"Aren't you going to leave?" I ask.
His mouth tightens ever so slightly. "No."
I don't know what to do. The only man I've ever been naked in front of is Dr. Steele, and at least then I had a robe and it was only for a few seconds.
My hands shake as I pull the tunic over my head. The cool air sends a flurry of goose bumps across my stomach. I force myself not to look at Emile as I step into the shower. The water runs through my hair, down my shoulders and back, over my breasts and waist and thighs and knees down to my feet, a constant reminder that every inch of me is exposed. I don't know how to be brave like this. I face away from Emile because it's the only way to protect myself, but I am naked in every way, because this is private and he should not be here watching me. I feel violated, like my skin has been opened up and my insides are laid bare for all to see.
I can't enjoy the heat of the water or the scent of the soap. I just want this to be over.
As soon as my hair is rinsed, the shower turns off and Emile appears in front of me holding a towel. I wrap it around myself as tight as I can, tighter than it should be, so that it's almost hard to breathe. My legs tremble as I step out of the tiny tub. He has a smaller towel that he rubs my head with until my hair is reasonably dry. Then he hands me the dress. It's similar to the one I wore at the Auction, but not nearly as costumelike. The material is silky and it fits my body as if it were made for me.
I'm just grateful to be wearing clothes again. My breathing slows. The muscles in my shoulders relax a fraction.
"Time for hair and makeup," Emile says, beckoning me to follow him.
It takes forever to get me ready because, like in the prep room, I'm just not very good at sitting still. At least Emile doesn't threaten to tie me to the chair like my prep artist did. And he doesn't make me look like some sort of carnival creature. His touch is quite light, gold on my eyes, a pink flush to my lips, and it's really not so bad just sitting in this opulent room. By the end of the session I finally feel recovered from that horrible shower. When I see my reflection I grudgingly have to admit that I look pretty good.
"Done," he says. I sigh with relief just as the door opens.
All my muscles tense back up as Frederic enters the room. He is carrying what looks like a long silver necklace in one hand and a piece of black ribbon in the other.
"Is it ready?" he asks.
Emile simply bows low and extends one hand in my direction. Frederic sniffs.
"It will suffice," he says.
He moves forward, like he's examining me closer. Then in one swift motion, he's fastened a collar around my neck.
"What-" I pull at the collar as Frederic hands a thin chain to Emile.
"Hold it tight," he says.
I'm on a leash.
"No!" I cry. I scratch at the metal around my neck, yanking hard as my nails cut into my skin.
"I said hold it tight, Emile," Frederic snaps and suddenly my neck is jerked backward and I can't breathe. In the same moment, I feel something cold lock around one wrist, then the other. The pressure on my neck disappears and I gasp for air. My hands are shackled with probably the most artfully crafted handcuffs in the world. Engraved silver fish swim in a sea of sapphires.
"Are you going to be a good girl now?" Frederic says. His repulsive beaked nose is only inches from mine.
I'm not anyone's good girl. Least of all his.
I spit in his face.
He chuckles and takes a handkerchief out of the pocket of his dress to wipe it off. "If I didn't know better," he says, "I'd think you enjoy being punished."
There is something lecherous in his tone, something that makes me feel more naked than showering in front of Emile.
He holds his hand out and Emile takes the black ribbon from him. The last thing I see before it loops around my head, covering my eyes, is Frederic fingering the delicate leash.
Then my sight is gone. There is a sharp tug on my neck.
"Let's get going," Frederic says. "We don't want to be late."
I AM LED THROUGH THE COUNTESS'S PALACE, BLINDFOLDED, on a leash.
I thought the doctor's appointments at Southgate were bad. Or the Augury lessons. Or the prep room. They were nothing compared to this. How many more humiliations do I have to suffer? I've only been here a day.
To counteract my blindness, I have to keep my hands out in front of me to make sure I don't hit anything, which makes me look and feel stupid. Stairs are especially treacherous. I don't trust Frederic one iota, so with each step I feel like the floor might just vanish beneath me. I wouldn't be surprised if this palace had trapdoors or endless chasms or other awful things.
And I hear whispers. Everything will be quiet and then suddenly we'll turn a corner and there will be footsteps and voices.
"There it is."
"It's taller than the last one."
"Prettier, too."
"Oh, look, it tripped."
And then we'll turn another corner and the snickers will fade away, leaving a dark blush on my cheeks and a squirming in my stomach.
It's also unnerving that every voice I hear is male.
Suddenly, there's a cool gust of air on my face.
"Put it in the car, Frederic." The Countess's voice makes my skin prickle. I don't know if it's better or worse that I can't see her.
Frederic tugs me along, the metal leash digging into the back of my neck. Then his hand is on my head, pushing it down. "Get in," he says.
I reach out with my hands to keep myself from falling and they land on something smooth that smells like leather.
"This would be easier if I wasn't blindfolded," I mumble, stumbling on the hem of my dress as I get into whatever mode of transportation this is. A door on the other side of me opens and closes and judging by the way the seat sinks down, I'm guessing the Countess just got in. I can feel her presence next to me and shrink away from it.
"Go," is all she says. An engine starts and then we're moving.
It's very different from the electric stagecoach that took me to my house on Reckoning Day. It feels like we're gliding instead of driving. Maybe we are. I wouldn't know.
We drive in circles for a while, until I've lost all sense of direction. The silence in the car is interrupted only once.
"She must be quite confident," Frederic says. "It's been nineteen years."
"Her theory is flawed," the Countess says. "We are going to prove that to her."
Whatever we are traveling in slows and the ground underneath us becomes uneven-gravel maybe? Then we come to a stop. The door on my side opens.
"Does she require assistance?" an unfamiliar, wheezy voice asks.
"Not at all," Frederic replies.
There's a yank on my leash and I stumble out into fresh air.
"Watch the stairs," Frederic says. At first, I don't think he's talking to me, but then my foot connects with the hard edge of a step. I count them-five stairs, but they are long, so we're not going up very much. I walk forward over a smooth surface that makes my footsteps echo. I think I hear running water.
The blindfold is removed.
The light around me is soft, but I still have to blink as my eyes adjust. I'm standing in a large foyer with a fountain in its center. An old man in a coat with tails is taking the Countess's cloak.
"This way," he says. We walk down a hall decorated with large oil paintings. The old man stops in front of a closed door and turns to Frederic.
"You may wait in here," he says.
Frederic nods and moves forward, but the old man clears his throat.
"Her ladyship requests that all accessories be removed prior to entering the dining room," he says.
Frederic raises an eyebrow, but the Countess merely chuckles.
"Of course," she says. "Whatever our gracious host desires."
Frederic reluctantly removes my handcuffs and leash. I rub my neck.
He disappears into the room-I see a glimpse of more white dresses before the door closes behind him. The Countess, the old man, and I continue walking. We come to a set of double doors, guarded by a footman, who springs to attention as we approach.
"One moment," the Countess says as the footman moves to open the doors. She turns to me. "You will not speak. You will not eat more than three bites of anything that is served. Three. I will be counting. Do not try to communicate with the other surrogates in any way. Break any of these rules and I will cut out your tongue. Do you understand me?"
I nod right away, partly because I believe she'll actually do it, and partly because she said other surrogates. There are other surrogates here. Could I be lucky enough to see Violet so soon?
"Good," she says.
The footman opens the doors.
"The Countess of the Stone," he announces. "And surrogate."
Four.
WE ENTER AN ENORMOUS DINING ROOM.
The walls are maroon and there are candles covering every available surface, as well as filling the chandelier hanging above our heads. All the wood is dark and polished to a high sheen. It's as if the decorator were going for a look that said, "I am powerful and evil." Which, who knows, the woman who owns this place probably is. There are lots of fancy flower arrangements, and a table with bottles of liquor, and large windows, but my main focus is on the other people in the room.
The other surrogates, really. I couldn't care less about the royalty.
I recognize both of them from the Waiting Room. One is the blonde whose stylist felt compelled to create a giant beehive on the top of her head. She looks a lot more normal now, her hair falling down her back in big bouncy curls. The other one, the dark-skinned girl with all the braids who seems like she could kill you just by looking at you, is standing beside an old woman in a red dress. Unsurprisingly, she glares at me when we make eye contact. Or maybe not. Maybe her face is just stuck like that.
No Violet.
I shouldn't be disappointed.
A young woman, with skin nearly as dark as Cranky Face, swoops over to the Countess and plants a kiss on either cheek. Just touching the Countess's skin seems repulsive, but kissing her? I think I might throw up.
"Ebony," she exclaims. "I am so glad you came."
The Countess smiles. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you to face this dinner alone, Alexandrite."
Ugh, where do they come up with these names?
"She must be very confident this year," the younger royal says.
"I am not concerned," the Countess replies.
The other woman looks me over, much the way a farmer might examine a horse. "She's so thin," she says. "Are you sure she can handle it?"
"Physical strength isn't as important as mental fortification," the Countess says. "I'm sure Dr. Falme will have no trouble with fertilization."
The word makes me itch, like a spider crawling up my back. But I can't help noticing this woman didn't refer to me as it. Does no one else call their surrogates that? It occurs to me that I might have gotten the absolute worst royal in the entire Jewel. That what I've gone through today is, in fact, not the norm.
Or maybe it's just not polite to call your surrogate it in public.
The door we came in through opens again and the footman practically shouts at us with excitement.
"Her Royal Grace, the Electress. And surrogate."
In unison, the royal women sink into a curtsy. Blondie, Cranky Face, and I follow suit. This dress is really too tight to be curtsying in. And I never got the hang of all that stupid etiquette stuff anyway.
"Ebony," the Electress says once it's clear we're allowed to straighten up. "How lovely to see you again so soon."
"An honor, Your Grace," the Countess says. "And congratulations on securing the highest lot in the Auction."
I want to snort out loud. Right. Like it was some big competition. Who would bid against the Electress anyway?
But then I see the tiny figure hovering behind the Electress's blindingly pink dress, and it feels like something gets stuck in my throat.
I know that girl. I saw her in the Waiting Room. She was the one who looked so plain. She was Lot 200? She can't be more than thirteen.
The old man who led us here enters silently and skirts the edge of the dining room before disappearing through another door.
"How long do you think she'll keep us waiting?" the Electress asks.
"She was most likely waiting for your arrival, Your Grace," the Countess says.