The Jewel (13 page)

She looks me up and down appraisingly. “Nicely done,” she says, with only the barest glance in Annabelle's direction to indicate that she's speaking to my lady-in-waiting. I wonder if my appearance was some sort of test for Annabelle.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” I say, with an awkward curtsy.

“Yes,” the Duchess replies, “it is a good afternoon, isn't it?” She walks toward me, a tiny smile on her lips, and it takes all my strength not to cringe or lean away. “You were very well behaved last night. I am impressed.”

“Thank you, my lady.” I wish she'd take a step back. I don't like her being this close to me.

She laughs. “Don't look so frightened. I told you, prove you can be trusted and you shall be rewarded.” She waves her fan at the Regimental. “Bring it in.”

The Regimental makes a signal, and two footmen enter carrying an enormous wooden crate and place it on the floor. Using crowbars, they pry off the lid and prop it against the box.

“That will be all,” the Duchess says, and the footmen bow and leave.

There is a loaded silence during which I look from the Duchess, to the box, to Annabelle, and back to the box again.

“Well?” the Duchess says. “Go on.”

I'd really rather open whatever it is alone, but that's clearly not an option. I take a few hesitant steps forward and kneel beside the open crate, pulling out handfuls of packing hay. There is a gleam of varnish, and suddenly my uncertainty turns to excitement. I move faster now, tearing the packing hay out of the way to get to the cello. My fingers brush the strings and a muted jumble of notes echo in my ears.

I uncover it tenderly—it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of beautiful things in the past two days. The varnish gives the maple wood a deep red glow; the f-holes are curved more ornately than I'm used to, and I trace my fingers along the purfling, marveling at the inlaid border. I run my fingers over the strings again, plucking each one individually, my throat tightening at their familiar tones.

“Do you like it?” the Duchess asks.

“Is this for me?” I whisper.

“Of course it's for you. Do you like it?” the Duchess asks again impatiently.

I swallow. “Yes, my lady. I like it very much.”

“Good. Play something.”

I take the cello by the neck and lift it out of the box, sending stray bits of hay fluttering to the floor. A bow and a block of rosin are nestled in the packing, and I grab them and head to one of the hard-backed chairs. The weight of the cello is comforting, and I squeeze its body gently between my knees, the neck resting against my shoulder. I run the block of rosin back and forth over the bow and a flood of memories is released with its sharp, resinous scent—the day I chose to learn the cello, the first time I ever held a bow, playing alone in my room late at night, playing duets with Lily in the music room . . .

“Do you have a preference for composer, my lady?” I ask.

The Duchess raises an eyebrow. “No. Play whatever you wish.”

I take a deep breath and position my fingers against the strings, noting idly that I'm going to need to cut my fingernails. Then I draw the bow across the C string.

It's perfectly in tune. The note envelops me, filling the room, rich and warm and vibrant. I close my eyes.

I play the prelude of a suite in G Major, one of the first pieces I ever learned. The notes flow easily, falling over one another like water running across smooth stones, my fingers moving deftly, sure of their positioning. The room around me fades and I feel a wonderful sense of release—my whole being feels altered when I play. I am the music and the strings and my body is as resonant as the cello's. We are one instrument, in a place where no one can touch me, where there is no Jewel and there are no surrogates, a place where there is only music. The tempo and pitch increase as I reach the end of the movement, the notes climbing higher and higher until I pull the bow long across the final chord, a perfect fifth that hangs in the air, shimmering and flawless.

I open my eyes.

The Duchess's face is transfixed, her expression triumphant. If anything, this scares me more than the mask.

“That was . . . exquisite,” she says.

“Thank you, my lady.”

She fans herself a few times, then snaps the fan closed.

“She goes to bed early tonight,” the Duchess says to Annabelle as she sweeps out of the room, the Regimental at her heels. “Tomorrow we're going out.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Ten

“O
UT WHERE
?” I
ASK
A
NNABELLE FOR THE HUNDREDTH
time, as she finishes brushing my hair that night. “Into the Jewel?”

She puts the brush down.

Or Bank

“Are you coming?”

She shrugs. I can tell by her face that she honestly doesn't know.

“Is it . . . am I going to see a doctor?” I ask nervously.

Annabelle shakes her head.

Dr. comes here

“Oh.” I chew on my thumbnail, feeling a little better.

Annabelle pushes my hand away from my mouth and starts rubbing moisturizing cream on my arms.

“I never paid much attention to the Jewel when I was at Southgate. It was my friend Lily who would read the gossip magazines and imagine our life here. I wonder where she is now. She was such a sweet girl. I hope someone nice bought her.”

I run my fingers along the polished surface of my vanity and over the velvet top of one of the jewelry boxes.

“She'd love it here.” It's nice to talk about Lily—it reminds me that she existed, that she still does, that we were friends, and it meant something. “She loves extravagant things and getting dressed up and all that. She'd have a heart attack over this room. But she was Lot 53. She might be in the Bank now.”

Bank is nice

I laugh. “You don't know Lily. Her definition of ‘nice' isn't the same as everyone else's.” My thoughts drift to the dinner last night. “I saw my best friend, you know. Raven. At dinner yesterday. She was bought by the Countess of the Stone. Do you know anything about her?”

Annabelle shrugs, but her front teeth worry at her bottom lip and her eyebrows knit together. “Raven's tough,” I say, more to make myself feel better than to defend her to Annabelle. “Tougher than anyone I've ever met. She'll be okay.”

Annabelle nods in an absentminded way and unscrews a jar of cream for my face.

A thought occurs to me and I grab her wrist. “You don't know my name,” I say. No one knows my name, but it's disturbing that I never even thought to try to tell her.

Annabelle's eyes widen and she shakes her head frantically.

“Oh, please,” I press. “Please?”

She looks away, her expression pained.

“Okay,” I say. “Sorry. Never mind.”

Her shoulders relax, but I grab the slate and chalk, and before she can take them or look away I scribble:

Violet

Then I tap the slate clean.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
A
NNABELLE DRESSES ME ALL IN
black.

There's something different about her mood—she seems on edge, rarely using her chalk and shaking or nodding her head curtly if I ask a question. The gown she chooses for me is similar in cut to my Auction dress, floor length with an empire waist. She ties a choker of black velvet around my neck.

“What's this for?” I ask, rubbing the soft material with my fingertips—it feels nice. Annabelle doesn't respond, she just pins up the front section of my hair, leaving the rest of it down.

Cora bustles in, holding a black lace veil in one hand.

“Is she ready?” She scrutinizes me from head to toe. “Very good,” she says to Annabelle, before securing the veil in my hair.

“What's that for?” I ask.

“Don't ask questions. Come with me.”

“Isn't Annabelle coming, too?”

“No,” Cora says sharply.

Annabelle gives me a small smile as I follow Cora out of my chambers. Anxiety thrums inside me as we walk down the flower hallway, then the hall of portraits, taking a large sweeping staircase down to the glass foyer I glimpsed before the dinner. Sunlight streams through the roof, making the water in the fountain twinkle. The Duchess is waiting for me, her guard of Regimentals surrounding her, a wall of red. She wears a long black skirt, with a black silk blouse under an expertly tailored black blazer. Perched on her head is a black pillbox hat, its netting just barely covering her eyes, which scan me critically.

“That dress is so . . . plain,” she says.

“My apologies, my lady,” Cora says, curtsying. “She can be changed.”

The Duchess waves her hands dismissively. “No, there's no time.” She saunters over to me in her black heels, her eyes level with mine. There is something silver in her hands. “Now, I don't necessarily like this, nor do I think you need it,” she says, holding up the silver thing. “But there are some people who will use any excuse to slander me. If you behave yourself, I won't use it again unless I absolutely have to. Do you understand?”

I don't understand at all, but her words frighten me. Then she unfolds the silver thing and my stomach drops.

It's a leash.

“You're going to be a good girl, aren't you?” she purrs. My brain is screaming at me that this is wrong, this is horrible, but my muscles have all locked down, freezing me in place, while my heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to escape. All I can do is stare.

The Regimentals move forward, as if they're anticipating that I'm going to bolt, but the Duchess holds up a hand.

“No,” she murmurs, keeping her dark eyes on my face. “Stay back. She understands.”

Against everything I am, against every impulse I have, I allow the Duchess to fasten the silver collar around the velvet choker on my neck. Part of me is still in shock. Part of me doesn't want to get hit again, or have it forced on me by Regimentals. But a part of me does understand, as the Duchess fastens a bracelet around her wrist, attached to the long silver chain that now connects us. I understand that she has an agenda, and that I am part of it, and with this gesture, she is saying that I'm hers now.

I understand, but I don't care. I hate her for it.

“The veil, Cora,” the Duchess says, and Cora lifts the black lace and lowers it over my face. It covers my eyes, my nose, my mouth, and falls to my shoulders.

I am chained, bound, hidden. For the first time, I feel like a prisoner.

“Come,” the Duchess says, walking forward. The leash goes taut and tugs at my neck, and I see the reason for the velvet choker—it prevents the collar from chafing my skin.

I have no choice but to follow. Humiliation burns in my cheeks and I clench my hands tightly, my fingernails digging into my palms. The pain sharpens my focus, a place to concentrate my anger.

A set of glass doors are opened for us by a pair of footmen, and bright sunlight filters through my veil. The sun is warm, though a cool breeze plays across my skin, raising goose bumps on my arms and the back of my neck. For a moment, I forget my anger and my embarrassment, and the injustice of this whole situation, because I am standing at the edge of an enormous circular courtyard, surrounded by a palace that looks to be crafted out of sheets of diamond. Its multifaceted surface throws off rainbows in the light and its many turrets are topped with blue flags, fluttering in the breeze. The crystal blue lake stretches out in front of me, and I can see the gates in the distance.

Something moves in one of the windows on the ground floor. I see a figure, a girl, standing with her arms folded across her chest, glaring at me. Or maybe she's glaring at the Duchess. It's hard to tell.

Another tug on my leash lets me know that the Duchess is still walking, toward a vehicle I have only ever seen in pictures. A motorcar. Sleek and white, with a long nose and a wave of metal sweeping over its front tires, it makes the electric stagecoaches look clunky and outdated. A footman opens the door and the Duchess slides into the backseat; I follow unsteadily, nearly bumping my head on the low doorframe. The seats are upholstered in a soft, tan leather, warmed by the sun. The footman shuts the door behind me. A chauffeur, already in the driver's seat, tips his hat to the Duchess and starts the engine. Gravel crunches under the tires as we trundle down the long driveway. It's a very comfortable way to travel, and might actually be enjoyable if I wasn't chained to another person.