The Jewel by Amy Ewing

while Lucien pulls dresses off the racks and I squeeze myself into them. He picks ones that are a hair too tight, telling me it’s to “emphasize my curves.” Some of the dresses are outrageous things, like costumes, with wings sprouting out of them, or finlike attachments. Thankfully, Lucien gives up on those pretty quickly.
    â€œDefinitely not your style,” he says. I don’t know what my style is, but I’m glad he agrees that it’s not that .
    I try on a series of dresses made of heavy brocade, relieved when Lucien dismisses those as well—they make me feel like I weigh a thousand pounds. There are dresses with full skirts, short skirts, long sleeves, no sleeves, made of silk, damask, taffeta, lace, in every color and pattern imaginable. Lucien’s brow furrows as I try on more and more, the pile of discarded fabrics growing higher and higher. A light sheen of sweat beads on his forehead, and he glances at the hourglass—the purple sand has nearly filled the bottom bulb. We’re running out of time.
    Suddenly, a smile breaks across his face and he gives me a look that makes me immediately suspicious.
    â€œYou know what?” he says, tossing aside a long dress made of red velvet. “ You choose.”
    I blink. “What?”
    â€œYou choose. Just poke around in the closets and pick what you like best.”
    For a second, I’m too stunned to move. Isn’t this sort of important, what I wear for the Auction? Won’t it influence who buys me? Isn’t this his job ?
    But then I wonder if he’s giving me another little gift, like closing my eyes for the makeup. I remember what Raven said yesterday, about how it was the last day we’d ever get to choose our own outfit. Lucien’s giving me one more choice.
    â€œOkay,” I say. I ignore the first closet, where most of the costume-y stuff is, and head straight for the second. I run my hands along the racks, seeing which materials feel best. The farther back I go, the simpler the dresses become.
    The moment I touch it, I know.
    It’s made of muslin, in a purple so pale it reminds me of the sunrise yesterday, of the sky just before it exploded with color. It has an empire waist and falls in a clean line to the floor. It has no ornamentation. It doesn’t even look expensive.
    I love it.
    Lucien laughs when he sees my choice. “Try it on,” he says, and when I do, he laughs again and claps. “I don’t think that dress has ever been used by a surrogate in the history of the Auction,” he says. “But, honey, it fits you like a glove.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
Five
    â€œW HAT ’ S NEXT ?” I ASK.
    â€œYou look in the mirror again,” he replies.
    I swallow. “Do I have to?”
    Lucien takes my hand in both of his—his skin is soft, like a child’s. “Yes. It’s required. You’ve seen yourself as you were, and now you have to accept who you are, and embrace your new life and your future.” It’s like he’s reading from a script, but something in his eyes contradicts the words. Like he’s really telling me he’s sorry.
    â€œAll right.” I manage to keep my breathing steady as I approach the mirrors. I keep my head down, step onto the podium, count to three, and look up.
    The stranger in the mirror has been transformed.
    I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile her with the image I had of myself in my head. The image of a pretty girl, slightly plump, full face, big eyes. The woman I am looking at now is stunning. Beautiful. Her cheeks seem thinner, molded to accent her high cheekbones, and her eyebrows arch delicately over luminous eyes, lined in rich purple with accents of lilac and gold. Her lips are glossed in pale pink, and her hair tumbles over her shoulders in thick curls, one side pinned up with a