The House of the Stone

She walks to where Annabelle is bent over. In one fluid motion, she yanks Annabelle upright, holding her head back by her hair.

“You know, Violet,” the Duchess says. “I cared about you. I truly did.” She seems sincerely sad as she holds my gaze. “Why did you have to do this to me?”

I don’t see the knife in her hand—just a flash of silver as it whispers across Annabelle’s throat. Annabelle’s eyes widen, more in surprise than in pain, as a crimson gash opens on her neck.

“NO!” I scream. Annabelle looks at me, her face so lovely and frail, and I can see the question now, clear enough on her face that she wouldn’t need her slate to express it.

Why?

Blood spills down her chest, staining her nightdress a brilliant scarlet. Then her body crumples to the floor.

A wild, guttural wail fills the room, and it takes a second before I realize it’s coming from me. I thrash against my bonds, ignoring the pain in my back and wrists, hardly feeling it at all, because if I can just get to Annabelle I can make this right; if I can hold her in my arms I can bring her back. There must be a way to bring her back, because she can’t be dead, she can’t be . . .

Annabelle’s eyes are open, vacant, staring at me as blood pours from the wound on her neck, seeping toward me across the carpet.

“You needed to be punished for what you did,” the Duchess says, wiping the blood from her knife on the sleeve of her dressing gown. “And so did she.”

As casually as if it were nothing, she steps over Annabelle’s body and opens the door. I catch a glimpse of my tea parlor and the two Regimentals guarding me before the door closes and I am left alone with the corpse of the girl who was my first friend in this palace.




About the Author


AMY EWING earned her MFA in Writing for Children at The New School and received her BFA at New York University. The Jewel started off as a thesis project but is now her debut novel. She lives in New York City. Visit Amy online at www.amyewingbooks.com or on Twitter @AmyEwingBooks.

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