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1
Text 2014 Amy Ewing. All rights reserved.
THE DOOR CLOSES BEHIND ME AUTOMATICALLY, AND FOR ONE TERRIFYING
moment, all there is is darkness.
Then I hear a low hum, and a narrow hallway is illumi-
nated on either side by a path of small square oor lamps. Their
yellowish-green light shoots straight up, showing me the way
without revealing where Im going. The Regimental is a black
outline in front of me, his pace slow and even. A weight presses
harder against my chest with each step I take, the invisible walls
closing in around me. I hear Luciens voice in my head, telling me
Ill be ne, and Ravens, too, saying shell never forget me. I hold
on to them, like talismans, trying to keep the fear at bay.
The hallway curves to the left. Then the oor lamps end
2
Text 2014 Amy Ewing. All rights reserved.
abruptly and the Regimental stops. Silence.
Where are we? I ask. My voice is hushed and tiny. For
ten long seconds, the Regimental says nothing; then, stirred
by some unseen command, he turns to me.
I thank you, Lot 197, for your service to the royalty.
Your place is marked. You must go on alone. He bows low,
and steps back so he is behind me.
A rounded, golden door engraved with the various crests
of the royal families begins to glow. I have no idea what lies
behind it, and suddenly panic seizes me so completely that
I think I might pass out. But Raven went through this door.
And so did Lily.
My ngertips tremble as they graze the ornamented met-
al. As if the door was waiting for my touch, it swings open,
and suddenly I nd myself blinded by a brilliant light.
AND NEXT UP, LADIES, WE HAVE LOT 197. LOT 197, PLEASE TAKE
YOUR MARK.
The voice is polite, almost pleasant, but Im having a hard
time focusing on what its saying.
Im in an amphitheater, rings of seats spiraling upward,
but the seats arent normal seats, theyre chaise lounges, and
sofas, and one even looks like a throne. And in each one sits
a woman, her eyes focused on me, her clothing extravagant
beyond anything I saw in my prep closets. Rippling, colorful
satins; delicate silks; lace; feathers; crinoline; cloth-of-gold
glittering fabrics sewn with jewels, they are nothing like the
ones the dolls in the Waiting Room were wearing. These
women are masterpieces, living sculptures of elegance and
nobility.
3
Text 2014 Amy Ewing. All rights reserved.
Lot 197, please take your mark, the voice says again.
I see him now, a man in a tuxedo standing to my left behind
a wooden podium. He is very tall, his dark hair slicked back.
Our eyes meet and he inclines his head.
There is a silver X in the middle of the circular stage. My
knees shake as I approach it, this walk by far the longest of
all the long walks Ive taken today. I hear a rustling of whis-
pers, like a light breeze running through the amphitheater.
The man waits until Ive reached the X. Then he removes a
white candle from inside the podium and places it in a brass
holder. His eyes scan the room once before he strikes a match
and lights the candle. The ame glows bright blue.
Lot 197, ladies. Age sixteen, height ve feet seven
inches, weight one hundred and thirty pounds. Unusual eye
color, as you can see. Four years of training, with scores of
9.6 on the rst Augury, 9.4 on the second, and a tremendous-
ly impressive 10.0 on the third. Prodigious skill with stringed
instruments, particularly the cello.
It is frighteningly bizarre to hear myself described this
way; a set of statistics, a musical instrument, and nothing
more.
The bidding will start at ve hundred thousand diaman-
tes. Do I hear ve hundred thousand?
A woman in a blue silk dress, a massive diamond neck-
lace roped around her neck, raises a silver feather.
Five hundred thousand from the Lady of the Downs, do
I hear ve hundred and fty thousand?
A dark-skinned woman raises a tiny set of bronze scales
with one hand, sipping champagne from a crystal ute with
the other.
4
Text 2014 Amy Ewing. All rights reserved.
Five hundred and fty thousand, do I hear six hun-
dred?
The bidding continues. My value climbs to seven hun-
dred, then eight, then nine hundred thousand diamantes. My
brain has a hard time wrapping its head around such a sum.
I cant seem to breathe normallymy lungs feel compressed,
like theyre being squeezed in a vise. The women dont speak,
they just raise an object that signies their House; I dont
recognize them all, and the auctioneer doesnt always address
them by title. Suddenly, I wish Id paid more attention in
royal culture and lifestyle class.
Nine hundred and fty thousand, do I hear one mil-
lion?
A young woman, seated in the chair that looks like a
throne, raises a tiny scepter with a diamond the size of a
chickens egg perched on its tip. I feel a collective intake of
breath from the other women, and notice the auctioneers
eyes icker for an instant toward the candle. It has burned
halfway down.
One million diamantes to Her Royal Grace, the Electress.
Do I hear one million ve?
The Electress. I am shocked by how young she looks,
even younger than in the photographs Ive seen of her, almost
like a child playing dress-up. Her gown has puffed sleeves
and a wide brocade skirt, her lips painted a very bright red.
I try to determine if there is anything particularly Bank-like
about her, but she looks pretty much the same as all the other
women in this room.
I notice a woman in the row above staring at herthe
womans almond-shaped eyes remind me of Ravens.
5
Text 2014 Amy Ewing. All rights reserved.
One million ve to the Countess of the Rose, the auc-
tioneer says, and I am pulled back to the present. An older
woman on a chaise lounge is holding up a golden rose. A few
seats away, a heavy woman glares at herno, heavy isnt the
right word. Fleshy would be more accurate. The womans
bulk is squeezed into a black satin dress, leaving her doughy
arms bare. Her face is pudgy and her eyes are . . . cruel. I
cant think of another word to describe them.
Do I hear two million? the auctioneer asks.
The diamond scepter is raised immediately. Then the
rose. Then the scepter. My heart slams against my ribs, the
rush of my blood roaring in my ears. Could I really be sold to
the Electress? It seems foolish that Id never considered itI
guess Id always gured the Electress would go for Lot 200.
Why go for fourth best when you can have rst?
The candle is burning lower now, milky wax dripping
down the bronze holder, the blue ame burning brighter as
it nears its end. The bidding increases, and my value soars to
ve million diamantes, an unimaginable sum. Its clear that I
will either be the surrogate for the Electress or the Countess
of the Roseall the other woman have stopped bidding. My
chest tightens and I ght the urge to gnaw on my lower lip.
Then it happens.
Do I hear six million diamantes? Six million?
The woman with Ravens eyes holds up a tiny blue mir-
ror.
The candle goes out.
Sold! the auctioneer cries, and all my muscles turn to
jelly. Sold for six million diamantes. To the Duchess of the
Lake.
6
Text 2014 Amy Ewing. All rights reserved.
SOLD.
The word revolves around my brain without really mak-
ing sense.
I am sold.
For a icker of an instant, I meet the dark eyes of the
woman who has bought me: the Duchess of the Lake. Then,
suddenly, I am sinking through the oor.
The X is on a platform being lowered down, down below
the stage, away from the Auction. This time, I welcome the
darkness. It feels safe. I look up and see another platform
closing over the circular space where a few moments ago I
stood, like a total eclipse. And just before it closes completely,
I hear the auctioneers voice.
And next up, ladies, we have Lot 198. I wonder which
girl is crossing the stagethe lioness or the iced cake. Lot
198, please take your mark.
The Auction goes on.
Lot 197?
I start, aware that Ive stopped moving. And its not com-
pletely dark, just dim. Im in an empty room with concrete
walls, circular like the amphitheater above it, and riddled
with doors.
Lot 197? A woman in a simple gray dress frowns at
me. She is holding a clipboard, and her eyes scan it briey.
I dont think I can speak yet, so I just nod.
The woman nods curtly in response. Duchess of the
Lake. This way.
She opens one of the doors and I follow her down a nar-
row hallway. There are no glowglobes herethe only light
7
Text 2014 Amy Ewing. All rights reserved.
comes from a few ickering torches set in high brackets.
Their ames cast strange shadows along the walls, a stark
and unsettling contrast to the warm light of the glowglobes in
my prep room.
The hallway ends in a plain wooden door and the woman
opens itI follow her into a small, domed room made of
octagonal stones that give me the feeling of being inside a
beehive. A re burns low in the grate, casting a dim light on
a simple table and chair. Theres a lumpy black cloth on the
table. Otherwise, the room is empty.
Sit, the woman says. As soon as I sink into the chair,
my muscles begin to shake, and I have to put my head in my
hands and take deep breaths through my mouth.
I am sold. I am property. I will never see my family or
Southgate or the Marsh ever again.
There, there, the woman says mechanically. Its all
right.
It is denitely not all right. I dont know if Ive felt less all
right in my entire life. I press the heels of my hands against
my eyes, not caring if I smudge Luciens makeup. I want to go
home.
A pair of cold hands wrap around my wrists.
Listen to me. The womans voice is different, almost
gentle, and I look up. She is kneeling in front of me, her face
close to mine. Whether I agree with this or not, it doesnt
matter, you understand? I dont make the rules around here.
But the royalty says that no surrogate is allowed to see her
way into or out of the Auction House. I feel queasy as she
stands and unwraps the black cloth, revealing rst a blue vial,
8
Text 2014 Amy Ewing. All rights reserved.
then a syringe. Im telling you right now, this wont hurt
you. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, its up to
youI know they dont give you a choice on your way in.
The easy way is, you let me put you to sleep. The hard way
is, I press a button and four Regimentals come through that
door and hold you down, and then I put you to sleep anyway.
Do you understand?
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat and nod.
So, what will it be?
I suppose I should be happy that I have a choice at all. If
its all right with you, I think Ill do the easy way.
The hint of a smile plays at the edge of the womans lips.
She lls the syringe with blue liquid from the vial, then turns
my arm over to nd a vein in my elbow. I wince as the needle
pierces my skinneedles were a part of life at Southgate, but
I never got used to them. Youre a smart girl. Maybe smart
enough to survive this place.
Her words are ominous, but the blue liquid oods my
veins, making my legs heavy and my eyelids droop, and be-
fore I can ask her what she means, darkness swallows me up
and I sleep.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy Ewing is a graduate
of the New Schools MFA
program in Writing for
Children, and has a BA from
New York University. The
daughter and granddaughter
of librarians, she is a self-
confessed high-fantasy nerd
who meant to be an actor, but
found herself a writer. She
lives in New York.
OUT NOW
9781406347494 PAPERBACK
THE JEWEL
Violet is trapped in a living death, her name and body no longer her own. She
ghts to hold on to her identity and sanity, uncertain of the fate of her friends,
isolated and at the mercy of the Duchess.
Then she meets another captive Ash, the handsome royal companion.
Drawn together, Violet and Ash are puppets in the deadly game of court
politics, each the others jeopardy and salvation.
A shocking and compelling new YA series from debut author, Amy Ewing;
The Handmaids Tale meets The Other Boleyn Girl in a world where beauty and
brutality collide.
by Amy Ewing
Auctioned as a surrogate
Imprisoned in the palace of
the Duchess of the Lake
Destined to carry the child
of a woman she despises