a narrow gully surrounded by hills. There must be a lot of deliveries on this train, because there are about ten or fifteen carts waiting at the station. Several of the men eye me and Sil as they puff away on hand-rolled cigarettes. I’m grateful for my hat and goggles.

  I hear the train before I see it—two whistle blows that echo off the surrounding hills. The train, big and black, jetting thick white smoke, rounds a bend. It pulls up to the station with a deafening screech, as men with soot-darkened faces jump off, opening the doors on the boxcars, and haul out crates and sacks and packages wrapped in brown paper.

  I look for anything marked with a black key, and find it drawn on a crate being unloaded. I wince as two men drop it unceremoniously on the ground.

  “That’s us,” Sil says.

  The crate has two handles on it, but it’s quite heavy. As we
struggle to hoist it onto the cart, a gust of air rises up, pushing the bottom of the crate so that it thumps onto the back of the cart. Sil gives me a wink.

  “Helpful,” I say. I wish we could open it now.

  “And to think,” she says, patting the crate, “this could have been your journey to me. As simple as a few drops of serum and a train ride.”

  It takes a lot of effort not to roll my eyes. “You sound like Lucien,” I say.

  Sil huffs.

  RAVEN AND ASH COME OUT ON THE FRONT PORCH TO greet us as we arrive back at the White Rose. Ash is in better spirits, to my relief.

  “Here,” he says, hopping up on the back of the cart with a crowbar. He pries the lid off the crate. The smell of packing hay and stale sweat fills the air.

  The lioness is curled up in the fetal position. She wears a brown woolen dress—I assume Lucien had to dress her in the morgue. She is so thin, almost as thin as Raven used to be, her skin stretched tight over her bones. There are shadows under her eyes, black against her chocolate skin.

  Ash takes her gently by the wrists and pulls her up over his shoulder.

  “Where should I put her?” he asks.

  “In Raven’s room,” I say. “I’m going to stay with her until she wakes up.”

  THE LIONESS SLEEPS FOR MOST OF THE DAY.

  As the sun starts to set, the serum begins to wear off.

  The sky is quiet tonight, muted in burnt oranges and faded yellows. I’m staring out the window when she lurches up, gasping. I grab the bucket I brought for this very purpose.

  “Here,” I say, holding it out and keeping one hand on her back as she vomits. Lucien’s serum has a pretty nasty side effect.

  The lioness coughs and I hand her a cloth to wipe her mouth. She blinks around unsteadily, like her eyes are unsure whether they want to stay open or closed.

  I pour her a glass of water from a jug on the nightstand. “Drink this.”

  Now that she’s awake, I find myself jittery with nerves. This girl is from a part of my life that feels so far away. I don’t know how to act around her.

  She drinks in silence and hands the glass back to me without a thank-you.

  “You,” she says, pushing herself up into a sitting position.