The House of the Stone by Amy Ewing

One
    I AM R AVEN S TIRLING. T HEY CANNOT OWN ME.
    â€œLot 191,” the Regimental calls. “Lot 191.”
    The heavyset girl who came in after me walks unsteadily toward the door. I don’t blame her awkward gait—it looks like she’s wearing a chandelier on her head. Violet is squeezing my hand so hard, her fingernails are going to leave marks.
    I’m next, but I won’t let her see how scared I am. She’s scared enough for the both of us.
    The door opens again.
    â€œI’ll never forget you,” I say. Her eyes look purplish black and I wonder whether it’s the lighting or just fear that makes them seem so dark. “I will never forget you, Violet.”
    â€œLot 192. Lot 192.”
    I turn and jut my chin out, marching across the room and away from my best friend before she has a chance to say anything. I don’t want her wasting one second worrying about me. I can’t face the fact that I might not see her again.
    I don’t even glance at the Regimental who came to collect me from that awful prep room. I walk straight past him, fully prepared to storm out onto a stage, except that the door closes and I’m engulfed in darkness.
    Panic seizes my throat, but I swallow it down before it has a chance to take over. There’s a faint hum, and a series of lights switch on, framing the sides of a long hallway. Their greenish glow shoots straight up, so I can’t see the end of the corridor. The Regimental is a black outline in front of me.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I ask, without any hope of an answer. I asked him the same thing when he took me from the prep room. I wonder whether that’s part of their training—ignore the surrogates.
    He walks forward and I have no choice but to follow. I keep my shoulders rigid and my chin lifted, and repeat out loud what I’ve been saying to myself ever since I got my lot number two nights ago.
    â€œI am Raven Stirling,” I say quietly. “They cannot own me.”
    The hallway seems to go on forever, but I just focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I am grateful for how hard Violet squeezed my hand, because I can still feel the tiny half-moons of her fingernails marking my skin.
    â€œI am Raven Stirling,” I say again. “They cannot ownme.”
    The Regimental stops so abruptly, I nearly walk into him. His frame is tense, and I get the impression he’s waiting for something. There’s nothing but darkness ahead of us.
    â€œWhat?” I say aggressively, because it’s easier to be angry than frightened.
    For a full twelve seconds, he says nothing. Then he turns to face me.
    â€œI thank you, Lot 192, for your service to the royalty. Your place is marked. You must go on alone.” He bows to me, as if I deserved some sort of medal for being sold to a complete stranger, and then moves to stand behind me. Presumably so I can’t run.
    A rounded, golden door, covered in all the stupid royal crests, begins to glow in front of me. My hands tremble, but I won’t show weakness.
    I take a deep breath and push the door, which swings open as if it’d been waiting for my touch. Bright lights blind me for a second, and I blink until my eyes adjust.
    â€œAnd next up, ladies, we have Lot 192. Lot 192, please take your mark.”
    The scene fits together in my brain quickly, like puzzle pieces falling into place. The auctioneer, a pale man in a tuxedo, stands off to my left. Rings of seats spiral upward, where women in outlandishly expensive dresses sit sipping equally expensive drinks. There is a silver X in the center of the stage.
    The tuxedoed man opens his mouth, probably to instruct me to stand on the mark. But before he gets a chance, I strideacross the stage, shooting him a glare. I’m not an idiot. And I’m not a number. I am Raven Stirling.
    I make sure to look at each woman, preferably in the eye, as I stand there in this ridiculous dress with