The Jewel (26 page)

T
HE BALL GETS WILDER AS THE NIGHT GOES ON.

Champagne flows, the dancing becomes more energetic, and the laughter and chatter reach deafening levels.

The Duchess receives many congratulations on my performance, which is ridiculous since
she
didn't do anything. Every time I see Raven, she is firmly attached to the Countess of the Stone's side, head down, chained hands clasped in front of her.

The heat from all the dancing bodies, combined with the champagne, begins to make me dizzy. The Duchess is on the dance floor with the Duke. I've lost track of Carnelian and Ash, and Lucien is involved in conversation with several footmen. Garnet and his friends are laughing and eyeing a group of girls. I need some air, see a door by the wall of windows, and slip through it.

The cool air makes my skin prickle, and I inhale deeply—or as deeply as I can in this stupid corset. I run a hand across my forehead. It is so nice to be alone for a moment.

I'm in a little garden with a fountain at its center. Two shadowy figures are on a bench on the far side, twined around each other. A tall hedge juts out on my right, and I quickly slip around it, out of sight of the couple and away from the noise and laughter of the ball.

The moonlight sparkles off a small pond, with a gazebo behind it. It is so quiet here, so peaceful. I crouch by the water, careful not to get my skirt wet, and tap the glassy surface with my fingertip. The moon's reflection dances as ripples spread out in a circle, growing wider, almost lazy, until the water is smooth again.

“Hello,” a voice says.

I nearly fall into the pond. Scrambling to my feet, I see him, Ash, sitting in the gazebo, half illuminated in pale silver, half in darkness—he's taken off his tuxedo jacket, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up.

“Hi,” I breathe.

For a few seconds, we just stare at each other.

“What are you doing back here?” he asks.

“I . . . I don't know. I was hot. It's loud in there.”

“Yes. It is.” He looks down. “You shouldn't be here.”

“No,” I say. “Probably not.”

But he doesn't tell me to leave. And he doesn't move.

“That was incredible,” he says, his eyes meeting mine again. “I've never heard music played like that before.”

“Oh,” I say. Too late I add, “Thank you.”

“They don't understand,” he says, glancing in the direction of the ballroom. “They think your music is
owed
to them. As if their money gives them a right to it.”

“Doesn't it?” I say wryly.

He stares at me, his expression hard to read. “No,” he says.

“Well, I'm no Stradivarius Tanglewood,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Or Reed Purling, either, I guess.”

Ash looks away, his face turning thoughtful. “I've never done that before, you know. Disagreed with a client. It's not permitted.”

“Then why did you disagree with me?”

“I'm not sure. I just . . .” He sighs. “I felt like telling the truth, I suppose.”

“You make it sound like such a terrible thing.”

“In my profession, it is.”

“My profession seems to entail not talking at all,” I say. “So you can tell me the truth whenever you want. I can't tell anyone anyway.”

“A good point.” Ash grins. “The truth is . . . I hate avocados.”

I laugh. “What?”

“Avocados. I hate them. They're slimy and they taste like soap.”

“Avocados do not taste like soap.” I laugh again. “I hate this corset,” I say, poking it hard with my finger. “Why aren't the men all forced to wear stupid contraptions like these?”

“I don't think the Duke would pull it off as well as you,” Ash replies.

I blush. “I don't pull it off half as well as most of the women in there.”

“Don't compare yourself to them,” he says sharply. I freeze, startled. He blinks. “I'm sorry. I am so sorry, I—”

“It's fine,” I say. “I wasn't.” I stare back at the palace. “I'm nothing like them,” I murmur.

“No,” Ash agrees. “You're not.” His words sting like an insult until he adds, “And I mean that as the highest form of compliment.”

“How many times have you been here?” I ask.

“To the Royal Palace? This will be the twelfth occasion in which I have had the honor of an invitation.”

I can't help smiling. “You don't have to sound so polite. I'm just a surrogate, remember?”

Ash smiles back. “Habit, I guess.” He pauses. “That did sound pretty ridiculous, didn't it. Sometimes I don't think I even hear myself anymore. I'm not sure anyone really listens to me anyway.”

“I do,” I say quietly.

Silence falls. And still, he doesn't move.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks. “When you were playing. It was like you were somewhere else.”

“I was imagining that I was back at Southgate—that was my holding facility—and I was playing for the girls there. They liked to listen to me practice.”

He stands up. I feel like our moment is ending, and I don't want it to. Suddenly, words start pouring out of my mouth.

“If you ever want to listen, you know, to music, well . . . sometimes I play in the concert hall. Not, I mean . . . just for amusement, not an actual concert or anything but . . .” My voice trails off.

Ash runs a hand through his hair, his expression frustrated. He leaves the gazebo and walks toward me until he is standing so close that the heat from his body radiates against my bare skin. My fingers itch to touch him, to trace the lines of his face and run my hands over his chest. I want him to touch me, too, to press his lips against mine and bury his hands in my hair. The desire is overwhelming and irrational, and I love it.

“Why were you in my room?” he demands. “What were you doing there?”

“I—I got lost,” I say.

“You got lost,” he repeats, but the way he says it, it's like he means something else. His eyes burn into mine, then he shakes his head, and without another word, turns and leaves me breathless and alone.

I
WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING WITH A POUNDING HEADACHE
.

“Oh,” I moan, pressing a hand gingerly to my forehead. My mouth is dry, and tastes terrible. I shouldn't have drunk so much champagne.

Before I ring for Annabelle, I rifle through one of the drawers of my vanity and take out a small, enameled jewelry box, where I hid the tuning fork last night while Annabelle was hanging up my gown. It has a secret, second compartment, and I dump out the earrings and bracelets and pendants and pop the bottom out. The tuning fork is nestled against the velvet lining—I reach out and stroke it with one finger. I don't know what is going to happen tonight at midnight, but I'm eager to find out.

I put the bottom back in, replace the jewelry, and bury the box in my drawer. Then I ring for Annabelle.

I feel better once I've eaten breakfast. Annabelle and I spend a quiet day in my rooms. She beats me at Halma a few times, and I pretend to read for a while, but my mind keeps bouncing back and forth between the memory of Ash at the gazebo and the promise of the tuning fork at midnight.

Suddenly, the door to my tea parlor is thrown open so forcefully that it smacks against the wall. Annabelle and I jump as the Duchess walks in, flanked by her guards.

“Get out,” she orders Annabelle, who wastes no time leaving the room.

The Duchess glares at me.

“I have treated you well, haven't I?” she asks.

“Y-yes, my lady,” I stammer.

“And your life has been pleasant, as I promised, hasn't it?”

I nod, trying to figure out what I've done wrong. Does she know about Lucien? Did she see me talking to Ash?

“So please explain to me why one of the maids found
this
.” She tosses an oval object onto the coffee table.

It's the portrait I changed with Color. The painted Duchess's skin is still a sickly green. Everything inside me shrinks and tightens, and when I look up, I can feel the guilt on my face.

“I . . . I . . .” I have no defense.

“You what?” the Duchess purrs. “Did you think this was funny?”

I shake my head.

“Have you defaced any other pieces of my property?”

She's so calm. Sweat beads in my armpits.

“No, my lady,” I whisper.

The Duchess raises an eyebrow. “Let's find out if you are telling the truth.”

I've been so focused on her, I haven't been paying attention to the Regimentals. Two of them yank me out of my chair and force me to my knees, while another one pushes my head onto the coffee table next to the painting and holds it there. There is pressure on my ankles, like someone's stepping on them. I've been incapacitated in less than thirty seconds. It is entirely disorienting.

I can only see what's directly in front of me, and the Duchess disappears from view for a moment. I struggle against the men holding me, but it only sends a sharp pain shooting down my shoulder, and the pressure on my head and ankles increases.

The Duchess returns, holding my cello and a silver-headed hammer. I feel like I'm pitching forward into nothingness, like the floor has disappeared beneath me. I am weightless with shock.

“Have you defaced any other pieces of my property?” the Duchess asks again. I try to shake my head, but the hand holding me is too strong.

“No,” I say. I can't take my eyes off that hammer. “No, my lady. I swear I didn't.”

The Duchess considers this for a long moment. “All right,” she says. “I believe you.”

Then she smashes the belly of my cello with the hammer. A gaping hole splinters open in the beautiful, varnished surface, and the strings make a sad, discordant whimper.

“No!” I cry, but she raises the hammer again, bringing it down over and over, cracking the bridge, ripping into the body, yanking the strings loose so they hang free and wild, pieces of wire stripped of their beauty. The Duchess beats my cello until it is unrecognizable. Then she drops the remains casually on the floor.

My vision is blurred with tears, so I don't see what gesture she makes, but suddenly my left arm is wrenched out over the coffee table and pinned at the wrist, my fingers splayed across the wooden surface. The Duchess kneels down so that her face is almost level with mine.

“I want you to remember what I said about disrespecting me,” she says. She presses the cold face of the hammer against my knuckles. I can't help the tiny sob that escapes my throat. I want to be brave, but I don't know how. The fear is so potent, so
real
.

The Duchess raises the hammer and I brace myself for the pain.

The hammer stops less than an inch away from my fingers.

“If it happens again,” she says. “I will break your hand. Are we clear?”

My body is quivering from head to toe, my breathing ragged. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, my lady.”

The Duchess smiles, drops the hammer next to the remnants of my cello, and walks out.

T
HAT NIGHT, WHEN VELVETY DARKNESS BLANKETS MY
room, I sit in bed, turning the tuning fork over and over in my hands.

I can't see the clock over the fireplace, so I have no idea what time it is. Not that it matters. I'm not sure if I could fall asleep anyway. For the thousandth time, I rub the knuckles on my left hand. I can still see the raised hammer, still feel the paralyzing fear. I have to remind myself that it didn't happen. I have to keep telling myself that I'm all right.

The tuning fork starts to vibrate. I'm so surprised I drop it—it falls onto my comforter with a tiny thud then rises into the air, revolving slowly and emitting a faint hum. I gape at it, unsure of what to do, when I hear a voice.

“Hello?”

“Lucien?” I whisper. “Where are you?” He sounds distant, like he's speaking to me from the end of a long tunnel.

“In the Royal Palace,” he says. “Where else would I be?”

“But . . . but . . . how?”

“I call them my arcana. I invented them. They will allow us to speak in secret without being overheard or monitored.”

I examine the tuning fork closely. “So . . . we're speaking through this thing?”

“Yes. I have the master. Yours responds to mine. They form a connection.” He pauses, then says, “But we have more important things to discuss.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles.

“Can I assume that you are willing, if not eager, to escape the Jewel?”

“Yes.”

“Consider this: If caught, you would surely be executed. You may be putting your family in danger. Can you accept that?”

I rub my knuckles again. Am I willing to risk my family's safety for my own? I don't know. But I can't say no to Lucien, not now. “Yes,” I say in a hushed voice. “When?”

“I am currently developing a serum that will put you into a coma so deep, it will give you the appearance of death. No one will question it—surrogates often die of medical complications. Or get assassinated by a rival House, as you well know. The Duchess has plenty of enemies who would love to see you dead.”

I feel dizzy. “Is it safe?”

“Let me be clear: Nothing about this plan is safe. But if you agree to it, you must also agree to do whatever I say. Any instruction I give, you must follow, regardless of whether you like it or not. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Good. The Winter Ball for the Longest Night is being held at the Royal Palace.” The Longest Night is the oldest holiday in the Lone City. It takes place in mid-December, still several weeks away. “I will give you the serum then. The following night you will take it. Once you are pronounced dead, you'll be transported to the morgue, where I'll recover your body and hide it on a train scheduled to bring supplies to the Farm. When we arrive in the Farm, I will take you to a safe place.”