The Jewel by Amy Ewing Page A

jeweled clip, encrusted with amethysts that form the shape of a butterfly. There is a shimmer to her skin, almost like she’s glowing. The color of the dress works perfectly and its simplicity only makes her features stand out more.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Lucien asks.
    I am speechless.
    He takes a step closer, so our reflections touch. “I wanted you to still look like you.”
    â€œThank you,” I whisper.
    Lucien picks up the last hourglass—it’s tiny, and the sand inside it is dark red.
    â€œThis one is for you,” he says. “You have this time to do whatever you want. Look in the mirror. Sing. Meditate. Just don’t mess up your hair and makeup.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    He gives me a sort of sad, pitying look. “I’m going to leave, 197. A Regimental will take you to the Waiting Room when your time is up.”
    My heart sticks in my throat. “You’re leaving?”
    Lucien nods. “My apologies about the mess,” he says, his eyes lingering on the scattered clothes and smudges of makeup on the vanity. “The servants can’t come in to clean until you’re gone.” He gives me a small smile. “It has been a pleasure to prep you, 197.”
    He turns the hourglass and walks to the door.
    â€œLucien, wait.”
    He stops. I’m nervous and want to chew on my bottom lip, but I’m worried about what he said about not messing with my makeup. I don’t know what I want to do, in these last minutes before I’m sold. But I do know that I don’t want to be alone.
    â€œYou said . . . I can do anything I want?”
    He nods.
    â€œOkay. Then I want to talk to you. I want you to stay.”
    For a second, it’s like he doesn’t understand me. Then a slow smile spreads across his face.
    â€œWell,” he says, smoothing his topknot. “This is a first.”
    He sits on one of the claw-footed sofas, daintily crosses his legs, and pats the spot next to him. I smile for the first time since I woke up in this room.
    â€œAh,” he says, “that’s what was missing. Now you’re perfect.”
    I sit down. There is a silence in which I can almost hear the trickle of sand through the hourglass.
    â€œWhat would you like to talk about?” Lucien asks.
    â€œI don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just . . . didn’t want you to leave me.”
    Lucien’s expression softens. “When you think of something, let me know.” He brushes the silky fabric of his gown with his fingertips. I notice again how smooth his skin is.
    â€œHow old are you?” I ask.
    He bursts into laughter. “Oh, honey, you can’t start with that. You’ll never survive here.”
    I blush deeply, feeling the heat burn in my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mumble. I’ve lived so long in a place where age was always known, and limited to only a certain number of years.
    Lucien pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re already doing so much better than most of the other girls I’ve prepped.”
    â€œHow long have you been doing this?”
    â€œNine years. But I don’t prep every Auction. I’ve been doing it so long now, I get to choose who I work on.” He bats his eyelashes.
    â€œYou chose me?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œWhy?” I can’t imagine what could have compelled him to choose me. How could he know anything about me?
    He hesitates for a moment. “Your eyes,” he says.
    I’m stunned. “You saw me?”
    â€œWe’re given photographs of all the surrogates in the Auction. Along with your measurements, of course. How else would I have three closets full of dresses in exactly your size?”
    I try to imagine Lucien flipping through stacks of photographs of girls denoted only by lot number and dress size. It makes me feel so small.
    I glance at the hourglass—already, half my time