The Jewel by Amy Ewing

important, understand?” I nod. “Her moods can be unpredictable, so I’d suggest that, for now at least, you say as little as possible.”
    I hear the clacking sound of heels on polished wood and my breath catches in my throat. Cora hurriedly puts the brush back on the vanity and stands behind me.
    The clacking stops. One of the doors on my right opens. A man’s voice announces, “Her Royal Ladyship, the Duchess of the Lake.”
    Flanked by six Regimentals, the Duchess enters the room. I gape at her dress, folds of pale silver and pearls, before I remember I’m supposed to keep my eyes down. I stare at my toes, each nail polished to a shine by Lucien.
    Though her heels make no sound on the carpet, I can sense the Duchess moving closer to me, until the embroidered hem of her dress comes into view. She stops. My skin prickles, and I fight the urge to look up. A hand reaches out and a finger, thin but strong, hooks under my chin. The Duchess raises my face to meet hers.
    Raven’s eyes. Again, that’s the first thing I notice, their almond shape. Her skin, too, has the same caramel-honey tint as Raven’s, though maybe a shade lighter. But as she studies me, I see her eyes are nothing like Raven’s—there is no warmth, no laughter in them. They are hard and cold, and the reminder of my best friend fades in the face of this unfamiliar woman.
    She’s shorter than me by a few inches, and her black hair is swept up and studded with diamonds. She says nothing. Her eyes drift down, taking me in. She moves slowly, circling me, and I try to keep my face relaxed. My muscles are bunched into coils; it’s a huge effort to remain rooted in one spot.
    When she is in front of me again, she holds my gaze for a long moment.
    And then she slaps me hard across the face with the back of her hand.
    Pain shoots through my cheekbone as sparks explode in front of my eyes. I cry out and press my hand against my skin, which burns where she hit it. Tears blur my vision. I’ve never in my whole life been hit before.
    For a second, I imagine hitting her back. My free hand even tightens into a fist. But the wall of Regimentals loom behind her and I only glare, clenching my teeth so hard it hurts my jaw.
    The Duchess smiles, a bizarrely warm smile given that she just slapped me. “I don’t ever wish to do that again,” she purrs, in a voice like velvet. “So I hope you’ll remember how it feels.”
    She folds herself delicately into one of the chairs. Her body is so graceful. I’ve never seen anyone move with such elegance. The Regimentals array themselves around her, like a red fan. I notice each of them has a tiny blue circle, crossed with two tridents, pinned to the left side of his uniform.
    â€œYes,” the Duchess murmurs, almost to herself. “I think you are exactly what I’ve been looking for. What do you think, Cora?”
    â€œTime will tell, my lady,” Cora replies.
    â€œYes . . .” The Duchess runs a manicured finger down her cheek. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, her dark eyes fixed on mine. “For nineteen years. Your timing couldn’t have been more perfect.”
    I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I’m glad I’m not expected to say anything.
    â€œI’m told you play the cello,” she says.
    When I don’t respond, her face turns stony, and I quickly stammer out, “Y-yes.” A slight intake of breath from Cora reminds me to add, “My lady.” The words turn sour on my tongue. My cheek throbs.
    The warm smile comes back, and she stands in one fluid movement. “I will see you at dinner in one hour. My own lady-in-waiting will ensure you are prepared correctly. Won’t you, Cora?”
    â€œYes, my lady,” Cora replies.
    The folds of her skirt rustle as the Duchess moves across the carpet. She pauses at the door. “You really do have the