Nothing happens and for a second I think maybe this girl has somehow heard my thoughts. Then the Electress's eyes narrow and I understand. She's not being defiant. She's simply terrified.
"Go on," the Electress says in a sharper tone, and I picture this tiny thing locked in a cage with a barb sticking in her foot. I cross my fingers under the table and hope that whatever Augury she performs, she performs exceptionally.
The girl's fingers close around the walnut, and when she opens them, it's turned slightly transparent, like brown glass.
The second Augury, then. Shape.
Her face wrinkles in concentration. The walnut ripples, shifting and stretching as she focuses on the shape she wants it to take. When she holds up a miniature figurine of the Electress, perfect in every detail, my mouth literally falls open. It's an incredibly difficult feat. She must be in a lot of pain.
Sure enough, she cries out, drops the statue, and grabs the silver bowl, vomiting.
As if that weren't horrific enough to watch, the royal women begin to clap.
"Isn't it marvelous?" the Electress says gaily. Her lady-in-waiting glides forward to collect the bowl and the walnut figurine. As he bends down, I see him slip her a handkerchief to clean up the blood from her nose and mouth.
Kind, Violet called him. Kind, indeed.
"That will be all, Lucien," the Electress says.
"Yes, my lady." As he turns to leave, his eyes rest on Violet and I think the shadow of a smile pulls at his lips. I find myself wishing he worked for the House of the Stone.
"An impressive exhibition," Violet's mistress says, cutting into her salmon. "Though you may want to keep your best linens away from her."
"Oh, that doesn't happen every time," the Electress says dismissively.
Violet's mistress dabs at her mouth with a napkin. "You may want to warm her up a bit before forcing her to sprint."
It's getting harder and harder not to scream at these people. It's as if they had no idea what it means to be a human being.
I may not have their wealth or power or fame. I may be forced to play by their rules. But no matter how they treat me, they can't make me less than I am.
I am a person. I am Raven Stirling.
They are monsters.
"I will keep that in mind," the Electress says. She pats the top of her surrogate's head like she's patting a dog.
"Does she have any special skills?" Violet's mistress asks. "They don't always, you know. But I do prefer a surrogate with a bit of talent." She sips her wine. "Mine plays the cello."
I glare at this woman, waiting for her to produce a cello and force Violet to play in front of everyone. Violet's music is beautiful and personal and hers. It does not belong to these women.
"That is something I would very much like to hear," the Electress says. Violet glances at the door with a petrified expression. I imagine her thoughts are in line with mine.
But no cello appears and her mistress merely smiles. "I am certain, Your Grace, that someday you will."
As relieved as I am that Violet isn't being forced to perform like a trained monkey, a small part of me is disappointed. Because hearing her play would feel like home right now.
The tears that well up in my eyes catch me off guard and I blink them back. This is no time for crying.
The conversation continues about our abilities. It turns out Blondie is a dancer. Cranky Face doesn't seem to have any skills, but the Countess brags about my talent at mathematics as if she actually knew something about me besides the fact that I don't like pain and I have a temper. They talk about us like we can't hear them, like we're not there.
By the end of the dinner, I don't have the energy to be angry anymore. I'm just exhausted.
The women all kiss one another's cheeks as the ladies-in-waiting bring in their cloaks. My heart sinks at seeing Frederic again. I keep my gaze focused on Violet and hope that the "no accessories" rule holds so she doesn't have to see me shackled and blindfolded.
I will see her again. We're both in Founding Houses. I will see her again.
I think she smiles at me with her eyes.
Once I'm back in the foyer, the chains come out.
The other surrogates are put on leashes, too, but no one else wears manacles and a blindfold.
I do get a glimpse of what I've been riding around in. It's a sleek black motorcar, the kind I've only ever seen in magazines, and I have to admit, it's gorgeous.
We drive around in circles again, and then I'm led back into the palace of the Stone, a palace I haven't even seen yet.
Halls. Stairs. I can smell the dungeon before we reach it, the air growing stale and musty. The blindfold comes off, along with the leash and handcuffs, and I'm forced back into the golden birdcage.
I want to scream something at Frederic, but he's out the door before I can even draw breath.
I'm so thirsty, but there's still only the lone bowl of water inside my cage. I sigh and move to pick it up.
It's stuck.
I pull and pull, but it must be soldered to the floor.
I grit my teeth, hold back the tears, and bend over the bowl, lapping up the water with my tongue.
Five.
I WAKE TO THE SOUND OF GROANING HINGES AND A DULL ache in my neck.
I must have slept on it wrong, though I'm not sure there's a right way to sleep on a stone floor.
"Good morning," Emile says. I sit up and rub my eyes, slippery with last night's makeup. I look down; I'm still in the same dress, too. Now it's wrinkled and dirty.
Good, I think. I rub my eyes a little more, smearing eye shadow and mascara over my cheeks.
"Never mind about the dress," Emile says. "You won't wear anything more than once."
"I wasn't worried," I say, only half paying attention.
My eyes are focused on his hands. He's carrying a silver dish with a matching cover and it looks like food. My stomach roars. Emile hears it.
"Yes, I imagine you didn't get to eat much at the Duchess of the Lake's dinner party last night."
Somewhere in my brain, I note that Violet's mistress is the Duchess of the Lake. But most of my mind is occupied with what might be underneath that silver cover. Emile opens the top half of the door to my cage and hands me the tray. I grab it, too hungry to be embarrassed, and throw the cover off. It hits the gold bars with a dull clang.
I stare at the tray, confused. There are exactly three peas, one slice of red apple, a bowl of clear broth, and half an onion roll.
My brain wants to be angry, but my stomach just wants everything in my mouth. I start with the roll-it is hot and fresh and oniony. Then the broth, which tastes salty and thin. Then the apple, crisp and sweet.
I don't eat the peas. They feel like a reminder of the rules last night. Screw the Countess and her rules.
Emile watches me with an impassive expression, until I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and say, "Done."
"You haven't finished."
"Yes. I have."
He purses his lips. "You aren't making things easy for yourself."
I bark out a laugh at that. "In case you failed to notice, Emile, I'm in a cage. I was taken from my family when I was twelve and forced to endure pain and bleeding and vomiting just so I can bear some strange rich woman's child. Now I'm here, and a psycho stabbed me with a barbed stick, and another psycho threatened to cut out my tongue last night. My life hasn't been easy for a while."
But that's a lie. Southgate was bliss compared to this.
Emile's face tightens. "We have all suffered, 192. You are not unique in that regard."
He walks over and opens the door to the dungeon. Four Regimentals file in, forming a circle around my cage. I press myself against the bars until they cut into my back and shoulders. Emile removes one of the silver rods from the wall, the one with the circle on the end of it. He opens the door to my cage. My eyes dart from him to the Regimentals to the still-open door and back again.
"I was hoping you wouldn't need this," Emile says. "But I can see you do."
Something in his bright blue eyes tells me he's sorry. I hate him for it.
The rod shoots into the cage, the circle opening for the briefest second before clasping itself firmly around my neck. I grab the rod and try to yank it away, but Emile is stronger than he looks. He tugs and tugs and the metal bites at my neck as I'm drawn, slowly but surely, out of the cage. Once my head and shoulders are clear, two Regimentals grab me under my arms and haul me to my feet. They march me to the wall with the window, where two iron chains hang at hip height. I try to kick at them, at the wall, at Emile, at anything, but there are too many of them and my head is being forced into an odd angle. Once I'm chained up, they release me, and the metal circle unclasps from around my neck. Emile hangs it back on the wall, next to the barb still crusted with my blood and skin.
"Let me go!" There is about three feet of chain that tethers me to the wall by my wrists. I can only get so far in any direction. I struggle against the chains, pulling on them until the shackles leave cuts on my skin.
The worst part is, everyone just lets me go nuts. I scream and curse and fight, and all the while the four Regimentals and Emile watch from a distance with impassive expressions. Finally, I give up. I didn't realize I was crying until I taste the saltiness of my tears. I just stand there, limp and empty, waiting, because something is coming next. I make sure to look each man staring at me in the eye. I won't let them think they beat me.
Emile waits a few seconds, probably to make sure I won't start fighting again.
"Keep still," he says. "Or I will have to call Frederic in." He moves close enough to me that I can smell his skin, fragrant and floral, like a woman. "You don't want him here," he murmurs. "I promise."
The thought of Frederic's bloody gums and beady eyes is enough to keep me still.
Emile leans forward. "I wish-" he begins, but whatever he wishes I don't hear because the door opens again and the Countess of the Stone walks in.
This time, she wears a tight satin dress in a cherry blossom print. It looks entirely out of place on her, better suited to someone like Lily or that little girl surrogate the Electress bought.
She glances at my cage, where the peas are still sitting on the silver dish.
"I told you to feed it," she says to Emile.
"I did, my lady."
The Countess sighs. "Mother always said," she mutters, "if you want something done right, you must do it yourself."
With the barest of nods at one Regimental, my head is yanked back by my hair, so that I can't see anything but the ceiling and my mouth is forced open. There's a clang and a shuffling sound, and the peas fall onto my tongue. I want to spit them out, but the Countess's hand, her thick fingers damp with sweat, covers my mouth and nose until I swallow.
"You eat what I tell you to eat, is that clear?" she says, as the Regimental releases his hold on my hair.
I glare at her. Her eyes flicker to the Regimental on my left. I see a flash of silver in his hand.
It's a pair of scissors.
The Regimental kneels and cuts a thick ribbon of fabric from my dress, from the floor to the top of my thigh. It flutters to the ground and lies there, curled and twisted like a snake's skin.
"You will eat what I tell you to eat, is that clear?" the Countess says again.
I can't speak. My throat is frozen.
Snip, snip, snip.
A bigger piece of my dress is cut away. Practically my whole leg is exposed.
"Yes," I gasp. Goose bumps blossom on my skin.
"Yes what?" the Countess asks with a sly smile.
"I'll eat what you tell me to eat."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emile bite his lip.
"Good." She turns to Emile and the Regimentals. "Get out."
I may have some issues with Emile, but I do not want to be left alone with this woman.
I almost cry out for him as he leaves. But something tells me that if I want to see him again, the Countess cannot know that I like him. So I grit my teeth, swallow, and force myself to meet her eyes.
The Countess walks to the wall and fingers each instrument, every link in every chain, the length of rope, the different-size rods. When she gets to the helmet, she literally claps her hands to her chest, like she's just received the best Longest Night gift ever.
"Oh, Frederic," she murmurs. "You really have outdone yourself."
She walks toward me, her nose wrinkling, maybe at the way I smell-having slept on a stone floor-or my smudged makeup or my wrinkled, ruined dress. She gets so close that I can see every fold and dimple of flesh. Her fingers are like sausages. Her arms are pale and flabby. She practically has a wattle on her neck.
"You are going to bear my child," she says.
I flare my nostrils and glare at her. It's all I can do.