The White Rose by Amy Ewing

Cora?”
    “Didn’t you know?” Lucien says. “Cora was Annabelle’s mother.”
    “What?” I gasp. I’d never considered who Annabelle’s family might be. I feel ashamed that I never thought to ask. I try to think whether I’d ever seen Cora act in any way motherly toward Annabelle. But in all my memories, she was always ordering her around like any other servant.
    I wonder how she can stand to live there, to serve the woman who killed her daughter.
    “I have to go,” Lucien says suddenly.
    The arcana goes silent and falls. I hold out my hand in time to catch it.
    Raven is staring at the space where it once hovered, awestruck.
    “Was that . . . real?” she says.
    “Yes,” I say firmly. “But now we have to change our clothes.”
    Ash has already riffled through the sack and is holding some fabric in his hands.
    “Violet,” he begins, but I shake my head.
    “It’s fine,” I say.
    “It’s not,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to yell.”
    “I know.” The companion house sounds about a hundred times worse than Southgate. I wouldn’t want to go back to it either. But this isn’t the time for arguments or apologies.
    Ash nods and holds out the canvas bag.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
Ten
    R AVEN AND I GO TO THE BACK OF THE WARE HOUSE FOR some privacy.
    I open the canvas sack—a swirl of bright colors, frothy foams of lace, and the sheen of satin are all jumbled together. I dump out the contents of the bag and sort through it. There doesn’t seem to be enough fabric. Though I suppose that’s the point.
    “All right,” I say to Raven with forced cheerfulness, holding up two pairs of stockings. “Which color do you want—red or pink?”
    She shrugs, and I hand her the red stockings. She pulls off the brown servant’s dress and I see a welt the size of myfist at the base of her spine, bluish-red veins radiating out of it.
    “Oh, Raven,” I gasp. Raven puts a hand to the welt, covering it, like she’s embarrassed.
    “The needles were worse,” she mumbles as she yanks the stockings up and touches her scalp with her fingers.
    The dresses are more like undergarments. Flimsy lace skirts and corsets that leave our arms and shoulders bare. Raven is so thin the corset is loose on her, but mine is extremely tight, revealing much more flesh than I’m comfortable with. I wish I had a scarf or something.
    There’s some makeup in the bag, lipstick in a garish shade of red, blush for our cheeks, and black liner for our eyes. We put it on each other, though neither of us have much training or skill in this particular area.
    “All right,” I say, shoving our old clothes into the sack. “Let’s go.”
    The looks on Ash’s and Garnet’s faces when we emerge from the back of the warehouse are both flattering and uncomfortable. At least with Ash, I know it’s nothing he hasn’t seen; Garnet is an entirely different story. And he stares at Raven like he’s never seen her before. With the makeup on, she doesn’t look as drawn, and you can definitely see hints of her old beauty. Her skin is noticeably healthier, the caramel tint a nice contrast with the ivory satin corset.
    Raven notices him staring. “What?” she says aggressively.
    He looks away quickly. “You better get going,” he says to Ash.
    Ash has also changed into an outfit similar to the one he wore the first day I met him—beige pants and a white collared shirt, with a long overcoat. I wonder if that’s the standard companion uniform.
    “You’re going to want to keep close to me,” Ash says. “It’s pretty cold.”
    “I suppose we don’t get coats,” I say.
    Ash flashes me a half smile. “Covering up would be a bit beside the point.”
    I’m not worried about myself, but Raven is so exposed . . .
    Even as I think it, she shoots me a look. “I’ll be fine,” she says.
    “I hope this works,” Garnet