The House of the Stone

The House of the Stone by Amy Ewing





One


I AM RAVEN STIRLING. THEY CANNOT OWN ME.

“Lot 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.

“I’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.”

“Lot 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.

“Where 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.

“I 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.

“I am Raven Stirling,” I say again. “They cannot own me.”

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.

“What?” 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.

“I 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.

“And 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 stride across the stage, shooting him a glare. I’m not an idiot. And I’m not a number. I am Raven Stirling.