The Jewel by Amy Ewing Page B

and lotions and shampoos, and I can’t help myself, I try as many of them as I can, and the scents of lavender and freesia and rosewater and mint and watermelon fill the room.
    â€œAll right, that’s enough,” Cora says, though I could stay in this shower for the rest of the evening. The Duchess hitting me across the face feels like a distant memory.
    â€œHow do I turn it off?” I ask.
    â€œJust push the lever back down.”
    The water ceases as quickly as it started, and I shiver. A towel pokes through the curtain. I dry myself quickly, then wrap the towel around me and pull the curtain back. Cora has a smaller towel in her hands and she wraps up my wet hair. I follow her into my dressing room. Its walls are hung with silks of peach and cream; there is a three-sided mirror like the one in my prep room, and a vanity with makeup as well.
    Standing in front of the vanity is a girl, about my age, in a dress like Cora’s, with a high lace collar, but no shaved head or topknot—her hair is copper colored and tied up in a bun on the crown of her head. Instead of a key ring, a flat black rectangle hangs from a fine gold chain on her leather belt. She is holding a dress, similar in style to the one I wore at the Auction but made of finer thread that glitters in the warm light.
    â€œThis is Annabelle,” Cora says, and the girl curtsies. “She will be your lady-in-waiting.”
    â€œOh.” I didn’t realize I’d have a lady-in-waiting. “Hello.”
    Annabelle’s cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t say anything.
    Cora sits me down at the vanity and Annabelle hangs the dress up by the three-sided mirror. Then the two of them get to work, combing out the snarls in my wet hair, using powders and creams and glosses to highlight my features, and filing my nails into even more perfect ovals. Annabelle never says a word, and Cora only speaks to give her some instruction or other.
    And all the while, I stare at the girl in the mirror, looking somehow smaller and younger than I have seen her.

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    HarperCollins Publishers
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Eight
    â€œT IME TO GO, ” C ORA SAYS.
    Annabelle dabs a little bit of scented oil on each of my wrists and adjusts my hair so that it tumbles over my shoulders.
    â€œThank you,” I say. She smiles shyly.
    Cora escorts me to the dining hall. We walk down a small flight of stairs to a door that opens out into a hallway decorated with paintings of flowers. We turn down another hall lined with massive gold-framed portraits—their eyes seem to follow me as I go—and then down a plain, carpeted staircase lit with glowglobes. I catch a glimpse of a room filled with marble statues before I’m distracted by a massive foyer with a glass ceiling, a fountain sparkling in its center. We leave the foyer behind, turning down a different hallway, and I’m just about to ask Cora exactly how much farther we have to go when she stops at a door with a silver handle.
    She turns and gives me a final, appraising look, smooths out a nonexistent wrinkle in my dress, then ushers me into a small study with lots of bookshelves and a fire crackling in the grate. The Duchess sits in an armchair in front of the fireplace, sipping amber liquid from a crystal glass. She has changed into a pale blue dress of shimmering material, like water woven into silk. As I enter, she looks up and smiles.
    â€œGood evening.”
    â€œGood evening, my lady.”
    She stands and saunters toward me. I instinctively tense. Her smile widens.
    â€œNo, I won’t hit you again.” She reaches out and traces a finger down the side of my face. Her hands are cool and dry. I see that look again, that sort of hopefulness in her expression. “I’ve learned from previous experience that it is better to start with the stick, rather than the carrot. I certainly don’t