Malice, page 10
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This time, I am not welcomed at the swirling gates of the palace. The Weltrosses’ servant leads me through an achingly familiar back entrance. I remember my first visit through these cloistered halls. My knees could hardly hold me and my hands slipped on my kit, knowing I was here to end a life. Torn about whether or not I could do it.
The Grace Laws regarding these services are gray at best, and the Grace Council has conveniently neglected to clarify them. While Grace magic can’t be used to intentionally cause harm, the definition of harm is loose. After all, Graces can only produce blessings and charms with their Fae-blessed blood. Rose couldn’t use her beauty gift to hurt a fly. But Laurel, for instance, could potentially employ her enhanced wisdom to discern the best way to cause someone pain or the best strategy in battle. Treasonous practices when used against Briar.
Since I am half Vila, mine is the only power able to inflict direct, premeditated harm. And while I can’t sell a poison knowing that it would be used to murder someone in good health, giving that elixir to the terminally ill or injured is a different matter. I don’t know how Mistress Lavender first thought of the practice, or if it was even her idea at all. But once my skill in the darker arts began to manifest, the task fell like an iron weight on my shoulders. For an exorbitant amount of coin, one can hire the Dark Grace to ease a passing. The patron must be known to be near death—too far gone for either a healing Grace or Etherium to have any effect—and there must be witnesses. But I can do it.
No, I am required to do it under Grace Law.
Even though I don’t want to.
Even though it only solidifies my reputation as a murderess.
It is a reputation that crests behind me in whispers and black looks as I’m led through the labyrinth of stairs in the back of the palace. Servants, arms laden with silver tea trays, bottles of wine, cheeses, and fruits, scuttle like mice. They give us a wide berth, some of them almost tripping over their toes as my identity registers on their faces. I keep my hood raised, as if the material could shield me from their razor-sharp judgment.
The Weltrosses’ chambers are in the wings closest to the older, abandoned part of the palace. But nothing of Leythana’s first home is evident here. The apartments are huge and lavish, filled with gilt-framed portraits and frescoed ceilings and crystal chandeliers, their iridescent prisms cut in the shape of delicate roses. But the reek of stale sick and creeping death tarnishes the finery. I don’t know how the duchess stands it, especially as the acrid scents mingle with the candle smoke and earthy, burning herbs some healing Grace probably recommended. Herbs that are by no means helping.
The duchess has the decency to greet me herself when her servant announces my presence, leaving the duke’s bedside and approaching me with wary footsteps. He’s been like this for days, I can tell immediately just from the circles ringing the underside of both of her eyes. Her scarlet dressing gown is wrapped tightly around her frame, which is all sharp angles and jutting bones. The light from the fireplace shines against her warm black skin, highlighting the gaunt hollows of her cheeks.
“I did not know what else to do.” Her voice is strained. Exhausted.
Part of me wants to take one of her too-thin hands in mine. Soothe her and tell her she did the best she could. That her husband will be out of pain soon. But then her nose wrinkles slightly as she takes in the rainwater stains on my dress and the other evidence of my afternoon at the black tower. I didn’t have time to change before leaving Lavender House, much less even wash my face. I grip my kit harder.
“There must be another witness,” I tell her. “And his doctor.”
The duchess murmurs something to the servant, who flits away and returns with two others in tow. Dr. Renault is one. I recognize her sallow white face and badgerlike features from some of my other visits. The other person is a round woman who keeps sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“This is the duke’s sister,” Duchess Weltross says, indicating the weeping woman. “Surely her presence as witness is sufficient?”
I nod and direct my next question to Renault. “Has everything been done to assist this man?”
She watches me stiffly from behind a veil of disdain so thick it ripples. The weasly woman has never liked me. Doctors rarely do. In truth, any physician could accomplish what I do in these cases. My blood makes a poison more potent, more efficient, but anyone can kill a dying person. They choose to relegate this task to me in order to save themselves from it.
“Yes,” Renault snaps, turning up her nose at me.
“And you’re certain he is beyond your skill?” I love asking that question. Forcing them to admit they’ve failed at something. That they had to come to me.
“He is beyond anyone’s skill. Except yours.”
Ignoring the insult, I turn my attention to the duke’s sister. “And do you know of any reason he should not be allowed to die? Any person wishing him dead?”
It took years of schooling my features into neutrality for this part of the process. More than once, I’ve had my suspicions about disgruntled wives or husbands and friends with grudges. And I’ve seen my share of patrons who exhibited signs of long-term poisoning. Blackened tongues. Sallow skin laced with brittle veins the color of nightshade berries. But I am not paid to investigate possible murders. So when the bereft witness just shakes her head and prattles off a string of blubbery nonsense through her handkerchief, I make my way to the duke.
He’s in worse shape than I imagined. Each breath he takes is a shuddering, wet rasp. His lips are cracked and white, the insides lined with garish streaks of red. Blood trickles down the side of his mouth. The duchess wipes it away with a gentleness that tugs at my heart.
“Duke Weltross.” This is the most important part. “Do you wish to die?”
Sometimes the patrons can’t reply, they’re so far gone. And the answer doesn’t truly matter. All that counts is that I asked the question. The duke moans. His body twitches. And then, to my immense relief, he nods.
The next part should be quick. I have an elixir ready: belladonna and valerian and foxglove, mixed with a few drops of my blood. A swallow from the patron, and it’s all over. But my hands hesitate on the lid of my kit, remembering what happened earlier with Kal. How I’d found the heart of the storm and commanded it to my will. What was it Kal had said—that even humans have a spark of magic in their souls? I watch the labored rise and fall of the duke’s chest.
What if I could help him? Heal instead of harm?
It isn’t possible, my mind hisses. You’re Vila. Your power is bred from pain and despair. Evil—exactly like Endlewild always claimed.
But Kal said a Vila’s power is ten times that of an Etherian’s. He didn’t seem to think they were the wicked creatures I’ve been raised to believe. My power hinges on intent. What if I could use that intent differently? I could banish my reputation as the Dark Grace tonight.
I set my kit down.
Placing my hands on the duke’s husk of a body, I try to look like I know what I’m doing. No one says anything, but there’s a shift in the room as the duchess and the doctor share a glance. I shove away the prickly feeling of their unsettled energy, then relax the tension in my shoulders and breathe.
“This isn’t your usual method.” Dr. Renault disrupts my concentration.
I open one eye. “Have you been taking notes?”
She scowls, but doesn’t answer.
I refocus on the fading heartbeat beneath my palms. On the magic that must be flickering somewhere between the duke’s failing organs and bird-frail bones. I send my own magic out carefully, curious tendrils poking and prodding as it seeks what I want.
The gentle crackle of the fire seems to dull. My magic darts between the duke’s ribs and burrows into his throat. He moans and stirs, enough so that the duchess steps forward, distraught, but the doctor holds her back.
I’ve almost given up when I find it. Where the storm’s magic was violent and throbbing, the duke’s is thin and shivering, so faint I’m surprised I feel it at all. Do all mortals possess such small scraps of magic? It’s soft as a ball of spider’s silk. The scents of juniper buds and sun-warmed stones—scents that must be linked to the duke’s magic—tiptoe alongside those of the wet earth and charred steel of my own power.
I take in a breath and exhale. Test and nudge with my newfound limb, trying to bend the human magic to my desires. Life, health, healing. The windowpanes creak in the night wind. The duke’s body grows warmer under my fingertips. Hope flares behind my sternum. I press harder on his magic.
And then the duke coughs.
Something hot and sticky spatters across my face, stinking of copper. My eyes fly open, magic reeling back into my body like a snapped string. The duke’s face is purple. His eyes bulge. Deep, glistening crimson soaks the coverlet. He lets out a horrible croaking sound, his whole body seizing. And then he falls back against the pillows, his gaze glassy and vacant.
A terrified scream rips the room in half.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The doctor wastes no time. The duchess is wailing, her frenzied cries punctuated by hollow, painful-sounding gulps of air. Two maids ricochet from corner to corner, rushing between their mistress and the round woman, who has collapsed on the rug in a boneless heap. Renault grabs me by my upper arm hard enough to bruise it, shoves my kit into my hands, and bullies me out the servants’ entrance.
“Your housemistress will hear about this,” she promises.
And then the heavy door slams in my face.
Alone in the dim corridor, I can only stare at the blank oaken panels, the thud of wood against wood still resonating as the events of the last few minutes replay.
What had happened?
I’d found the duke’s magic, grasped it with my own and manipulated it the way I had with the storm and the stones in the tower. Had I pushed too hard? Did I use my magic too quickly after exhausting it?
It is because you are Vila, that hideous voice inside me growls. And an utter fool.
Guilt burns my throat like strong drink. There’d been so much blood. The duke’s eyes had almost burst out of their sockets. What had I done?
I keep my head down as I retrace my steps through the passages. I just want to leave as quickly as possible. Never come back.
Something solid crashes into me, toppling me off balance. My kit clatters to the dusty floor. Glass breaks. Perfect. Another reason for Mistress Lavender to be angry.
“Idiot.” Useless, bumbling servant. I hope he’s scared out of his wits when he sees who I am. “You’d best be prepared to pay for that.”
“Oh, I am sorry.”
But that is not the squeak of a frightened boy. I straighten dizzyingly fast, nearly dropping the kit again.
Princess Aurora blinks at me from under her hooded cloak.
“I—you—what are you doing here?” I back away. “This is the servants’ passage.”
“I’m aware. I live here.”
“I know that,” I begin again, sharper than I intend. Then, remembering myself, “Your Highness.” I drop into a threadbare curtsy. “I’m just surprised.”
“Clearly.” She motions for me to rise, a smile in her voice. “What are you doing here? You’re not a servant. I thought—” Her breath hitches and she leans in. “What happened to you?”
At first, I think she’s talking about my dress. But she’s staring at my face. My fingertips go to my cheek and come away crimson. The duke’s blood. Dragon’s teeth. Shame scalds the ridges of my ears and I scrub the flecks of blood away, biting my tongue until I taste woodsmoke and loam.
“I’m summoned to the palace sometimes—”
I don’t want to go on. Don’t want to see the look in her eyes when she realizes what I am. But I also don’t see the point in lying. She’ll find out one way or another that I’m exactly what Briar deems me to be.
“To kill people.”
Aurora inhales sharply, surprise or horror or both rippling over her features like torchlight. But she doesn’t break my gaze. “I’ve heard that rumor.”
“It’s true.” My jaw sets, bracing for rejection. For her to summon her guards and have me escorted to the dungeons.
“I’m sorry. I don’t imagine it’s an errand you enjoy.”
I’m sure that I misheard her. She can’t possibly be taking my side. Again. But she doesn’t waver. Doesn’t even flinch. In fact, I think I detect genuine sympathy in the down-turned corners of her mouth.
“No.” Exhaustion and humiliation overtake me. The kit rattles in my hands. “It isn’t.”
She looks like she’s about to say something else, but a flurry of hurried footsteps echoes down the corridor. Aurora links arms with me and starts herding me forward before I can utter a word of protest.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Why? Who are we running from?”
“No one probably.” She grins a wicked grin. “But possibly my guards.”
“Your—what?” I try to break free, but she won’t budge. This is exactly what I need. To be discovered with the crown princess in a deserted servants’ alley. Add kidnapper to murderess on my list of offenses against the Crown. “Your Highness, I cannot.”
“Oh, hush up and keep moving. I do this all the time.”
Aurora steers us seamlessly through the passages. My heart is racing at the thought of being found, the scar on my middle blazing. But we pass no one. And what seems like miles later—I’ve given up trying to count the forks and turns—the princess finally pulls to a halt at an ancient door in the oldest part of the palace. With a wink, she extracts a tiny golden key from the inside of her bodice and unlocks it. The moldy wood swings wide without a sound. She must oil the hinges herself. It doesn’t look like anyone’s used this place for decades.
We push aside the moth-eaten remains of a tapestry to reveal a vast, shadow-steeped chamber. My eyes squint, adjusting to the gloom. The only source of light trickles in through high, circular windows that are more grime than glass. Chalky moonbeams paint the rotting railing of an upper-story gallery. A spiral staircase, ironwork rusted. Furniture with springs poking out and dusted with cobwebs. And rows and rows of shelves.
“Books?” I forget myself so much that I set my kit down and start drifting toward them.
“It’s the old library. One of the last relics of the first palace.” Aurora lights a fat, waxy candle and trails me. “I do my best for the volumes in decent shape, but some are beyond my help.” She selects one that may once have had a red leather cover, but is now faded to dingy brown. The pages are yellowed and crumbling. She clicks her tongue and replaces it.
“They didn’t move the books when they built the new wings?”
She shakes her head, the bits of auburn in her hair catching in the candlelight. “Only the ones the illustrious masters thought necessary.” Her nose scrunches. “Masters who didn’t even bother to keep this place up. It’s horrid in the winter. Frost gets in through the windows. Damp in the rain.” She frowns. “It should be a crime.”
Laurel would certainly agree. I think her emerald head might explode if she saw books neglected in such a deplorable manner.
“How did you find this place?” I wasn’t aware that midnight excursions to abandoned libraries were high on a princess’s itinerary.
“It’s always been difficult to keep me locked in my rooms.” Aurora laughs and inspects a low shelf. “I figured out how the servants were coming and going as a young girl. After that, it was easy.”
“And no one minds?” I raise a skeptical eyebrow.
“Oh, don’t worry. As the third daughter, I was largely ignored. I didn’t even think I would have children before—” She breaks off, her fingers stiffening around the warped spine of a book as the ghosts of her sisters drift past. “After Cordelia and Seraphina…when it was just me, I made sure to be caught for plenty of other offenses. Sneaking out of my window or the front doors of my chambers. Putting on ridiculous disguises.” The fluidity returns to her shoulders. “Anything to distract my guards and masters from what I’m really doing.”
“Which is coming here.”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
“It’s just”—I struggle to keep my face serious—“when I think of a princess sneaking out of her rooms, trips to an ancient wing of the palace don’t exactly come to mind. Unless…”
“Unless I’m meeting a lover.”
My cheeks heat and I become fascinated with the nearest book, unsure why the idea of the princess trysting makes me so bashful. “That.”
“Well, as you can probably guess, it’s not that.” She taps at the place where her curse mark rests under her sleeve. “My curse is quite intact, as you must have noticed.”
“A lover wouldn’t have to be your true love,” I say, surprising myself.
“You sly thing.” She shoves my shoulder gently. “Don’t you think I’ve endured enough kisses from strangers?”
“Of course you have,” I say quickly. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”
She bats the air. “Enough of that. I’m Aurora to you.”
“Aurora.” The syllables are full and bright on my tongue, tasting of summer berries and fizzy wine. My heart stutters. “Have you found anything interesting, at least?”
“Oh, yes.” She flops onto a divan. Dust erupts from the faded blue silk and glitters in the shafts of moonlight. “All kinds of texts on the realm’s old history. I don’t know why the masters didn’t care more about this place. There should be a historian in here, keeping track of things.”
“Old history? Like Leythana?”
