Malice, page 13
Rose scoffs, exchanging an eye-roll with Marigold. I breathe a hope that no one asks to look in my sack and discovers Kal’s book.
“It appears you’re wanted at the palace.” Mistress Lavender says slowly, as if she can’t quite believe it herself.
“To be punished.” Rose smirks.
“You don’t know that.” Laurel rearranges the hunter-green taffeta skirts of her gown—a gown too fine for an evening at home. Why is she dressed like that? And Mistress Lavender is wearing her official Head of Household golden sash. Embroidered lavender flowers dance along the hem. The Grace seal, picked out in amber stones, shines in the lamplight.
“The royal family is hosting an intimate dinner, to which we are invited.” For all her obsession over rank, I would think Mistress Lavender would be elated. Ours is one of the minor Grace houses, and we’re rarely afforded such exclusive invitations. But she’s looking at the missive like she hopes its contents might have changed. “And your presence is specifically requested.”
She passes the letter to me. I gape at the words as if they’re written in a foreign tongue. But no. There it is. An extra line just after the others’ names:
Alyce, the Dark Grace
A new shot of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. Summoned—to a dinner? That has never happened. I wasn’t even included in the Blooming Ceremony when I began using my gift. I’ve never attended a Grace Celebration. I find Laurel’s curious gaze, but she just lifts her eyebrows.
“It’s because of the duke.” Marigold is quick to fill the silence. The tiny hummingbird baubles dangling from her ears sparkle. “You killed a member of the nobility. They’ll probably execute you.”
Rose nods in agreement, and Mistress Lavender throws them both a scathing warning. “Graces, that’s enough. To my knowledge, His Majesty is not in the habit of lopping off heads after dessert.”
Marigold pouts. “What about before?”
“It is however”—Mistress Lavender’s attention swivels back to me—“quite an unusual situation. You’ve never been named before. I don’t know what to make of it. Do you, Alyce?”
All I can do is shake my head. Why would the king want me at a dinner? Does he know about Kal? About my true abilities? Has he finally decided to do away with the Dark Grace? My thoughts strike against one another like pieces of flint, goading a flame that will burn me up.
But I have no time to sort them out. Mistress Lavender rings her bell and I’m carted off before I can argue any further.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It takes three highly disgruntled servants working on me, but I’m dressed and ready faster than I believe possible. One of my stiffer black gowns is deemed passable, but Mistress Lavender had it made for me years ago. I despised the thing and never wore it, and now the sleeves don’t quite reach my wrists and the hem is too high to be fashionable. Next to Rose and the other Graces I look like I’m going to a funeral—for someone I hated. My hair refuses to stay pinned in place, the greasy strands slipping out and sliding at odd angles down my neck. The dress couldn’t be aired out before I put it on, so I smell faintly of cedar wood and musty satin. Rose makes sure I know it, wrinkling her nose and coughing into a frothy lace handkerchief the entire carriage ride. Marigold, for her part, acts like I’m not even here, jabbing me with her elbow each time she “rearranges her skirts.”
I’m too lost in my own worries to care, the clopping of the horses’ hooves matching the iron-clad rhythm of my heartbeat. Laurel keeps offering me encouraging looks, but they do little to inspire me. I still feel like I’m on my way to the scaffold.
At the palace, we’re quickly ushered inside. Mistress Lavender tugs out the royal invitation and holds it in front of her like a shield, clearly expecting to need to explain my presence. But the guards make no move to stop me. Don’t even acknowledge me, save for stiffened shoulders and the barest of winces when I draw near. They must have been warned, which makes me even more nervous.
Rose performs an elaborate show of calling out to every courtier we meet on the way to the royal wing, tossing out empty compliments and reminding them to book appointments with her well in advance. To anyone else, she would seem the picture of confidence. But I catch the anxious, too-high pitch of her laugh. The way the Briar roses on her bracelet jangle with each overly enthusiastic wave.
And I see the way the others respond to her as well. Whispers hidden behind gloves and fans. Condescending smiles from other Graces. Dark, suspicious glances flung behind her back like blades. I haven’t meddled with her patrons since I caught her crying in her parlor, but the recent incidents have left a scar on her reputation. I almost feel sorry for her, especially since it’s my fault she’s suffering.
And then Rose veers in just the right way to make me stagger into a statuette of a bronzed dragon. Pain lances up my side as the corner of the marble pedestal finds my hip bone. Maybe I’ll slip an ugliness elixir into her tea.
The décor in this part of the palace is just as nauseating as in the ballroom. Like the rest of the newer wings, the royal private residence was commissioned when the Briar Kings decided that Leythana’s original home had grown too drab for the richest realm in the world. They spared no expense in the renovations.
Instead of sconces, tiny gilded dragons—likely designed by the innovation Graces—line the halls, spewing fire from their miniature snouts. Elaborate arrangements of Grace-cultivated Briar roses burst into bloom in opal-veined vases, petals shifting from lavender to indigo to scarlet. Ornate tapestries woven with scenes of Briar’s history adorn the walls. I’m drawn to one in particular: Leythana being blessed by the Etherians, her crown dripping with glittery gold. There’s another beside it showing the mortal army poisoning Malterre during the War of the Fae. Vila cower and shrivel at the soldiers’ feet, mouths open in wrenching screams. The magic from the innovation Graces makes it appear as though their green blood is still flowing. That the humans are still laughing, victorious. I look away.
Mistress Lavender halts in front of a pair of glass doors featuring a mosaic pattern that’s an exact, smaller copy of the dragon in the ballroom. She announces herself and her Graces, but her voice falters a bit when she gets to me.
The herald’s flat brown eyes widen as he takes me in, and my palms begin to sweat. But he says nothing, only turns in a forced, mechanical motion and slams his dragon-headed cane onto the marble floor. The doors swing open.
“Mistress Lavender, Housemistress of Lavender House, and her charges, their Graces Rose of Beauty, Marigold of Charm, and Laurel of Wisdom. And”—I think I hear him swallow—“the Dark Grace.”
I sense the movement in the room before he steps aside to grant us access. The private dining hall is only about the size of a few of our parlors put together, but a thousand times more intimidating. A dais looms at the other side. King Tarkin and Queen Mariel are already seated at a table with carved dragons for legs, the polished top balancing on the tips of their taloned wings. Servants with plates of hors d’oeuvres hurry back and forth, pretending not to notice my entrance. There are about five or six other tables in front of the dais. One holds the handful of Royal Graces. The wreaths of gilded laurel crowning their vibrant heads gleam as they regard me with curiosity mixed with repugnance. At the other tables, dozens of jewel-laden necks crane in my direction, wine flutes and spoons freezing on the way to gaping lips.
My breathing comes fast and sharp, sawing in and out of my lungs like one of Cook’s serrated knives. I lick my lips, finding them chapped and cracked because I’d picked at them so much on the way here. There is nowhere to look. Nowhere to go. My brain screams at me to turn around. Flee whatever is waiting for me here. I take a half step back, preparing. And then a voice cuts through the tension.
“You came!”
A blur of crimson brocade comes barreling from a hidden corner of the room, too quickly for me to move out of the way. She is upon me in an instant, grasping my shoulders and giving each cheek a quick kiss.
“I hoped you would.”
“P-princess Aurora.” A sharp jab in the ribs from Laurel reminds me to drop into a curtsy, as the rest of them have already done. Murmurs of “Your Highness” ripple like waves.
“What did I tell you about that?” she whispers, drawing me back to stand. “Thank you for attending our dinner,” she says to the others. “And for bringing our dear Alyce.”
I wish there were a way to capture the look on Rose’s face as she gawks between us, her painted mouth hanging open so far I can see the back of her throat.
“You invited her?” Her face goes white, then splotched with amber. Matching blossoms explode on the exposed skin of her chest. “Here?”
Mistress Lavender pinches her elbow.
“You seem surprised.” Aurora links arms with me. “Now come, Alyce. Take a turn with me before dinner.”
Laurel deals me a grin as the princess guides me away. But the rest of them are horror-struck. And I can’t say I feel much steadier. My limbs are like rubber. Muttering and stares follow us with every step.
“You invited me?” I repeat, willing my focus to stay on the Briar roses embroidered on the heavy damask drapes. The busts of former queens, their crowns of bramble and thorn glazed with candlelight. The gentle cadence of lutes being played in a corner. Anything but the needling attention of the other guests. A servant hiccups as he passes us, almost dropping his tray of thinly sliced meat folded to look like dragons. I’ve never missed my hooded cloak more.
Aurora gives my arm a shake. “How many times must I say it? Yes.”
“But—” Doubts and questions buzz like a stirred hornet’s nest in my mind. “Why?”
She blinks at me. “I want my book back. You promised to return it.”
Dragon’s teeth, the book. I bite down on my tongue so hard I taste the loam of my blood. How exactly do I tell her it’s at the bottom of the Carthegean Sea?
“Don’t look so worried.” She laughs, attracting even more stares. “I’m only teasing. I wanted to see you again. Is that so strange?”
Yes. Extremely strange. “But—”
“If I’d known you were going to interrogate me the entire night, I’d never have invited you.” She sighs, steering us around a stuffed peacock perched on a pyramid of fruit. Its cascade of tail feathers brushes the floor. “But I did, because you’re the one person at court I can stand for longer than half an hour.”
“That can’t be true,” I argue, relieved that the subject of the book is momentarily forgotten. “And I’m not at court.”
“You should have seen the men I had to kiss this morning. One of them insisted on prattling on about the cattle breeding trade in his kingdom, even after his kiss didn’t take.” She shudders. “I think he still believed there was a chance we’d get married.”
We’re nearing the royal table. Another guest has slithered in. Endlewild sits to the right of the king, pushing an assortment of quail’s eggs around his plate with a gilded fork. Snippets of their conversation float above the din.
“I’m commissioning a new trade ship, Lord Ambassador.” Tarkin motions for more wine. “I’ve heard that the Fae can weave fabric of such quality that it never tears. That it could be used to craft a sail that does not even need wind to steer it. Is that true?”
Endlewild spears the yolk of one egg and watches it ooze over his plate. “My kin are capable of many feats unknown to mortals.”
Tarkin’s mustache twitches. “Perhaps. But answering my questions directly has never been one you’ve accomplished during your lengthy tenure.” He drinks deeply. “How much would such fabric cost? Surely Briar can afford the expense.”
But the Fae ambassador doesn’t reply. He watches me instead. Aurora and I round the front of the dais. She curtsies quickly to Queen Mariel, but I am frozen in place, as if pinned by Endlewild’s gaze. Like I’m an insect that has wandered onto his dinner plate, and he has me between the tines of his fork.
Somehow I manage to bend my knees into the appropriate obeisance, the scar on my torso aching.
“I insist you come more often to save me from such company.” Aurora leads me away, but I can still feel the Fae lord’s attention sizzling like a brand into my back. “And I’m dying to know what you thought of that book. Did you find anything? Do you think—” But the sound of a gong cuts her off. Aurora grimaces. “Damn. I’m sure they sat you with the Graces, though I do wish you could be with me. Perhaps we could arrange…”
“No, I—” I’d rather die than share a table with Endlewild, I don’t say. It’s bad enough sharing a room. My dress suddenly feels even tighter. “I’d better do what’s expected.”
“All right,” she relents. “But find me after dinner. There’ll be a reception in the drawing room. Or come to my chambers. A servant will tell you the way. Promise.”
She’s gone before I can answer.
I am seated with the Graces, the royal table mercifully at my back. I also notice a healthy amount of space between myself and the two Graces seated next to me. One is Pearl, Rose’s rival beauty Grace at Willow House. Her hair, done up with rhinestone-studded combs fashioned to look like starlings, is a unique shade of opal. Varying hues of turquoise and coral and citrine dive and then resurface in the candlelight, the colors made even more breathtaking against the dark umber of her skin. She’s been Rose’s chief competition for years. Rose pretends to be friendly with her, but I know she’d rip out the other Grace’s golden eyes and mash them into an elixir if given half the chance.
The other, I learn, is Narcisse. From the lacquered bell charms at her ears and on her bracelet, and the lilt of her laugh, I assume her gift is music. Graces like her are almost always put to work entertaining wealthy households and bestowing pleasant singing voices on patrons. I’ll probably have to sit through Narcisse’s recital later this evening. At least there will be plenty of wine.
Pearl and Narcisse’s easy chatter dies a sudden, gruesome death at my arrival.
“So.” Pearl adjusts the monstrous sapphire ring on her finger, a gift I heard she received from the Grace Council in honor of earning the most coin last year. Rose squawked about the thing for weeks, and I don’t think it’s an accident that Pearl is wearing it now. “A royal invitation for the Dark Grace. Has that ever happened before? Narcisse and I receive simply stacks of them, for one party or another. But you—I never would have thought it possible.”
“Nor I.” Rose sips her wine, sharing a loaded look with her rival. I’m so happy I can unite them in their distaste for me.
“And how exactly did you achieve such an honor? The royal family is very exclusive when it comes to these dinners. I was surprised to see even our dear Rose here tonight.”
“Yes,” Narcisse chimes in. She pats at her chignon, which boasts the reds and golds and coppers of living flame. Grace powder sparkles on her white shoulders. “It seems as if you’re quite the favorite with the crown princess.”
I take a gulp from my own goblet, if only to buy myself time. The wine is too sweet, more like honeyed nectar. I’m tempted to dump a spoonful of Etherium into it from the crystal dish at the center of the table. Anything to help me get through this night.
“What’s wrong?” Laurel drums her fingertips against the table. “Jealous?”
I could kiss her. The Graces frown, glancing over at the cluster of Royal Graces, who are talking comfortably at their table. The Royal Graces represent the pinnacle of Grace talent. Almost every Grace harbors a healthy dose of envy about their status. There are around five Royal Graces usually, each with a different gift. They serve at the palace until they show signs of Fading, and then they’re moved to a lesser house once a stronger Grace is selected to replace them. Though the Grace Laws technically forbid the monopolizing of a Grace for one family or person, the Royal Graces are so powerful and charge so much for their elixirs that only the wealthiest nobles can afford them. But, in order to preserve fairness among the houses, Royal Graces are exempt from house standings until they are excused from royal service.
When they’re not working, these Graces enjoy throwing extravagant parties and dinners in their palace chambers. I’ve heard Rose griping about how seldom she is invited to the gatherings. Though lately her complaints have turned to energetic gossip about how one of the Royal Graces might be Fading. If it’s the beauty Grace, the vacancy she leaves is one Rose might actually kill for.
“The Dark Grace is hardly our competition,” Pearl drawls. She selects an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray that looks like a crystalized Briar rose and nibbles on a petal. “Besides, I’m sure it’s a fleeting fancy. The princess is young and sheltered. A fascination with such a…creature is understandable. She’s never seen anything so grotesque.”
My ears begin to burn, the cord of my magic quivering. I fight the urge to send it out and make that beautiful Grace hair fall out of her head.
“Or perhaps she murdered someone the princess hated.” Marigold laughs, shoveling another spoonful of a custard-like mold into her mouth. “Like with Duke Weltross.”
The table freezes.
“Oh, that was a gruesome business, wasn’t it?” Narcisse leans in, one of her belled earrings tinkling. “Do tell us, Alyce. What happened?”
“It was an accident.” I keep my eyes down, but my white napkin becomes the bloodstained sheets from that night. I dig my nails into it, probably poking holes through the linen.
“Was it?” Rose swirls her goblet. “You never did explain.”
“Because it’s none of our business.” Laurel again. “And it’s not as if you haven’t had your share of accidents lately.”
Rose flinches like she’s been slapped. Pearl’s catlike attention cuts across the table. “That’s true. I’d nearly forgotten. How are you coping, dear?” She reaches to pat Rose’s wrist in a manner that could only be described as predatory.
