The White Rose (10 page)

The outline of her face is soft, almost blurred. I want to tell her she’s not broken. I want to tell her there must be a way to undo what the Countess did. But I can’t lie to her.

Her mouth pulls up into a sad smile. “That’s what I thought.” She wraps a piece of her hair around her finger. “Emile told me I was the strongest of all the surrogates he’d ever seen. I was the only one who survived being impregnated.” Her other hand slides to her stomach.

“Emile, he was your lady-in-waiting?” I ask. She nods. “Well, he was right. You’re the strongest person I know. And besides, Lucien’s a genius—maybe he can figure out how to help.”

“He must care about you very much.”

“I remind him of someone he used to know,” I say. “His sister. She was a surrogate. She died.”

We’re quiet for a while.

“Did his sister die giving birth?” Raven asks.

“I don’t know, actually,” I say. I think back to the Longest Night ball, when Lucien caught Ash and me together, when he told me the truth about the surrogates. His words echo in my mind.

I had a sister. Azalea. She was a surrogate. I tried to help her, tried to save her life, and for a while, I succeeded. Until one day, I failed.

He never told me exactly what happened.

“I’m going to die if I have this baby, aren’t I?” Raven says quietly.

A knot of fear hardens in my throat.

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes,” Raven repeats. “I can tell. I can feel it.”

I haven’t let myself think about it, about the death sentence Raven carries inside her. I wrap my arms around my torso as if that would somehow keep me from falling apart.

At that moment, we hear a click and the door to the train car opens.

Raven and I freeze. Footsteps and voices fill the air above us.

“Far too early for this,” a man says. His words are clipped and his voice has the subtle confidence of someone who is well educated.

“I’ve brought some coffee, sir,” a younger voice replies.

“Excellent.”

“And here’s your paper.”

Wood creaks as someone sits. The rustle of newspaper is accompanied by the sound and smell of coffee being poured.

“Ghastly business,” the man says. “Madame Curio was devastated when she heard. I must admit, I was shocked as well. Ash Lockwood, a surrogate rapist? I trained that young man myself. He was an exceptional companion. One of the best.”

“Maybe this is a misunderstanding, Mr. Billings,” the boy says.

There’s a loud whistle, and with a lurch, the train begins to move.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Billings says. “We do not question the
testimony of a Founding House.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” There’s a pause. “Do you think Mr. Lockwood’s family will be amenable to the deal? I mean to say, are you sure he’ll go back to them?”

I can hear Raven’s heart thudding in time with my own.

“Well, for goodness’ sake, Red, where else is he going to go? I can’t imagine how he’s evaded detection this long—with the exception of Landing’s Market, of course, and what a disaster that was. No, he’ll have to return home soon. And from what I’ve gathered of his father’s character, Lockwood Senior will be happy to turn in a troublesome son to save a dying daughter.”

Cinder
.

I think of Ash, alone in a compartment somewhere nearby. He obviously knows this Mr. Billings. I wonder if he knows the boy, Red, too. From the little I know about Ash’s father, Mr. Billings’s assessment sounds accurate.

But Ash isn’t going home.

And Cinder is dying.

Mr. Billings must be very involved in his paper, because there’s nothing but silence for a long time. My muscles ache from the constant, unceasing tension. Raven and I are both too afraid to move, and my back and shoulders begin to cramp. The train chugs along at a steady speed, only slowing to a halt when we reach the massive iron doors separating the Bank and the Smoke. I can hear them groaning open. The heavy tread of Regimental boots entering the train carriage nearly stops my heart.

“Morning, sir,” a deep-voiced Regimental says.

“Good morning,” Mr. Billings says.

There’s the scratching sound of a pen. “Going to the Smoke?”

“That’s right.”

“Just you and this young man, is that correct?”

“Yes. And this train was searched by your colleagues before it left the companion house.”

Footsteps march up and down the aisle, passing the spot where Raven and I lie hunched together. Neither of us dares to breathe.

“Very good, sir,” the Regimental says. The train door closes.

I exhale in a giant whoosh as the train rolls forward, picking up steam.

We’ve made it into the Smoke. Only one more circle to go.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

B
Y THE TIME THE TRAIN SLOWS DOWN, MY NERVES ARE
fried.

Every muscle in my body is in agony, and there’s a constant throbbing at the base of my skull, like an Augury headache.

“We’re here, sir,” Red says, his footsteps making the wood creak over our heads as he walks to the front of the car.

“Yes, I can see that. Take my briefcase, please. The coach should be waiting for us. I do wish we could have used the main terminal, it’s so much closer, but the traffic will be a nightmare this time of day. I’m hoping we’ll be
back to the Bank before lunchtime—the Smoke always gives me such a terrible cough. You brought the lozenges?”

I don’t hear Red’s response. Back to the Bank? But what about the Farm?

The two men depart the train. Neither Raven nor I move.

“What do we do?” I whisper.

With a groan, the roof of our hiding place wrenches open. The light hurts my eyes, and I blink until they adjust and I can see Ash’s figure looming above me.

His face is like stone, his eyes blazing. He reaches a hand out—I take it and he yanks me up and out of the compartment without a word. My legs give out, and I crumple to the floor, rubbing life back into my limbs and cringing at the invisible needles that stab my muscles as blood flows back into them. Raven collapses beside me.

“What do we do?” I say again. “This train isn’t going to the Farm.”

“Maybe we can hide in the station,” Raven suggests. “Wait for another train.”

“He’s killing her.” Ash’s voice is as cold as his face. I’ve never seen him look like this. It scares me. “Do you know how much money I’ve sent to my family? There should be enough to buy Cinder medicine for at least the next few years.”

“Do you think the royalty took it away?” I ask.

“No,” Ash says. He balls his hands into fists. “I think my father did exactly what I was afraid he would do. He took all the money for himself.”

Ash has never spoken much about his father. During one of those stolen afternoons we spent in his parlor, he told me they weren’t close, but the way he said it implied something much deeper. Resentment. Anger. Hatred, even. He said his father preferred his twin brothers, Rip and Panel. That they were loud and rough while Ash was quiet and reserved.

Still, would Mr. Lockwood sacrifice his son for more money?

“Ash Lockwood?”

The sound of Ash’s name freezes us all in place. A small, soot-covered face is poking in through the open door of the train.

“It
is
you! The Black Key said to keep an eye on all trains coming into the Smoke, but, wow, I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” So Lucien’s secret society has members in the Smoke as well. “Nice move, changing your hair. How’d you get by the Regimentals?”

The boy who has now entered the train compartment is about twelve. He wears pants that are an inch too short for him and a coat that is nearly worn through at the elbows. I’d guess his skin is a shade darker than Raven’s but it’s hard to tell with all the smudges of ash and soot. His shaggy black hair is so long it falls into his eyes.

But he said the Black Key.

“Show me your key,” I say.

The boy rolls up the sleeve of his coat to reveal a black skeleton key on the inside of his elbow, drawn onto the boy’s skin with charcoal. “You’re 197, right?”

“My name is Violet,” I say. “Are you here to help us?”

“I sure am. You can call me the Thief,” he says with a toothy grin. “The Black Key says fake names are safer. My real name’s stupid, anyway, so I don’t mind. Are you really gonna help bring down the royalty? The Black Key says you have some sort of power. Can I see it?”

I can’t help smiling at his enthusiasm. “Not right now,” I say.

“Right. Guess there are more important things to take care of.” The Thief pushes his hair out of his eyes. “I’ve got to get you to the main terminal. We think we found a train that can take you to the Farm. But you can’t go out looking like that. Wait here.”

Before I can ask him anything else, he’s gone.

“Who’s Cinder?” Raven asks.

I explain quickly about Ash’s sister.

“I understand,” she says, looking up at him. “You want your Reckoning Day. You want to say good-bye.”

“Ash,” I say gently. “You can’t . . . we can’t see her.”

“I know,” he snaps. Then he sinks down onto one of the train seats. “I was supposed to be saving her. I failed.”

“You did the best you could,” I say. “You did the
only
thing you could.”

“And if it was Hazel dying?” he says. “Would you believe me if I said you did the best you could?”

My gut twists at the thought of Hazel dying. “I don’t know,” I lie.

“Don’t worry, Violet,” he says. “I get it. I can’t say good-bye to my sister or confront my father for being the selfish bastard he is. You’d think I’d be used to being told
what to do all the time by now.”

“I’m not telling you what to do,” I say. “But even if you were to make it to your house, see your sister . . . it’s suicide, Ash. Would Cinder want you to die, too?”

“Don’t,” he says fiercely. “Don’t talk to me about what she would want. Not right now, when she’s so close.” He looks out the window of the train. “The last time I was here, they were taking me to the Bank. I remember thinking this train was the cleanest thing I’d ever seen. It practically sparkled. Nothing in the Smoke ever sparkles, except maybe the coal dust in winter.”

Ash’s face contorts, and for a moment I think he’s going to cry. But then the Thief is back.

“All right—” He stops when he sees Ash’s face. “Everything . . . okay?”

“His sister lives here,” Raven says. “She’s dying.”

“Oh,” the Thief says with a sympathetic look. “Black lung?”

Ash nods.

“My best friend died of black lung last year. He wasn’t even working in the factories yet. Got it from breathing the air around here. And the royalty sure aren’t gonna dole out medicine for an orphan kid. It isn’t fair, you know? They keep us penned in like animals. You’re born a street urchin in the Smoke and that’s how you’ll stay, no questions asked.”

“Not always,” Ash says.

“Did they ask you if you wanted to be a companion?” the Thief says.

Ash’s mouth twitches. “No.”

“Yeah. They just take and take.”

“What did they take from you?”

The Thief shrugs. “My parents.”

“I’m sorry,” Ash says.

“I don’t remember them. Anyway, we’ve got to get going. Put this on your faces,” the Thief says, holding out his hands. Cupped in them is a mound of black soot.

The soot is soft like powder, but as I rub it on my cheeks my nose wrinkles in reaction to the smell—like creosote and asphalt mixed together, harsh and sharp.

“Do you two have hats?” he asks me and Raven. We both produce woolen caps, taken from Ash’s room at Madame Curio’s. “Good. Hide your hair.”

“How did the Black Key find you anyway?” I ask as I shove my bun with the arcana inside up under the hat.

“I’m the best pickpocket in this quarter of the Smoke,” the Thief says with pride. “I stole something he wanted. He was pretty impressed.”

“Have you met him?” I ask. It seems awfully risky for Lucien to reveal himself to so many people.

“Oh no,” the Thief says. “No one’s met the Black Key. He always communicates through letters or codes or other people. The Seamstress recruited me. She gives me food sometimes, too. There’s never enough at the orphanage.” He looks us up and down. “All right, let’s go.”

“I like him,” Raven mutters to me as we leave the train.

“Keep your heads down and your shoulders hunched,” Ash says. “We should fit right in.”

I train my eyes on the worn wooden planks beneath me. Then stairs, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight . . . The air is dense, like I could chew on it. It’s also slightly
acrid tinged with the same flavor and smell as the soot on our faces and clothes. I can see what the Thief meant about contracting black lung simply from breathing the air. We hit the pavement and I can’t help looking up, because we’re swarmed with bodies—scuffed boots and frayed pants and sunken faces. Some of the faces have a black sheen to them, like ours, with tired eyes; others are cleaner, fresher, their workday just starting. It makes me think of my father, the late nights he worked in the Smoke, coming home in the early hours of the morning.

I remember this circle from my train ride to the Auction—the chimneys belching smoke in various shades of gray-greens, dull reds, murky purples, the dimness of the light, the streets teeming with people. But it was a passing moment, one small part of an immense journey. Being down here, among the people instead of on an elevated train track, is entirely different. I can smell the grease, hear the muttered conversations. People bump into me constantly, and it’s a fight to keep close to Ash and Raven, or to keep the Thief in sight. He’s particularly deft at navigating the crowds, weaving through them so easily that sometimes I lose track of him altogether.

The street we’re on is very wide, made of chunky cobblestones, with a rail track set in its center. It’s lined with factories, tall buildings with barred windows and chimneys rising up into the cloudy sky. We seem to be moving with the flow of traffic—every now and then workers peel off and head inside one of the iron behemoths, often with a lot of pushing and shoving.

There’s a loud clanging and half the crowd halts, Ash
and the Thief included. I bump into Ash as Raven runs into me. There is a wooden signpost with the number 27 painted on it in red. And under the sign is a poster with Ash’s face on it.

WANTED. FUGITIVE.

I glance around nervously but no one is looking at us. We’re covered in soot anyway.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

A trolley comes rolling up the tracks toward us.

“East Quarter woodworks and ironworks!” a conductor shouts.

The trolley is by far the cleanest thing in the Smoke. It’s painted a cheerful red that contrasts sharply with its occupants. The conductor wears a smart uniform and a black cap. Over the front of the trolley, a sign written in bold letters proclaims,
TROLLEY NO. 27
. And underneath that, in elegant script,
A MARSHALING SERVICE FOR THE WORKERS OF THE SMOKE
.

The Thief leads the way as Raven, Ash, and I clamber on board, holding on to the rungs that hang from the ceiling. The trolley car is packed, every seat filled, bodies pressing all around us. I doubt I’d even need to hold on to the rungs to stay standing. One woman keeps coughing into her handkerchief—I can see spots of red on the white fabric where blood has seeped through. No one gives us a second glance. No one looks at us, period. There is an overwhelming air of defeat in this car. I can smell it, thick and sour.

Is this how Ash grew up? Is this future so much worse than his life as a companion? Then I think about the Marsh, about the vile stink when it rains, the emaciated children, the filth in the streets. If Ash saw that, maybe he’d think I was better off in the Duchess’s palace. But it’s not the outside of these circles that count. They have hidden hearts, all of them.

Except maybe the Jewel.

The trolley clangs its way down the cobblestone street until the factories take on a distinctly different look. A series of squat, brick buildings with short chimneys belching thick black smoke line the road. I can barely make out the sign painted over the door of the one closest to us—
PADMORE’S IRONWORKS
. And underneath in smaller lettering:
A SUBSIDIARY OF THE HOUSE OF THE FLAME
.

“Padmore’s, Rankworth’s, Jetting’s!” the conductor calls as the trolley slows. Workers begin to push their way off the trolley while more wait outside to board.

About ten minutes later, we stop again. The air is a little clearer here, the buildings made of light gray stone, taller than the ironwork factories, and with less smoke swirling through the air—or maybe the smoke is of a lighter hue. A sign hanging over one entrance reads:
JOINDER’S WOODWORKS. A HOUSE OF THE STONE COMPANY
.

“This is us,” the Thief mutters, as the conductor shouts out, “Joinder’s, Plane’s, Shelding’s!”

He hops off the trolley as the rest of us shuffle off with other workers, following a group heading to Joinder’s. Instead of filing into the factory, though, the Thief veers off to the side, down a narrow alley that empties out onto
a broad thoroughfare. A pair of Regimentals strolls down the opposite sidewalk, occasionally harassing some of the workers. Ash pops up the collar of his coat to better hide his face.

“We should go back,” he says. “Take the alleys behind the factories. They’ll take us right by the main terminal.”

The Thief snorts. “You haven’t lived here in a while. Those alleys have been boarded up. We have to take the Boulevard of the Stone to the Gray streets.”

Raven tenses beside me. Ash opens his mouth to protest, but the Thief interrupts him.

“This is my quarter,” he says confidently. “I know every inch of it. You’re going to have to trust me.”

Ash closes his mouth and nods.

The Boulevard of the Stone sends my heart hammering in my throat. Wanted posters are everywhere. On every street sign, on every door and lamppost. The street is bustling with a mix of electric stagecoaches and horse-pulled wagons and buggies. Trees are planted at various intervals, giving it a cleaner, more affluent feel than the other parts of the Smoke I’ve seen. The buildings are spaced apart from each other—we pass a branch of the Royal Bank, two statues of lions guarding its entrance, and a post office with about twenty thin stone steps leading up to a huge set of copper doors. A magistrate’s office dominates a large portion of the street, its columned façade hung with a giant flag boasting the Exetor’s crest, a crowned flame crossed with two spears. Ash’s face is in every window. There is an electric stagecoach parked outside of it. Painted on its doors is a blue circle crossed with two silver tridents.