The Jewel (12 page)

C
ORA COMES TO GET ME A MOMENT LATER.

I follow her silently back through the halls and up the stairs, the palace taking on a dreamlike quality in the dimmed light of the lamps, like I'm lost in a gilded maze. She opens the door to my chambers, where Annabelle is waiting for me.

“She goes straight to bed,” Cora says. Annabelle nods.

“Where are you going?” I ask Cora.

“To attend to the Duchess,” Cora says, as though it should be obvious.

“Oh. Well, good night.” The caretakers always said good night to us at Southgate, and Cora feels very much like a caretaker.

Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “Good night.”

I follow Annabelle through another door into my bedroom, my head swimming with scenes from the dinner. There seemed to be two teams at play: the Electress, the Countess of the Stone, and the Duchess of the Scales versus the Duchess of the Lake and the Countess of the Rose. Being royal seems exhausting—why invite people to a dinner party if you don't even like them?

I'm so caught up in my own thoughts, I don't notice that Annabelle has removed my jewelry and is unzipping my dress. A silken nightgown is laid out on my bed.

“Oh!” I say. “I can get ready myself.”

Annabelle shakes her head.

“Are you not allowed to speak to me?” I ask, my heart sinking.

Annabelle picks up the flat rectangle hanging from her waist and removes something small and white from a pocket on her belt.

It's a piece of chalk.

The rectangle is a slate, I realize, as she scribbles on it and holds it up for me to see.

Can't speak

“What, not at all?” I ask stupidly.

She shakes her head.

“Did something happen to you?”

As soon as the words are out, I realize they're rude. Annabelle holds up her slate.

Born this way

“You've never been able to talk? Ever?”

I remember a girl in the Marsh who couldn't speak, but she couldn't hear either. Obviously, Annabelle can hear just fine.

Annabelle shakes her head and taps the slate once with her finger—the writing is erased.

“Wow,” I say. “That's a pretty neat device.”

She nods halfheartedly, and finishes unzipping my dress. I step out of it and she slips the nightgown over my head.

We go to the powder room, where Annabelle washes the makeup off my face, then it's back to the bedroom. She sits me in front of the vanity and starts brushing out my hair. I study her reflection in the mirror. Her skin is paler than mine, and dusted with freckles. There's a frailty about her, in her thin wrists and shoulders, and a tenderness in the way she runs the brush through my hair.

“Do you ever wish you could?” I ask, and she looks up, surprised. “Speak, I mean.”

Annabelle bites her lip and for a second I think I've been rude again. Then she puts down the brush and picks up her slate.

Every day

I try to imagine what that would be like, not being able to express myself with my voice—with a jolt, I realize it sort of happened to me tonight. And I didn't like it at all.

Annabelle finishes with my hair and moves to the bed, pulling back the covers for me. It feels like I've been sleeping for most of the last two days, but I'm still tired. I crawl under the velvety comforter, my head sinking into the feather pillows. Annabelle points to a long strip of patterned fabric hanging down the wall over the nightstand. She motions pulling on it, then points to herself.

“If I ring that, you'll come?”

She nods.

“Where do you sleep?”

She points down, then scribbles on her slate.

Good night

I am suddenly gripped with fear of being left alone in this unfamiliar, extravagant room.

“Annabelle?” I say. “Will you . . . could you sit with me for a little while?”

She hesitates and I remember Cora's instructions that I was to go right to sleep. But then she nods, and perches herself on the bed beside me. I smile.

“Thanks.”

Must be v. strange

I realize that
v
stands for
very
. Of course. It would be a pain writing everything out longhand. I'd use abbreviations, too.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

Whole life

I run my fingers along the embroidered edge of the pillowcase. “It's certainly beautiful.”

Annabelle nods without much enthusiasm.

“At dinner tonight,” I say hesitantly, unsure if I should be talking about the dinner at all, “the royal women . . . they didn't seem . . . I mean, they weren't very nice to one another. Is it always like that?”

Annabelle grimaces, and I take that for a yes.

“The Electress is very young, isn't she? Even younger than she looks in her photographs.”

Annabelle nods.

“The Duchess didn't seem to like her much.”

Annabelle fidgets, and her cheeks turn pink. I hastily change the subject.

“I saw the Duchess's son.” A blush creeps up the back of my neck at the memory of the handsome boy and his disheveled appearance. “He doesn't seem anything like his mother.”

Annabelle smiles a very private sort of smile, like my words have amused her in a way I don't understand.

“What's his name?”

Garnet

“Right. Garnet.” I remember the Duchess's words in the study, saying how she didn't need another Garnet.

“Have you done this before?” I ask. “Looked after a surrogate?”

Annabelle shakes her head no.

“I'll try not to make your life too difficult.”

She smiles and squeezes my hand. It's very warm and comfortable under the covers, and a yawn escapes my throat.

Sleep

“All right,” I agree.

She gets up and starts extinguishing the lamps. I roll onto my back and stare at the pale green canopy overhead. My mind flickers to my family. I imagine them in that tiny house, my mother preparing dinner, Hazel at the table doing her schoolwork, Ochre out back chopping firewood. I picture them sitting around the table, eating a meager meal, laughing and talking freely. I wonder if they thought about me at all. A lump swells in my throat.

“Good night, Hazel,” I whisper. “Good night, Ochre. Good night, Mother.”

I think I hear the scratching of Annabelle's chalk on her slate, but I'm already sinking into oblivion.

T
HAT NIGHT,
I
HAVE A DREAM.
I'
M BACK AT SOUTHGATE,
in the music room, trying to play a duet with Lily.

But I can't seem to hold my cello correctly. It keeps slipping to one side and my bow screeches against the strings. Lily lowers her violin and gives me a condescending look.

“You should have listened to me, Violet,” she says. I look down and see that my stomach is huge, swollen with the Duchess's baby.

I scream.

I
WAKE IN THE MORNING IN A COLD SWEAT, THROWING
off my covers and pressing my hands against my stomach.

I'm not pregnant. I'm not pregnant.
I repeat the words in my head over and over, a hopeless mantra.

I walk to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. My eyes are wild, my hair tangled with sleep, my skin paler than usual. I look awful. Is this what I look like every morning? Ugh.

I soak a facecloth with cold water and run it over my forehead and the back of my neck. My stomach growls. I tie my hair back with a ribbon and head into the bedroom, pulling on the fabric that rings for Annabelle. I wonder how breakfast works—do I go to the kitchens? Do I eat in the dining room, with the Duchess?

I swallow hard and my hand moves to my stomach again, the image of my pregnant self looming in my mind.

When will it happen?

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think about something else, but there's nothing else to think about. It all seemed so distant, so far away in a future I couldn't imagine when I was at Southgate, but now that I'm actually
here
, the thought of being pregnant, of having someone else's child growing inside me, is terrifying.

The door opens and Annabelle comes in, bringing the delicious scent of coffee with her. She places a covered tray on the breakfast table.

The smell of food makes me feel better—I am still hungry after my disappointing lack of dinner last night. My mother used to say that a good meal could ease a troubled heart. Annabelle beckons for me to sit and lifts the cover off the tray.

There are soft-boiled eggs sitting in little silver cups, yogurt with fresh fruit, buttered toast, crisp strips of bacon, and a cold glass of orange juice. Annabelle lays a napkin in my lap and pours coffee into a pink china cup while I attack the food.

She raises an eyebrow.

Hungry?

“Starved,” I say through a mouthful of toast and egg. “The Duchess barely let me eat anything last night.”

Sleep well?

The strip of bacon freezes on its way to my mouth. I shrug and put it down, taking a sip of coffee instead. “It's a very nice bed.”

When I'm finished with breakfast, Annabelle runs me a shower, then laces me into a beautiful gown the color of a ripe peach. I sit at the vanity in my bedroom while she curls my hair and pins it up.

“Am I going somewhere?” I ask.

She shrugs.

“Do you know . . . I mean, do you have any idea . . .” I don't know how to phrase the question. How do you ask someone when to expect to be impregnated? “Do I have a schedule or something?”

Wait for D to call

“Oh.” I fiddle with one of the opal-and-topaz earrings dangling from my ears. “All right.”

When she's finished, I stand up and study myself in the mirror. With my hair pinned up and dressed in such fine fabric, I look older than the girl who stood in the prep room and gazed at her reflection like it was someone else's.

Pretty

I open my mouth, then close it, unsure of what to say. I do look pretty. I'm just not sure I look like
me
.

The morning is spent exploring my chambers. I have three closets full of dresses in every color and fabric and pattern, from simple daywear to elegant ball gowns. Annabelle opens the curtains in my bedroom, and I get my first glimpse of the outside of the palace. A wide gravel driveway encircles an enormous lake, glittering and smooth, like a crystal mirror, a brilliant and unnatural blue. In the distance, I can see a pair of golden gates.

After a while, we move to the room next to my bedroom. The tea parlor is very pleasant and sunny, all the furniture upholstered in yellows and oranges, with bouquets of marigolds and daisies interspersed on the tabletops. Tall bookshelves line one wall, and the collection contains a mix of familiar and unfamiliar titles.
A Complete History of the Founding Houses
overshadows a battered copy of
The Wishing Well
, a collection of children's stories.

“Oh, I love this book!” I exclaim, sliding
The Wishing Well
off the shelf. I'm surprised to find it in the Jewel—it's a welcome reminder of home. “My father used to read these stories to me. Have you ever read them?”

Annabelle shakes her head no.

The story of the Wishing Well was our favorite, mine and Hazel's. I flip to it now and smile, remembering how we'd wait by the door for Father to come home from the factories, smelling of smoke and grease, and we'd beg him to read to us while Mother fixed his dinner. He had the most wonderful reading voice. The story is about two sisters who find a magic well; they free the water spirit who lives inside it, and in return, she grants them each a wish. Hazel and I would curl up on either side of him and let the words wash over us, and gasp and cry in all the right places. I must have been about ten, then; Hazel was six. A year later, Father was dead.

As I'm flipping to another story, lunch is served. A young maid in a black dress and white apron brings in a tray full of food. If I thought the meals at Southgate were good, they're nothing compared to the Jewel's.

After lunch, I begin to get bored. I read through most of
The Wishing Well
, but my attention drifts. Annabelle sits in one of the armchairs, embroidering a handkerchief.

“Can I see the rest of the palace?” I ask.

Not till D calls

“When will that be?”

Annabelle shrugs.

I sigh and flop back on the couch, but the stays in my dress poke me and I sit up again. Annabelle puts down her embroidery and picks up her slate again.

Halma?

“You play Halma?” I ask eagerly.

Annabelle's smile widens.

“I
THOUGHT THIS WAS A
M
ARSH-GAME,”
I
GRUMBLE LATER
that afternoon, as I stare intently at the six-pointed star on the board. “How come you're so good at it?”

Annabelle has already beaten me twice, and she appears to be heading for a third win. Nearly all her marbles are in my corner—mine are scattered in the center of the board, making it only too easy for her to use them as stepping stones.

V. old, orig. from F

“The Farm? Really?” I hop over two of her marbles to finally land one of mine in her corner. “I didn't know that.”

Annabelle uses my newly placed marble to hop halfway across the board.

Not pop in J, only serv play

“Yeah, I can see that,” I mutter darkly. I'm not used to losing at Halma—Raven was such a terrible player. She had no patience for it. We'd play with Lily and she'd always get crushed.

It takes Annabelle only three more moves to end the game. “Rematch,” I say immediately.

The door to the parlor opens. A Regimental stands at attention as the Duchess of the Lake sweeps into the room. Annabelle jumps out of her chair, and I scramble to my feet. The Duchess wears a red dress, layers of chiffon falling to the floor, cinched around her waist with braided ropes of silk. A fan dangles from a chain around her wrist. Her face is a carefully controlled mask, but there is a frantic energy about her, like strong emotions are boiling just under the surface.