The Jewel by Amy Ewing Page B

me.
    â€œShe goes straight to bed,” Cora says. Annabelle nods.
    â€œWhere are you going?” I ask Cora.
    â€œTo attend to the Duchess,” Cora says, as though it should be obvious.
    â€œOh. Well, good night.” The caretakers always said good night to us at Southgate, and Cora feels very much like a caretaker.
    Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “Good night.”
    I follow Annabelle through another door into my bedroom, my head swimming with scenes from the dinner. There seemed to be two teams at play: the Electress, the Countess of the Stone, and the Duchess of the Scales versus the Duchess of the Lake and the Countess of the Rose. Being royal seems exhausting—why invite people to a dinner party if you don’t even like them?
    I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, I don’t notice that Annabelle has removed my jewelry and is unzipping my dress. A silken nightgown is laid out on my bed.
    â€œOh!” I say. “I can get ready myself.”
    Annabelle shakes her head.
    â€œAre you not allowed to speak to me?” I ask, my heart sinking.
    Annabelle picks up the flat rectangle hanging from her waist and removes something small and white from a pocket on her belt.
    It’s a piece of chalk.
    The rectangle is a slate, I realize, as she scribbles on it and holds it up for me to see.
    Can’t speak
    â€œWhat, not at all?” I ask stupidly.
    She shakes her head.
    â€œDid something happen to you?”
    As soon as the words are out, I realize they’re rude. Annabelle holds up her slate.
    Born this way
    â€œYou’ve never been able to talk? Ever?”
    I remember a girl in the Marsh who couldn’t speak, but she couldn’t hear either. Obviously, Annabelle can hear just fine.
    Annabelle shakes her head and taps the slate once with her finger—the writing is erased.
    â€œWow,” I say. “That’s a pretty neat device.”
    She nods halfheartedly, and finishes unzipping my dress. I step out of it and she slips the nightgown over my head.
    We go to the powder room, where Annabelle washes the makeup off my face, then it’s back to the bedroom. She sits me in front of the vanity and starts brushing out my hair. I study her reflection in the mirror. Her skin is paler than mine, and dusted with freckles. There’s a frailty about her, in her thin wrists and shoulders, and a tenderness in the way she runs the brush through my hair.
    â€œDo you ever wish you could?” I ask, and she looks up, surprised. “Speak, I mean.”
    Annabelle bites her lip and for a second I think I’ve been rude again. Then she puts down the brush and picks up her slate.
    Every day
    I try to imagine what that would be like, not being able to express myself with my voice—with a jolt, I realize it sort of happened to me tonight. And I didn’t like it at all.
    Annabelle finishes with my hair and moves to the bed, pulling back the covers for me. It feels like I’ve been sleeping for most of the last two days, but I’m still tired. I crawl under the velvety comforter, my head sinking into the feather pillows. Annabelle points to a long strip of patterned fabric hanging down the wall over the nightstand. She motions pulling on it, then points to herself.
    â€œIf I ring that, you’ll come?”
    She nods.
    â€œWhere do you sleep?”
    She points down, then scribbles on her slate.
    Good night
    I am suddenly gripped with fear of being left alone in this unfamiliar, extravagant room.
    â€œAnnabelle?” I say. “Will you . . . could you sit with me for a little while?”
    She hesitates and I remember Cora’s instructions that I was to go right to sleep. But then she nods, and perches herself on the bed beside me. I smile.
    â€œThanks.”
    Must be v. strange
    I realize that v stands for very . Of course. It would be a pain writing everything out longhand. I’d use abbreviations, too.
    â€œHow long have