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“Then what’s the point of all this?” I say. “Why am I here at all? Why did I come? I can’t help. I can’t . . .”

There’s a pause. I can feel Lucien gathering his thoughts.

“Do you remember,” he says, “when you asked me about Raven, back when you were still the Duchess’s surrogate? When you wanted to know where she lived?”

That feels like a million years ago. “Yes.”

“I thought it was so foolish of you. A complete waste of time. I was actually quite upset to realize she lived next door to you. I saw her as a distraction. A weakness.” He sighs. “But she was not a weakness. She is one of your greatest strengths. So is Ash. So is Hazel. The people you love make you strong, Violet. They make you brave and fearless. I wish there were some way I could make you see that.”

“But I’m not brave,” I say. “Not like you.”

Lucien chuckles. “No,” he says. “You are infinitely braver.”

I wish I could believe him. I have to try. Because this night has shown me that Lucien cannot solve all my problems for me.

I let his words form a shell around my heart, tough and sinewy. I must be strong. For my friends, for my sister, for this city. The only way to truly save Hazel is to destroy the royalty and surrogacy once and for all.

I am not a mere surrogate, bought and leashed and paraded around anymore. In the end, the royalty will know that.

And they will fear me.

Fifteen

THE DUKE IS BURIED TWO DAYS AFTER THE SHOOTING.

I sit on a stool in the kitchen the afternoon of the funeral, nibbling on a raspberry scone. The funeral is for family only, so I have an entire afternoon to myself.

I pick up the paper someone left on the table. “Tragedy Strikes Again!” the headline reads. “House Plagued by Misfortune.” And underneath, the very telling question, “Duchess’s Surrogate the Target?” The article doesn’t outright blame the Electress for the events of the party, but rumors are flying and this reporter is clearly aware of them. He strongly suggests that someone “influential and with a reason to want the surrogate dead” must have been behind the shooting. That goes in line with what everyone in the Jewel seems to be thinking.

I want to go see Hazel, but the doctor has moved back into the palace, like he did after I miscarried. Which makes the medical room extra dangerous to visit. I don’t know when I’ll get to see her again.

I turn the page and the next headline jumps out at me, along with a very familiar photograph, making me feel as if the floor has just dropped out from under my feet.

“Ash Lockwood Sighted?”

Ash’s face, the same one on the wanted posters from January, stares at me, the hint of a smile on his face, his hair smoothed back instead of tangled. Quickly, I read the article.

“Ash Lockwood, once one of the most highly sought-after companions in the Jewel, now a notorious fugitive, may have been sighted near his former companion house late last night. A man matching Lockwood’s description was seen lurking around the park near Madame Curio’s Companion House a little after midnight. The witness, a Mr. J. R. Rush, claims to have seen Lockwood while walking his dog. No doubt the Regimentals will be looking into the matter thoroughly. Lockwood is believed to be one of the leaders of the infamous Black Key Society, a band of rebels intent on vandalism and destruction, who have been linked to several bombings in the Bank and the Smoke and, most recently, the assassination of Magistrate Awl. He escaped the Jewel after raping the surrogate belonging to the Duchess of the Lake. Anyone with information on his whereabouts should contact their local law enforcement office immediately. The public is warned, however, that this individual is considered extremely dangerous.”

Ash has made it to the Bank! I want to stand up and whoop with joy. Maybe he’s already made contact with some companions. But it says nothing about Ochre. Have they been separated? Perhaps Ash left him someplace safe when he went to visit his old companion house. He’d never risk Ochre’s safety, I’m sure of that. Though Ochre may have a different definition of safe than Ash does. Worry and pride war inside me.

“Imogen, hand me that rosemary, will you?” Zara says, breaking into my thoughts. The mood in the palace is subdued. Even the normally bustling kitchen is quiet and mostly empty. A scullery maid named Clara scrubs pots in the sink and William rolls a cigarette by one of the stoves.

“Awful,” Zara mutters as I hand her the herb. She crunches the rosemary in her meaty fist and rubs it onto a roast. “He was a good man.”

“I didn’t know you knew the Duke so well,” I say.

“Not the Duke,” she snaps. “George, the footman. But no one cares that he’s dead, do they? No, it’s all weeping and sorrow over an alcoholic waste of space.”

“He wasn’t that bad, Zara,” William says. “Better than her, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, shut up, William, he always gave you special favors, that’s why you liked him,” Zara says, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

“Did they ever find out who those men were?” I ask. “Who they worked for?”

William adopts a bored expression. “The Electress, isn’t it obvious? She’s hated the Duchess for as long as she’s been married to the Exetor. And if her son marries the Duchess’s daughter, they’ll be stuck with each other for life. Wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing happened. I heard the Exetor’s sister’s death wasn’t really an accident.”

“She fell off a horse,” I say. “How do you fake that?”