For a fleeting second, I think he must be joking. I take in the tree, its myriad branches, its tough, wrinkled bark, thick gnarled roots sunk deep into the earth. It must be very old.
I’ve never attempted anything like this, ever. “How?” I ask.
Dr. Blythe shrugs. “How did you make the flowers grow, and the ferns?”
“Yes, but . . .” I approach the tree warily. It’s not only old, it’s so big. I reach out and touch the rough bark. Something about this tree makes me feel like a child. It is nothing like the fragile, barren lemon tree in a dusty backyard. This oak has a presence.
I suck in a breath through my nose and hold it for a second. Then I find a crook where one of the smaller branches breaks off from the trunk and wrap my hand around it. The tree smells like dry earth and dying leaves.
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
Nothing.
I haven’t felt nothing since my very first Augury lesson at Southgate.
I close my eyes and focus my mind.
Come on, Violet, I tell myself. You can do this.
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
My fingertips begin to tingle. The oak tree that suddenly fills my mind is not necessarily bigger, but full of color, its leaves more vibrant than they are now. It’s in the middle of a field, a wide empty space with nothing but the wind dancing through its branches. I don’t know where this image is coming from, but suddenly, the tree reacts.
I gasp and hold on tight to the branch because I don’t want to break this connection. I have never felt so much energy before, so much ancient, thrumming power. My body courses with it, an alternate pulse to mine. The life in this tree is so potent, so very much there. These are no delicate wisps of gossamer to be pulled at and manipulated, these are thick cables of heat, rooted deep in the earth. I am overwhelmed by this pure, beautiful force of nature.
Very gently, I probe out with my mind, seeing if I can isolate just the one branch. In the instant the tree senses me, pain crackles down my spine and the taste of blood fills my mouth. I cry out and fall to the ground, my hand stinging where it touched the bark.
The ground tilts beneath me, and I can hear Dr. Blythe’s voice, but his words are muffled. Blood pours from my nose into my mouth, and for a terrifying second, I can’t breathe. I cough it out, violent shudders tearing through my body, and stay hunched over, waiting for the dizziness to subside. I feel at once fragile, exhausted, and buzzing with unfamiliar life, and it takes me a few seconds to understand.
The oak tree is stronger than me.
The world steadies itself, and Dr. Blythe’s voice becomes clear.
“Violet? Are you all right?” He hands me a handkerchief and I hold it to my nose, sitting up carefully, so as not to touch the tree.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice shakes. My spine feels disjointed, like someone cracked every bone in it, and my head pounds but not in the usual way. It’s not an ache so much as an . . . awareness. Like my brain has swelled up and my skull can’t make room for it.
My nosebleed has stopped. Dr. Blythe cleans up my face, but the pretty coat Annabelle chose for me is spattered with blood.
“What happened?” Dr. Blythe asks.
I look at the oak and try to picture the warm flow of life inside it. “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing happened. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t make it grow.”
Dr. Blythe sighs. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to. Very well.”
He helps me to my feet as irritation flares inside me. This is the first time he hasn’t told me I was impressive. I don’t want the compliment, but in this instance, I think I deserve it.
“Dr. Blythe.” Cora comes hurrying along the path, Annabelle trotting at her heels.
“Good afternoon, Cora,” Dr. Blythe says pleasantly.
“The Duchess needs to see her at once,” Cora says.
“Of course. We are finished for the day.”
Cora purses her lips at the sight of my bloodstained coat. “Take that off,” she says. I hand her my coat, which she passes to Annabelle. She frowns as she takes in my clothes.
“Is something wrong?” I ask. I like what I’m wearing—a simple navy dress with thin straps and a loose-fitting, gray cashmere sweater.
Cora sighs. “It’ll have to do, there’s no time to change you. Come along.” She turns to Annabelle. “I want the stains out of that coat.”
Annabelle nods.
Cora leads me to the main drawing room, which is decorated in shades of blue and silver. The Duchess is seated on a couch, her niece sitting beside her. The girl looks sullen, and her dirty-blond hair is pinned up into a plain little bun. Her eyes narrow when she sees me.
“Ah,” the Duchess says. “Here she is.”
It’s then that I notice the two other women in the room. One is obviously royal; her gown is a rich, creamy satin, diamonds hang from her ears, and her face is heavily made up. The other is a surrogate. There is a silver collar around her neck—a fine chain connects her to the bracelet around the royal woman’s wrist.
My stomach twists at the sight of the leash.
“This surrogate is going to make my daughter exceptional. She will stand out as no child ever has before,” the Duchess says. “An indisputable match for the young, future Exetor. And you should have absolute confidence that an alliance with my House will benefit the House of the Flame, both in reputation and wealth.”
This woman must be the Lady of the Flame. She owns the dairy that Ochre works at. The image of my brother comes back to me in a rush, that last dinner when he praised her House and how it treats its workers.
My eyes flicker back to the leash.
The Lady of the Flame looks me up and down skeptically. “I don’t know, Pearl. You cannot be certain.”
“I am.”
“And what of the Houses of the Stone, and the Scales? They are also having daughters this year. So is almost every House that bought a surrogate and is lacking a daughter. My goodness, I myself am having a daughter this year, though I have no illusions about a match with the Exetor’s son. But there are many who do. How can you be so sure the Exetor and Electress will choose yours?” Without pause, the Lady of the Flame turns her attention to the Duchess’s niece. “Besides, she is not truly royal. I don’t wish to put my son at any disadvantage. Our dear Exetor may survive the stigma, by my House is—”
“The blood of the House of the Lake runs in her veins,” the Duchess says sharply. She doesn’t look at her niece when she speaks. “She will come with the appropriate price.”
“And what of my reputation?” the Lady asks. “It is spotless at the moment. And everyone knows the House of the Lake is not what it used to be.”
The Duchess presses her lips into a thin line. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
The Lady of the Flame is quickly backpedaling. “Only that it is no secret that the Royal Palace favors the Houses of the Stone and the Scales. Perhaps the House of the Lake has lost some of its clout. It may be more difficult than you think to arrange a match with the future Exetor.”
I take a step back at the chill emanating from the Duchess’s small frame. The Lady of the Flame nervously sips her tea. The Duchess plucks a small glazed biscuit from a tray on the table next to her and turns it over in her fingers.
“I assure you, Sapphire, the House of the Lake is as powerful as ever. If some proof of my influence is needed, I will be happy to oblige.” She dips the biscuit in her tea and takes a small bite.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” the Lady says quickly. “I didn’t mean . . . I only meant . . . there is the issue of Garnet. . . .”
“You have an issue with my son?”
“Come now, Pearl, you can’t pretend to ignore his behavior. It seems every other month there is some new scandal in the papers. He is simply too . . . too . . .” I watch her struggle to find a word that won’t offe
nd. “Unpredictable.”
The Duchess’s lips curve into a wry smile. “Well. What is life without a bit of excitement.”
“But it is widely known that you are having difficulty in finding him a wife. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until he is married before attempting to find a match for your niece?”
“Why, Sapphire,” the Duchess says, and I can hear the acid in her voice, “I am touched that you care so deeply for the welfare of my family. But how I run my House is my business, not yours. And it is your son’s future, not mine, that we are here to discuss.”
She stands in one fluid motion and moves to my side. “Since you did not allow me to answer your question before, let me answer it now. You asked how I can be so sure that this surrogate will make my daughter stand out.” She takes my arm and pulls me to a side table, where a small potted plant sits amid a collection of crystal miniatures. The plant has long stems with pale green leaves and tiny heart-shaped flowers. The Duchess looks at me expectantly. “Go on,” she says. “Make it grow.”
I clench my hands into fists. It’s repulsive, performing for these women like a trained animal. Especially after I nearly suffocated on my own blood in the garden a few minutes ago. I feel brittle, the life of the oak tree still a fading crackle in my veins, my skin hot and tender. But the Duchess’s eyes hold the warning of what awaits me if I do not obey her.
My fingers grip the stems of the plant, breaking some of them, crushing the small flowers.
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
The life of the oak stirs inside me, and the plant explodes.
Thick stems crawl up the shelves on the wall, knocking china plates and glass figurines to the floor. The Lady of the Flame jumps up and backs away, pulling her surrogate with her, and the Duchess’s niece is pressed against the window, her eyes wide.
The plant keeps growing.
It climbs higher and spreads out, destroying more shelves. A mirror smashes into pieces, a painting is ripped off the wall, part of its frame crushed, books are knocked to the ground. For the first time, I don’t want the Augury to stop. I want to tear this whole palace down. My anger has infused the plant with a new, stronger life, and I feel like my head is on fire, each strand of hair alight with energy.
To the Duchess’s credit, she doesn’t move. Finally, the fire burns out and the plant stops growing. I take my hand away and swallow back the bile that is rising in my throat. The pain in my neck and back cools to a dull ache.
The Duchess turns to the Lady of the Flame.
“Satisfied?” she asks.
There is a knock on the door.
“Excuse me for a moment,” the Duchess says, wrapping her fingers around my arm. My eyes land on the Lady’s surrogate for an instant—the girl looks frightened of me. How strange. I give her a small smile and she stiffens and looks down as the Duchess leads me out the door.
“My, my, my,” she says as we join Cora in the hallway. “That was . . . well, impressive, to say the very least. Perhaps I should give Dr. Blythe a raise. I thought Sapphire was going to faint. ‘Not what it used to be’ indeed . . . idiot woman.” She sighs and rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. “I am exhausted by this business, Cora,” she says. “It feels as if my life is nothing but arranging marriages at the moment. I can’t decide which one is proving more difficult, my niece or my son.” She turns to me. “Be grateful you will never have children of your own.”
I wince. She says this so carelessly, as if I’ve made the choice not to have children, as opposed to having it taken from me.
“How is it going, my lady?” Cora asks.
“As well as can be expected, which is to say horrible,” the Duchess replies. “Has he arrived yet?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I do hope he’s worth the price—they were never this expensive when I was a girl.”
“I am certain you will find him satisfactory, my lady.”
The Duchess sighs again.
“I may as well get this over with. Come and fetch me again in three minutes’ time with some important message. We’re not quite done, but I don’t think I can last much longer than that.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And have the kitchen send up something special for her,” the Duchess says with a wave in my direction. “She’s earned it.”
“Of course, my lady.”
The Duchess disappears back into the drawing room, and Cora turns to me.
“You will return to your chambers at once,” she says curtly.
“All right.”
She nods and hurries off down the hall.
I stand there for a few moments. For the first time since I’ve arrived at the Duchess’s palace, I am alone.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Fourteen
MY PULSE IS RACING AS I HURRY DOWN THE HALLWAY that ends at the ballroom.
I want to explore a little more of this palace on my own, decide for myself where to go and what to see. Several maids are cleaning the windows that look out onto the garden, and I flit past the doors, pausing in between them to make sure I’m not seen.
I pass a sunroom, keeping the sculpture gallery between me and the main foyer. An unpleasant smell tells me I’ve reached the Duke’s smoking room. Hearing the low murmur of voices and the heavy tread of boots, I duck into a small study, peeking through a crack in the door to watch a pair of Regimentals pass by, heading toward the library. I wait, listening to make sure they’re gone, and my gaze falls on a tiny portrait of the Duchess in an oval frame, propped up on a rolltop desk.
An image comes of its own volition and I reach out a finger, gently touching a spot on the Duchess’s cheek.
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
Cracks of hideous green spread across her skin, replacing the light caramel color. I’ve never done Color so specifically before. Whether I like the doctor’s appointments or not, they’re certainly improving my Augury skills. I grin—now the Duchess looks as ugly as she acts.
I know it’s risky, but I decide to leave it as a little token of me among all this opulence.
I slip back out into the hall, passing the library and turning left, then right. I sneak past the main dining room and find myself in a hallway I’ve never seen before. Made entirely of glass, it’s a promenade that connects the main palace to the east wing.
At first, the east wing seems like the rest of this place. But as I move deeper into it, it becomes almost plain. The halls are painted, not papered, and the colors are dull, muted beiges and mauves. The pictures that hang on the walls are blurred landscapes in simple frames.
I keep walking east, alert, looking for any door that leads to the outside. The silence is making me jittery—my own footsteps sound too loud.
“—still don’t think it’s fair.”
An unexpected girl’s voice makes me jump.
“I know, Mary, but there isn’t anything you can do about it,” a different girl answers.
I can’t tell where the voices are coming from. I look for a place to hide, trying a door to my left, but it’s locked. So is the one on the right.
“The mute is two years younger than me. I should have been chosen as the surrogate lady-in-waiting.”
The mute. She’s talking about Annabelle.
I hurry back down the hall, trying every door, but they’re all stubbornly locked.
“Maybe it won’t work out with this surrogate,” the second girl says. “The Electress’s one is dead. And a few others, too, already. The Duchess won’t use the same lady-in-waiting twice.”
They’re getting closer. I try to retrace my steps, but the honest truth is, I have no idea where I am or where I came from.
“I heard this one is special. The Duchess positively fawns over her.
I was wondering if she was ever going to buy one. Can you imagine going to the Auction and coming back empty-handed for nineteen years?”
This brings me up short. They’re talking about me, clearly, but the words are all wrong. The last thing the Duchess does is fawn over me.
“Have you seen her?” the second girl asks. I can hear their footsteps now. I reach the end of the hall and turn down another, but it’s a dead end. I’m trapped. There are only two doors to try.
“Once, when I was cleaning the library. She has the strangest color eyes,” the girl named Mary says.
I try the first door—locked.
“That’s what I heard. Was she nice?”
My palms are slick with sweat as I reach the second door—I can’t be caught. What excuse or reason could I possibly give for being here, alone and unchaperoned?
Please, I beg, oh, please, please . . .
The knob turns. For a second, I am too stunned to move. Then I throw myself into the room, closing the door quickly and quietly behind me.
I can hear the rustle of skirts, the clacking of heels. I press myself against the door, waiting for them to pass . . .
“How should I know? It’s not as if she talked to me. I’m not her lady-in-waiting.” Mary’s voice is practically right outside.
“At least Carnelian will be married off soon. Then we won’t have to deal with her anymore.”
“That wedding can’t come fast enough.” Mary snorts. The sounds of their footsteps fade, and when she speaks again, her voice is distant. “Did you hear about . . .”
They’re gone.
I exhale in a giant whoosh, leaning my forehead against the door and pressing a hand against my heart, willing it to slow.
“Oh, Violet,” I whisper aloud. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. Never again.”
Then I burst into hysterical laughter, relief making me silly. I turn and find that I’m in some sort of small parlor; there’s another door opposite me and a claw-footed sofa behind a low coffee table. Late-afternoon sunlight streams through the lone, arched window and on the wall beside me, there’s a large oil painting of a man in a green hunting jacket with a handsome dog at his side.