The House of the Stone

I, at least, might have something the Duchess wants. My body might be enough to keep me alive. But Ash doesn’t have that.

I wonder what it would feel like, to die. The wild girl appears in my mind, the surrogate who tried to escape the royalty and went into hiding. The one I saw executed in front of the walls of Southgate, my holding facility. I remember her strangely peaceful expression as the end came. Her courage. Would I be able to be as strong as she was, if they put my head on the chopping block? Tell Cobalt I love him, she’d said. That, at least, I can understand. Ash’s name would be one of the last words on my lips. I wonder who Cobalt was to her. She must have loved him very much.

I hear a noise and jump up so quickly the room seems to tilt. My only thought is that I have to hide the arcana somewhere, now. It’s my one connection to the people who want to help me. But there are no pockets on my nightdress, and I don’t want to risk hiding it in the room in case the Duchess decides to move me.

Then I remember the Exetor’s Ball, when Lucien first gave it to me. When Garnet ruined my hairstyle and Lucien came to my rescue, hiding the silver tuning fork in my thick, dark curls.

Has Garnet been working with Lucien since then? Did he muss my hair on purpose?

But there’s no time to wonder about that now. I bolt to my vanity, throwing open the drawer where Annabelle, my own personal lady-in-waiting and my closest friend in the Duchess’s palace, keeps my hair ribbons and pins. I twist my hair back into a thick, messy knot at the nape of my neck and secure the arcana inside it with pins.

I fling myself back onto my bed as the door opens.

“Get up,” the Duchess orders. She is flanked by two Regimentals. She looks exactly the same as she did when last I saw her in Ash’s bedroom, wearing the same golden dressing gown, her glossy black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. I don’t know why this surprises me.

The Duchess’s face is cold and impassive as she approaches me. I am reminded of the first time I met her, expecting her to circle me with sharp, critical eyes, then slap me across the face again.

Instead, she stops less than a foot away, and her expression turns from cold to blazing.

“How long?” she demands.

“What?”

The Duchess’s eyes narrow. “Do not play stupid with me, Violet. How long have you been sleeping with the companion?”

It’s jarring to hear her use my name. “I—I wasn’t sleeping with him.” This is partly true, since at the moment we were discovered, we were not actually sleeping together.

“Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

The Duchess’s nostrils flare. “Fine.” She turns to the Regimentals. “Tie her up. And bring the other one in.”

The Regimentals descend on me before I have a chance to react, yanking my arms behind my back and binding me with a coarse rope. I cry out and struggle, but the bonds are too tight. The rope chafes against my skin, the polished wood of the bedpost pressing against my back as they tie me to it. Then a small, willowy figure is marched into the room.

Annabelle’s eyes are filled with fear. Like me, her hands are bound behind her back. She won’t be able to use her slate—Annabelle was born mute and can only talk through writing. Her copper-colored hair is out of its usual bun, and her face is so pale that her freckles stand out clearly. My mouth goes dry.

“Leave us,” the Duchess orders, and the Regimentals close the door behind them.

“She—she doesn’t know anything,” I protest weakly.

“I find that hard to believe,” the Duchess says.

“She doesn’t!” I cry, louder now, fighting against my bindings, because I can’t let anything happen to Annabelle. “I swear on my father’s grave, she didn’t know!”

The Duchess studies me, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “No,” she says. “I still don’t believe you.” Her hand whips across Annabelle’s face with a sickening smack.