Page 54

I’ve only ever been to the South Quarter of the Bank, for that brief time I spent with Lily and then at the warehouse. Everything was pink stone and immaculate gardening. The North Quarter is wilder. All the trees here are evergreens. The buildings are made from materials in silvery gray and pale blue, so they gleam among the dark green. Lots of them have white tiles for their roofs, giving the impression of newly fallen snow.

We reach a street that is twice as wide as any other we’ve been on so far. It’s filled with shops of every kind, and the chauffeur pulls over to let us out. We pass a store with boarded-up windows and scorch marks on its walls. A sign on the door reads, “Closed for Renovations.” A black key is scrawled over the words.

“Ungrateful,” Coral mutters. Carnelian rolls her eyes, but she glances back at the building several times until it fades from view.

She catches me watching her and quickly faces forward.

I look away, too. I don’t need Carnelian studying me too closely.

One or two other stores have broken windows and “Closed” notices and I catch sight of more spray-painted keys.

The shops that remain untouched have large ornate signs, like the ones in the South Quarter. One proudly boasts “The best milliner in the North Quarter!” over a display of brilliantly colored hats. Another proclaims “Fine linens: make your house look like a royal palace!”

We finally stop outside a bright red building, a sharp contrast to all the iron and brass that makes up most of this quarter. There is an imposing branch of the Royal Bank to the left and a furniture store on the right. The sign over the red building’s entrance says, “Miss Mayfield’s Ladies Emporium: Purveyor of Fine Evening Wear.” A girl no older than me in a smartly cut black pencil skirt and blazer greets us at the door.

“Coral of the House of the Lake,” she says warmly. “We’ve been expecting you. And Miss Carnelian as well. Come in, come in.”

Coral soaks up the attention like a sponge. We walk into the store and two other girls in similar garb are immediately called over. Coffee is poured, fresh fruit is offered, as well as a seat on a plush velvet sofa. Once again, I hover in the background, not needed except when Coral removes her hat and hands it to me. Dresses surround us, modeled on wooden mannequins or hanging on racks arranged by color. The ceiling is so high that there are tiers of gowns accessible only by a sliding ladder on the wall, like the one in the Duchess’s library. The floor is carpeted in a deep crimson, and the light fixture that hangs from the ceiling is wrought out of copper in the shape of many antlers, each point fixed with a glowglobe, so that the room is bathed in a warm light.

“Miss Mayfield will be right with you,” the head girl assures Coral. “You’ll love it when you see it, it’s absolutely stunning. She was up all night finishing it.”

Coral looks pleased.

“What about my dress?” Carnelian asks. She sits on a small pouf with her cup of coffee, looking disgruntled.

“Oh, yours is lovely, too!” the assistant chirps.

“You must be thrilled,” another assistant, who’s nearly as tall as Indi, says. “To have your aunt commission a dress like this just for you.”

“Yes, I’m ecstatic,” Carnelian replies dryly.

“We both are,” Coral says, smiling enough for the two of them.

“Have you seen the lists for the Auction yet?” the head girl asks.

“No, they never arrive until a few days before, do they? I can’t wait to see what sort of surrogates are on the docket this year.”

“Not nearly as many as last time, though, are there?” the third assistant, a girl with bushy hair and a lot of freckles, asks.

“No,” Coral says. “But it’s really about quality, not quantity, isn’t it?”

“Besides, no one’s fighting for Larimar’s hand in marriage anymore,” Carnelian points out.

“We were so sorry to hear about that awful shooting,” the head girl says. I notice she speaks only to Coral. “Is it true they were after the surrogate?”

“Yes,” Coral replies in a hushed voice.

“Everyone is saying it was the Electress,” the freckled girl interjects, as if hoping to get confirmation of this from Coral, but the head girl silences her with a sharp look.

“No one knows who was behind it,” she says curtly. “The Duchess must be so worried for her surrogate’s safety.”

My stomach lurches, Hazel’s frantic pleas ringing in my ears.

“She keeps her secure in the palace,” Coral says.

“And no more parties until the little bundle of joy is born,” Carnelian says.

The tall girl titters nervously, as if she’s unsure whether or not Carnelian is making a joke, and if so, whether she is supposed to think it’s funny.