The Jewel by Amy Ewing Page A

blood.
    The Electress holds up the statue, stunning in its detail, a perfect replica of herself. The royal women clap.
    I feel sick. How could the Electress make her do that in front of all these people? These women are actually applauding the suffering and humiliation of a young girl.
    â€œIsn’t it marvelous?” the Electress says gaily. Lucien glides forward and takes the silver bowl from Dahlia. I see him slip her a handkerchief, so that when she looks up again, her mouth and nose are clean and free of blood.
    â€œThat will be all, Lucien,” the Electress says dismissively.
    â€œYes, my lady.” Lucien turns to leave and his eyes rest on me for half a second; the shadow of a smile passes across his face. I smile, too.
    â€œAn impressive exhibition,” the Duchess of the Lake says, cutting into her salmon. “Though you may want to keep your best linens away from her.”
    â€œOh, that doesn’t happen every time,” the Electress says.
    I blanch. How many times has the Electress made Dahlia perform an Augury? It’s barely been a day.
    The Duchess swallows a bite of salmon and dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “You may want to warm her up a bit before forcing her to sprint.”
    â€œI will keep that in mind,” the Electress says, patting the top of Dahlia’s head. The action is degrading to watch; two red spots appear on Dahlia’s cheeks.
    â€œDoes she have any special skills?” the Duchess asks. “They don’t always, you know. But I do prefer a surrogate with a bit of talent.” She takes a sip of wine. “Mine plays the cello.”
    My fingers tighten around my fork, and my shoulders tense. Everyone is looking at me, except for Raven, who is glaring at the Duchess.
    â€œThat is something I would very much like to hear,” the Electress says. I glance at the doors, petrified, waiting for some footman to appear with a cello.
    But the Duchess only smiles. “I am certain, Your Grace, that someday you will.”
    The conversation continues about the surrogates’ unique abilities—the iced cake is a dancer; the Countess of the Stone brags about Raven’s skill with mathematics—then shifts to our Augury scores. They talk about us like they are discussing a pet or a prized racehorse. Like we can’t hear them. Like we’re not even there.
    At long last, the dinner is over and the women are kissing one another’s cheeks (or, not quite kissing; they all seem reluctant to touch one another), and the ladies-in-waiting are coming in with their cloaks. The Countess of the Stone also has a male lady-in-waiting—he looks just as unpleasant as his mistress, with a large, beaked nose and a mouth that turns down.
    Raven is staring at me, her face set, determined, as if to say “I will see you again.” I try to smile at her with my eyes.
    The Electress is the last to leave. Dahlia glances at me, terrified, and I do my best to give her an encouraging look, pressing my lips together, the corners of my mouth barely turning up. I hope she knows what I mean. I hope she’ll be all right in the Royal Palace.
    The Duchess traces a circle slowly around the rim of her wineglass with one finger, watching her guests leave like a cat with its prey. Then she sighs.
    â€œThat will be all for tonight,” she says, and though she doesn’t look at me, she has to be talking to me. There’s no one else in the room. Then she drifts through the door to her study, leaving me confused and alone.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
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Nine
    C ORA COMES TO GET ME A MOMENT LATER.
    I follow her silently back through the halls and up the stairs, the palace taking on a dreamlike quality in the dimmed light of the lamps, like I’m lost in a gilded maze. She opens the door to my chambers, where Annabelle is waiting for