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Coral’s smile widens even more.

“Yes, of course,” the Exetor says. His gaze drifts around the room and I wonder if maybe he is interested in seeing Hazel after all.

“You are too kind,” Garnet says. “We would love to.”

Trumpets blare from out in the garden. The Duchess enters the ballroom wearing a beautiful gown of silver, diamonds stitched into the bodice and skirt so that she sparkles when she moves. She stops just inside the door. Those who have made their way out into the garden begin to crowd back toward the palace, necks craning, everyone eager to see the surrogate.

It’s disgusting. I remember the way they stared at me at the Exetor’s Ball when I was forced to play the cello. I hate that Hazel has to experience that.

“My friends,” she says, spreading her arms out wide. I notice a silver bangle on her wrist that makes my heart sink. “I am so pleased to present to you once again, after quite the whirlwind few months, my surrogate.”

She jerks the wrist wearing the bangle and Hazel shuffles into view. She is attached to the Duchess by a thin chain that is fastened to an ornate collar around her neck. Tension rolls over me in waves. Hazel is on a leash.

But even worse, her stomach protrudes from under her dress, a round curve that clearly shows she’s pregnant.

But she’s not. She can’t be. I saw her two days ago. And they’ve stopped trying to impregnate her.

My thoughts are snarled up, and then, from across the room, my sister’s eyes find mine and she gives me the slightest shake of her head. Reassuring me. Whatever is under her dress, it isn’t real.

It is disconcerting, though, how easily she is able to pull off being me. The Duchess was very clever. Hazel must be in heels to match my height. They’ve padded the bodice of her dress so her chest looks like mine. She wears the exact same dress I wore to my first dinner in this palace—pale purple, with an empire waist. Her hair has been curled and pinned just how Annabelle used to do mine.

The only new addition, besides the pregnant stomach, is a veil. A shimmering layer of white gauze covers Hazel’s face from the bridge of her nose to just below her chin. It is translucent, so her features are still partly discernible. Maybe the Duchess wanted a precaution against anyone realizing she isn’t me. Or maybe it’s just some new surrogate fashion.

Hazel’s purple eyes are wide with a mixture of fear and wonder at the scene spreading out before her—I realize she’s never actually seen this palace, or any other royal, before. Her gaze travels over the glittering fabrics to the glossy instruments of the string quartet and finally lands on the tables of food laid out in the garden, before returning to me.

The royals are watching her with interest, too. Their eyes all flicker between the Duchess and Hazel’s stomach.

“She has been through a terrible ordeal,” the Duchess is saying. “So please, keep your distance. We don’t want to overwhelm her too much.”

The Electress has already crossed the ballroom to stand in front of Hazel. The Duke makes his way unsteadily to stand beside the Duchess and they bow and curtsy as the Exetor joins them, the nurse trailing behind. The room watches with bated breath as the Electress looks Hazel up and down.

“She seems . . . thinner,” the Electress says.

“She is perfectly healthy, I assure you, Your Grace. The doctor visits her every day.”

The Electress opens her mouth, but the Exetor puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her to face the waiting crowd. He gestures for the nurse to hand Larimar to the Electress so that they are grouped together, the Duke and Duchess, Hazel, Larimar, and the Electress and Exetor, in a bizarre mockery of a family photograph.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I present to you the future of the Lone City!”

The crowd erupts in cheers. The Countess of the Stone, I notice, claps unenthusiastically. The Electress’s smile looks forced. Larimar begins to cry, reaching out for his nurse. I spot the gray-haired Countess of the Rose in the crowd, Sienna’s former mistress. She watches the scene with a smug expression.

“Now let’s celebrate with a drink!” Garnet says. The cheers turn to laughs, and the string quartet starts up again. Hazel is immediately surrounded by royal women who are clearly dying to get as close to her as possible without inciting the wrath of the Duchess.

It makes me furious. Hazel looks terrified, all these unfamiliar ladies gawking at her, talking about her to the Duchess like she’s not standing right there, a leash fastened around her neck.

Lucien glides over to where we are standing. “Emile,” he says. “Is Frederic still sick?”

“He is.”

“Do send him my best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

“I will.”

Lucien ignores me completely.

“The Electress must be very happy to see the surrogate,” Emile says.

“Indeed,” he replies. “I don’t think she’s going to let the girl out of her sight all evening.”