The Black Key

  I’m impressed Carnelian is following the Society’s movements. Though I do remember, at a dinner so many months ago, the Duchess mocking her for working on her father’s printing press. Maybe she’s always read the papers and I just never noticed.

  And privately, I agree with her. With the Auction almost here, it’s unsafe for royals to be in the lower circles. But of course, they don’t know that.

  “The Smoke has always been rather rough around the edges, though, hasn’t it?” Coral says. “The Bank is lovely. It will be nice to have a change of scenery.”

  “I still don’t see why I couldn’t have brought Rye,” Carnelian says.

  “Yes, he’s very funny, isn’t he?” Coral says. “I remember when he was my companion. He used to do impressions of the servants that made me laugh for days.”

  I’d forgotten Rye worked for the House of the Downs. It seems wrong to me, unnatural that she and Coral would share a companion, but I suppose it must happen all the time.

  “Don’t remind me,” Carnelian mumbles.

  “And he’s a good deal nicer than that awful Ash Lockwood,” Coral continues, oblivious to Carnelian’s murderous expression. “I remember how jealous I was when the Duchess procured him for you! My mother was dying to get her hands on him. But I suppose that worked out for the best.”

  “Don’t talk about him like you know him,” Carnelian snaps. “Because you don’t.”

  “Well, neither did you, really,” Coral points out.

  Carnelian stares out the window and fumes for the rest of the drive.

  Our motorcar pulls into a station that is even smaller than the one I arrived at when I was pretending to be Lily. There is no little house beside it. It’s nestled in a copse of trees, their buds just beginning to blossom. The train is only one car, gleaming black with copper detail. The conductor jumps to attention when we arrive, doffing his hat and opening the train door for us.

  The interior of the car looks very similar to a royal parlor. There are two couches, one upholstered in silver with a pretty snowflake pattern, the other gold embossed with leaves, as well as two armchairs. Lamps decorate the various tables, their shades in muted tones of peach and beige. A miniature chandelier hangs from the ceiling. There is a marble statue of a woman in a long dress, a bird perched on her outstretched hand. A glass cabinet filled with liquor bottles sits beside a very large, very realistic portrait of the Exetor.

  Carnelian and Coral take seats on opposite couches. I’ve learned by now that my job is to stand quietly in the corner and pretend I don’t exist. Today’s paper sits on a small side table and Carnelian picks it up and flips through it as the train rumbles forward.

  “I do read the papers, by the way,” Coral says. “There was an editorial by the Lady of the Dell about the inequity of pre-birth engagements.”

  Carnelian snorts. “Please. That was a veiled attempt by the Electress to discredit the Duchess. Everyone knows she doesn’t want the Duchess’s daughter marrying her son. Probably why she sent those men to kill the surrogate at Garnet’s party.”

  “The Electress wouldn’t do that,” Coral says. “It’s treason. People are just jealous.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Coral very studiously ignores the question.

  Carnelian groans. “You act like you haven’t lived in this circle your whole life. You know how ruthless it is.”

  “That’s such a cruel word.” Coral adjusts her hat. “People just have very strong feelings about things here, that’s all.”

  Carnelian laughs at that, and I’m glad she can, since I can’t.

  “You’re a joke, Coral.”

  “At least I’m pretty and happy,” she responds with a shrug. “Maybe if you tried smiling more, someone in this circle will want to marry you.”

  “I don’t think it’s my lack of smiles that’s preventing any House from making a match with me,” Carnelian says. “Besides, there are more important things than finding a husband and buying a surrogate.”

  It’s Coral’s turn to laugh. “Like what?”

  Carnelian brandishes the paper at her. “The city is falling apart out there.”

  At that moment, the iron door between the Bank and the Jewel groans open. The train moves forward slowly, chugging through the darkness until we finally emerge on the other side, reminding me unpleasantly again of just how big this wall is.

  But I won’t be alone. It won’t just be me trying to take it down, as Lucien once planned. I think of Indi and Sienna and even Olive, waiting in the Marsh, ready to ride into the Jewel with the girls being sold. I think about Raven and Sil hiding out near Southgate. I wonder how Ginger, and Tawny, and Henna are doing. I hope they’ll be ready, that Amber and Scarlet and the other girls have helped them practice with the elements. I hope they learn from one another, strengthen one another.

  As light filters back into the train, Coral smiles smugly. “How is anyone ever going to get through that wall, Carnelian? We are perfectly safe in the Jewel. And I’m sure this whole business will blow over soon enough. These ruffians will be caught and punished.” She sniffs, smoothing out her skirts. “Can’t they be thankful that we provide them with jobs, put clothes on their backs and food in their bellies? It seems so ungrateful of them to be throwing these tantrums.”

  Once again, Carnelian speaks my mind for me.

  “Coral, you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. What you know about the lower circles could fit inside one of your stupid miniature teacups.”

  The train slows and we pull up to the Bank station before the fight can continue.

  It is as private as the one in the Jewel, if not more. There are trees that hide it within the confines of a brick wall. A motorcar waits for us just inside the golden gate that leads to the rest of the circle.

  I’ve only ever been to the South Quarter of the Bank, for that brief time I spent with Lily and then at the warehouse. Everything was pink stone and immaculate gardening. The North Quarter is wilder. All the trees here are evergreens. The buildings are made from materials in silvery gray and pale blue, so they gleam among the dark green. Lots of them have white tiles for their roofs, giving the impression of newly fallen snow.

  We reach a street that is twice as wide as any other we’ve been on so far. It’s filled with shops of every kind, and the chauffeur pulls over to let us out. We pass a store with boarded-up windows and scorch marks on its walls. A sign on the door reads, “Closed for Renovations.” A black key is scrawled over the words.

  “Ungrateful,” Coral mutters. Carnelian rolls her eyes, but she glances back at the building several times until it fades from view.

  She catches me watching her and quickly faces forward.

  I look away, too. I don’t need Carnelian studying me too closely.

  One or two other stores have broken windows and “Closed” notices and I catch sight of more spray-painted keys.

  The shops that remain untouched have large ornate signs, like the ones in the South Quarter. One proudly boasts “The best milliner in the North Quarter!” over a display of brilliantly colored hats. Another proclaims “Fine linens: make your house look like a royal palace!”

  We finally stop outside a bright red building, a sharp contrast to all the iron and brass that makes up most of this quarter. There is an imposing branch of the Royal Bank to the left and a furniture store on the right. The sign over the red building’s entrance says, “Miss Mayfield’s Ladies Emporium: Purveyor of Fine Evening Wear.” A girl no older than me in a smartly cut black pencil skirt and blazer greets us at the door.

  “Coral of the House of the Lake,” she says warmly. “We’ve been expecting you. And Miss Carnelian as well. Come in, come in.”

  Coral soaks up the attention like a sponge. We walk into the store and two other girls in similar garb are immediately called over. Coffee is poured, fresh fruit is offered, as well as a seat on a plush velvet sofa. Once again, I hover in the background, not needed
except when Coral removes her hat and hands it to me. Dresses surround us, modeled on wooden mannequins or hanging on racks arranged by color. The ceiling is so high that there are tiers of gowns accessible only by a sliding ladder on the wall, like the one in the Duchess’s library. The floor is carpeted in a deep crimson, and the light fixture that hangs from the ceiling is wrought out of copper in the shape of many antlers, each point fixed with a glowglobe, so that the room is bathed in a warm light.

  “Miss Mayfield will be right with you,” the head girl assures Coral. “You’ll love it when you see it, it’s absolutely stunning. She was up all night finishing it.”

  Coral looks pleased.

  “What about my dress?” Carnelian asks. She sits on a small pouf with her cup of coffee, looking disgruntled.

  “Oh, yours is lovely, too!” the assistant chirps.

  “You must be thrilled,” another assistant, who’s nearly as tall as Indi, says. “To have your aunt commission a dress like this just for you.”

  “Yes, I’m ecstatic,” Carnelian replies dryly.

  “We both are,” Coral says, smiling enough for the two of them.

  “Have you seen the lists for the Auction yet?” the head girl asks.

  “No, they never arrive until a few days before, do they? I can’t wait to see what sort of surrogates are on the docket this year.”

  “Not nearly as many as last time, though, are there?” the third assistant, a girl with bushy hair and a lot of freckles, asks.

  “No,” Coral says. “But it’s really about quality, not quantity, isn’t it?”

  “Besides, no one’s fighting for Larimar’s hand in marriage anymore,” Carnelian points out.

  “We were so sorry to hear about that awful shooting,” the head girl says. I notice she speaks only to Coral. “Is it true they were after the surrogate?”

  “Yes,” Coral replies in a hushed voice.

  “Everyone is saying it was the Electress,” the freckled girl interjects, as if hoping to get confirmation of this from Coral, but the head girl silences her with a sharp look.

  “No one knows who was behind it,” she says curtly. “The Duchess must be so worried for her surrogate’s safety.”

  My stomach lurches, Hazel’s frantic pleas ringing in my ears.

  “She keeps her secure in the palace,” Coral says.

  “And no more parties until the little bundle of joy is born,” Carnelian says.

  The tall girl titters nervously, as if she’s unsure whether or not Carnelian is making a joke, and if so, whether she is supposed to think it’s funny.

  “Is she showing yet?” the head assistant asks.

  “Yes, she’s gotten quite big.” Coral puts down her china cup.

  “So remarkable that the Duchess managed to orchestrate the engagement before the sweet little girl is even born,” the tall girl says, moving closer to be a part of the gossip. “How ever did she manage it?”

  “You know the Duchess,” Coral says airily. “If she wants something, she will do whatever it takes to get it. She wanted me for her son and look how that turned out!”

  All the assistants laugh.

  “Now, girls, give the ladies some air.” The woman who enters from the back of the shop is style personified. She wears a floor-length, plum-colored gown that hugs her curves perfectly, accentuating her hips and breasts. The detail is astounding—beads are sewn into the bodice and skirt in a wave pattern, taking up one whole side of the dress like an ocean of blue and silver and lilac. A simple shawl is draped around her shoulders, giving the effect that she just threw this outfit on without really thinking about it. Her hair is a vibrant red, at sharp contrast with her midnight-black skin. Like the Duchess, this is a woman with the power to silence a room.

  The three attendants hush and back away.

  “Coral, how delightful to see you again,” Miss Mayfield says, swooping down to kiss both of Coral’s cheeks. “And, Carnelian, you’re looking lovely.” Her gaze lands on me. “Ah, did you get a lady-in-waiting at last?”

  “She’s mine,” Coral interjects before Carnelian can respond. “Garnet bought her for me.”

  Miss Mayfield gives her a feline smile. “Your husband is a good man. Though I do wish he could help with our little Key problem here in the Bank. I’ve had to repaint the walls of my shop twice already.”

  “Vandals,” the head assistant agrees.

  “He’s doing his very best,” Coral says, and I can’t hide my smirk at that. Fortunately, no one except Carnelian sees me, her face turning curious. I quickly smooth out my expression.

  Miss Mayfield nods. “Well, let’s not drag ourselves down with depressing matters. We have gowns to see!”

  She claps her hands and her assistants scatter like well-trained mice. The tall one opens up a set of wooden doors and the bushy-haired one wheels out a mannequin in a blue dress, the head assistant following behind her with a pink one.

  “It’s beautiful!” Coral gasps, reaching out to touch the soft fabric.

  “I thought mine was going to be red and black,” Carnelian says, looking disdainfully at the blue chiffon as it’s wheeled in front of her.

  “Yes, darling, but unfortunately, the Duchess pays the bill and she felt your chosen color scheme was a bit too . . . intense.” Miss Mayfield pats Carnelian’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she says in a low voice, “it’s going to fit you like a glove.”

  That was the exact phrase Lucien used when he allowed me to choose my own dress for the Auction. For a moment, I’m back there in the prep room, staring at my face for the first time in four years.

  A bell tinkles as the front door opens. A Bank woman and her daughter enter. The little girl can’t be older than five or six, with thick black plaits in her hair and a cute little hat with a yellow ribbon.

  “I’m so terribly sorry, Mrs. Linten,” Miss Mayfield says. “But we are closed for the afternoon.”

  Mrs. Linten looks miffed before she sees Coral and Carnelian.

  “Your Ladyships,” she says, making a little curtsy and nudging for her daughter to do the same. “I did not . . . I am so sorry. Of course, Miss Mayfield, we will come back tomorrow.”

  She wheels out of the shop, dragging her daughter with her. I guess Carnelian counts as a ladyship in the Bank, even if she doesn’t in the Jewel. Miss Mayfield turns a sharp eye on the head assistant, who in turn glares at the freckled girl, who runs over to lock the door and hang a “Closed” sign in the window, pulling a shade down over it.

  “Now,” Miss Mayfield says, “where were we?”

  Quickly, the three assistants strip the royal girls of their gowns, leaving them in only their slips. Miss Mayfield helps Coral into the stunning pink number, a gown with a sweetheart neckline and a subtle skirt bolstered by a layer of tulle. The only ornamentation is around the waist, tiny flowers made of diamonds and rubies.

  “What do you think, Imogen?” she asks, twirling for me.

  “It’s perfect, miss,” I say. And it is. She really does look lovely. All three assistants scatter once more and return, each carrying a full-length mirror. They move this way and that in perfect unison, almost like a dance, so that Coral can see every inch of herself.

  “I love it,” she says, and Miss Mayfield looks pleased.

  Carnelian is next. As she steps into the blue gown, Miss Mayfield herself fastens the dress up.

  “Oh!” Coral gasps. “Carnelian, you look . . . beautiful.”

  She sounds jealous and I don’t blame her. The gown Miss Mayfield has fashioned for Carnelian is unlike any ball gown I’ve ever seen. The skirt is made of chiffon, pretty layers that float to the ground like clouds. But the bodice is carefully cut out in satin ribbons that form a crisscross pattern, navy-blue silk layered over baby-blue lace, so that her ivory skin peeks through. It cuts off in a tight circle at the base of her neck and right at her shoulders, leaving her arms bare.

  It makes Carnelian look like a woman in her own right, someone who could turn heads
at a ball.

  “What do you think?” Miss Mayfield asks.

  “It’s perfect,” she whispers. Then she whirls and embraces the dressmaker. The assistants look away, embarrassed.

  “Well, let’s make sure everything is as it should be.” Miss Mayfield snaps her fingers and the mirrors disappear. She takes out a pair of strange eyeglasses and a measuring tape and begins to examine every seam and hem.

  “Loose thread here,” she mutters, peering at Carnelian’s left shoulder. The tall girl makes a note. “And let’s take—”

  But whatever she was going to say next gets lost, as the wall opposite me suddenly explodes in a deafening burst of heat and plaster and dust.

  Nineteen

  I AM FLYING THROUGH THE AIR, THROWN BACKWARD into a rack of dresses.

  Some deep protective instinct causes me to join with Air, so that the rubble and debris shooting toward me are deflected in a gust of wind. The dresses soften the blow as my back slams into the wall, my connection with Air broken. Sparks explode in front of my eyes, my ears ringing. For several seconds, or maybe minutes, I lie there, half-hidden by layers of satin and wool and brocade. My chest heaves as I struggle to breathe. My head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Everything is dull, muted. Slowly, my hearing returns.

  The first thing I notice is the screaming. One long sustained scream. I sit up, rubbing my left ear, and see the head attendant standing in the midst of the ruined shop, staring at her arm. Something sharp and white is poking out of her skin, thick lines of red dripping down her forearm into her hand. I swallow back the bile that rises in my throat as I realize it’s her bone. Her arm is shattered.

  Miss Mayfield’s dress is torn down one whole side and there is a large bruise blossoming under one eye. She is crouched on the floor, tending to the tall girl, pressing a green lace ball gown against a gash on her forehead. I don’t know where the freckled girl is.

  Diamantes are littered all around us, glittering in the rubble like stars. My brain is slow to respond, my head fuzzy. Where did all this money come from?