Malice, page 19
Slogging my way through the other appointments is torture. I busy myself with small things in between each patron—feeding Callow and updating my notes. But no matter how much I will the time to pass, the hours ooze slowly along like honey in winter.
And so it’s particularly frustrating when the princess is late.
First a half hour. Then an hour. Delphine is growing angrier by the minute, I’m sure. She’ll want to be getting home before the weather changes. Briar’s infamous autumnal storms have begun lumbering in from the sea, making the Lair even more unpleasant than usual. The wind barrels down the chimney and sends embers skittering across the floor. The stale air is saturated with the stink of mold, and a thin layer of silty grime coats every surface.
With every rumble of thunder, my mind devises a new reason behind Aurora’s tardiness: Someone found out about our meetings. She’s ill or got lost in the storm. Or, my vicious thoughts keep circling back to what must be the truth—she’s grown bored of me. I was an amusing distraction, but my novelty has worn off. Exactly as I knew it would.
My bell rings.
I’m at the door in two heartbeats, and Aurora hurries in, pulling her scarf from around her face and slamming the door behind her against the gales. I’m so relieved I’m nearly dizzy, scolding myself for thinking the worst of her. And then, more than that, for even caring what Aurora thought. I’m letting her get too close. But I have no idea how to push her away.
“I’m sorry,” she says, dumping her sack of books on the worktable. “My mother insisted I dine with her tonight. And then she refused to let me go, wanting to discuss the new developments.”
“New developments?”
She’s soaked to the bone and I fetch a blanket for her. She slumps into a chair in front of the hearth. “A suitor.” She rolls her eyes, wringing out her hair. “Elias, a younger son of Ryna.”
“Ryna.” The kingdom directly above the island of Cardon—where Corinne had come from and broken Eva’s curse before they…I wrench my thoughts away from the Crimson Cliffs and the broken bodies beneath the sea. “Ryna specializes in…silk production?”
“I’m surprised you know that.” Aurora feeds a few dried beetles to Callow, stroking the kestrel’s snowy breast. “Silk and astronomy, apparently. Some of their scholars compared the star charts from the night I was born to the prince’s. And it’s a match.”
I dislike him immediately. “What does that mean?”
“Dragon knows.” Aurora groans. “But most of all it means that he will be coming here. Mother is sure he’s the one.”
Dislike sharpens to hatred.
“But you’re not.”
“I don’t particularly care.” But the angle of her shoulders tells a different story. “Elias was extended a royal invitation years ago, but he refused. Now that the stars have spoken, his parents are forcing him to come. But I wager he wants to make the journey about as much as I want his slimy lips on mine.”
I throw a handful of peppermint leaves and cinnamon cloves into a mug to make her a tincture. “You don’t know that they’re slimy.”
“They’re all slimy.” She scoots closer to the fire. “All the more reason to break the curse myself. Send the star-chosen prince right back to his scholars and his silk trade. Have you collected what we need for the summoning ritual?”
I chew my lips as I fuss with the kettle, my gaze flitting to where the deathknot stews in its brackish fluid.
Aurora doesn’t miss it. “What is that horrible thing?”
“Deathknot.” A patch of moldy fur on the deathknot’s bulbous end glares at me. It’s better that we just leave it in its jar. Better yet, drop it into the sea. “I picked it up from Hilde, my apothecary. It’s for the ritual.”
She needs no further explanation. The chair teeters as she flies across the room and snatches up the jar. “This looks like it could have come from Malterre itself.” She inspects every angle, fascinated and terrified at once.
Kind of like how she feels about you, that voice whispers. I smother it.
“It probably did. I don’t think Hilde has ever had someone ask for it.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?”
“It’s not quite that simple.” I push the mug into her hands and open the Nightseeker book, examining the looping script and faded diagram of the ritual for the hundredth time. “Are you certain about this? Because I’m not. This magic is clearly forbidden—I don’t know how your father would feel if he knew we were using it. But I imagine he wouldn’t approve.”
She sips the brew. Nods. “That’s fair.”
“It’s not just me I’m worried about,” I go on. “You, too.”
Aurora watches the jar as she thinks. “I know. And you’re right.”
Relief blooms in my gut, then just as quickly wilts at the look in her eyes. They’re determined and sure. Reckless.
“I’m worried about what will happen if we don’t use the book.” She sets down her mug. Her scent of appleblossoms twines with those of my enhancements. And I’m surprised at how much I’ve come to expect it here. “If I’m gone, what will happen to the realm?”
“I thought your mother was working with the Etherians. There must be some plan.” How can I make her understand? I don’t want to hurt her. Don’t want to see her face as the duke’s was—lips limned in blood and eyes glassy. “This is dangerous. It could—”
“Kill me?” She laughs. “So can the curse. I know you’re trying to protect me, Alyce, but I’m tired of feeling that my fate rests in someone else’s hands. Someone I don’t even know. That’s what killed my sisters—waiting and hoping. I won’t follow in their footsteps. And if I die because I’m trying to take some control over my own life, so be it.”
Dragon’s fucking teeth. I know exactly how she feels. It’s the same as my secret lessons with Kal. My arrangement with the king and my plan to take the gold he pays me and run.
“Fine.” I pour more water into her mug. “But the ritual only works if you have a connection to the person, or spirit, summoned.”
She sits back down, frowning. “We don’t have anything like that.”
“Actually…” This is the part I dreaded. “Because the Vila cursed you, I think we do.” Aurora gives me a puzzled look. “I think we could use your blood.”
“You want my blood,” she repeats. “For the summoning ritual?”
From her lips, I can hear the idiocy of the suggestion. A flush creeps up my neck.
But Aurora only picks up the nearest paring knife. “How much?”
We spend the next half an hour preparing. The diagram from the book must be drawn on the floor, a difficult feat since the stones are perpetually damp. I scatter sage and yew and other herbs inside the faint chalk lines. While I work on that, Aurora tends the fire, bringing my large iron kettle to a boil. The rain pounds against the walls of my Lair, rivulets of icy water sneaking in through loose stones and dripping down the chimney. The fire hisses and smokes.
“I doubt this will work,” I repeat, inspecting the curve of one of the lines. The design is not quite as well drawn as it is in the book. It’s clumsier and smeared in places where the chalk refused to stick to the wet stone. But passable. I hope.
“It’s worth a try.”
“That’s what the mortal armies used to say about invading Etheria.”
She ignores me. The steam from the boiling pot glistens on Aurora’s cheeks and tangles in her hair, curling the tiny wisps at her forehead. Even doing the work of a scullery maid, she’s beautiful.
I roundly scold myself for staring at her and add in the other ingredients. All that’s left is the deathknot. My chalk-covered fingers slip on the lid of the jar, and it almost crashes to the ground. But Aurora catches it.
“Last chance to turn back,” I say.
Instead of an answer, she grins. And then she slides the deathknot into the pot.
A sound like nails screeching against glass pummels into my skull and reverberates in the sockets of my teeth and the joints of my jaw. We both scream, clapping the heels of our palms over our ears. Terror spikes through me, and I’m sure that a servant will hear the commotion and come to investigate. But after what feels an eternity, the damn thing quiets.
Ears ringing, I settle Callow, who is flapping her wings and shrieking, and fetch the knife from the worktable.
Aurora offers her arm, pulling up her sleeve. “You do it.”
“It shouldn’t require much. Just a nick.” I take her hand, marveling at the softness of her skin. For a moment, I let myself trace the lines of her palm, following a long arc to the hummingbird pulse at her wrist.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, breaking me out of my trance.
My thumb freezes. Cursing myself to the bottom of the sea and back, I shake my head and position the blade so that it’s poised at the place I think will hurt the least. Then hold my breath and push down.
Red blooms instantly. A color so different from the green of my own and the gold of the Graces. It looks like liquid rubies. Aurora winces. Quickly, I tilt the tiny wound over the pot and let a weak stream of crimson fall into the brew.
The room is still.
There’s the sound of the rain above. The distant echo of thunder rolling down the chimney. The creaking of the house in the wind. The flames beneath the kettle and the boiling of the water. But other than that—silence.
I check the diagram. Consult the book.
“Are you supposed to say something?” Aurora presses close, reading over my shoulder.
“I don’t know. I think the ritual is supposed to be enough.”
She pokes the contents of the pot. “Wait. We added my blood because it carries the curse. But what about yours?”
I look up from the page. “Mine?”
“It carries the Vila magic.” She lifts a shoulder. “Maybe the ritual needs an extra push.”
My blood is the last thing I want to add to this concoction. For all I know, it will burn Lavender House to the ground. Curse Aurora double, if such a thing is possible. But she is already fetching another knife. Herding me closer to the kettle.
“This isn’t wise.”
“I don’t know why you’re so afraid of your own power.” She holds my hand over the kettle and for some foolish reason, I don’t fight her.
“You don’t want to know.”
“You said yourself, it probably won’t even work. What’s the harm?” But she waits until I nod before slicing open my skin. Gently, like she’s cutting a pat of warm butter.
Emerald blood wells and drips into the brew.
And then the entire room burns to life.
White, blinding light erupts from the chalk lines of the diagram on the floor. I stagger backward, throwing my arms over my face. A gust of wind whips around us, throwing glass bottles from the shelves. Book pages fly back and forth like storm-tossed birds. Aurora is pressed against the far wall. The fire goes green, flames leaping all the way up into the chimney.
Callow screams from her perch, jerking hard enough to break her tether. She half flaps, half careens to the ground as glass smashes around her. I grapple for the nearest thing I can find, an empty bucket, and upend it over the kestrel before she’s injured.
A low moan begins to swell, raw and guttural and entirely inhuman. Using the edge of the table to steady myself, I haul myself through the currents of wind and lock my arms around Aurora. Hers clamp around my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
“What’s happening?” she shouts into my ear.
I wish I knew.
The fire pushes higher, creating a wall of green flame. Within it, I think I can see the outline of a face. My breath halts. It’s the same face I saw in the mirror I cursed. Wild eyes and a wicked, smirking mouth. Dagger-tipped teeth flash as the flames dance, and a strange, ethereal voice wends around us.
“Find me, my pet.”
I dig my fingers into Aurora’s back as a scream wrenches free from my lungs. And then, just as suddenly as it all began, everything stills. The flames vanish in a cloud of smoke. The chalk on the floor chars to ash. And there is no voice but mine and Aurora’s, both of us still braced together, panting and breathless.
Aurora lets go first, gaping at the destruction of the room. Yellowed, ripped-out pages flutter to the floor. Shards of glass glitter in pools of sticky syrup. Fingers of thick, black smoke slink from the rim of the pot, filling the Lair with a putrid stench. My stomach sinks, mentally tallying up the coin it will take to replace what’s been ruined.
“What was that?”
I stiffen at the question, my knees still trembling.
“I don’t know.”
The lie is easier than the truth. I was sure the ritual was superstitious nonsense. Even if it did work, I thought we might get a glimpse of where the Vila’s magic still dwells. A cave or barren field in Malterre where she must have died during the war. But this—this is the second time the Vila appeared to me. The first, in the mirror, was easy to dismiss as an illusion. But tonight—I’d called and she’d answered.
“There’s power in you. More than you know.” Hilde’s words come back to me, the syllables warping until they sound like the shrilling of the deathknot.
Needing a distraction, I free Callow from the bucket and return her to her perch. I attempt to feed her a scrap of meat, but she snaps at my fingers and sets to fussing with her tousled feathers. She’ll not be forgiving me anytime soon.
Aurora stares at the hearth, its embers still an unearthly shade of green. “Have you ever seen a fire do that? Do you think it was the Vila? The one who cast my curse?”
“If it was, we’re no closer to discovering her magic.” That much is true. The Vila’s cryptic message was utterly useless. My head begins to ache. This was my own fault. What had Hilde said—that the deathknot brought nothing but trouble? I should have listened.
“I’m sorry about the mess.” Aurora rubs at her forearm. The thorned-rose curse mark beneath her sleeve. “But I…I wanted to hope.”
I busy myself with picking up broken bottles, unable to meet her gaze any longer.
Because as much as I feared the ritual, I’d wanted to hope, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The sinister face from the fire reemerges in my dreams. Laughing at me. Opening its mouth to swallow me whole. Shred me to ribbons with its gnashing teeth. I sit bolt upright, heart pounding. The sweat-soaked bedsheets cling to my legs. My fingers ache from clenching the pillows. I force down heaving, uneven breaths, an overripe taste like rotten fruit in my mouth.
Dragging a hand through my damp hair, the previous night comes back to me. It had taken hours to clean the mess, especially since I insisted Aurora return to the palace right away. She wanted to stay, but I couldn’t have her discovered missing. Not after what we’d done. Not with her hand cut by my knife and her blood mixed with mine in a Nightseeker ritual. And so it wasn’t until the first call of a morning lark, the autumn dawn bright after the storm’s fury, that I’d made it back upstairs to my own bed, every muscle throbbing.
And now it looks like it might be close to noon. The sun through my window is warm for this time of year, and the sounds of the Grace District babble below. Errand boys call back and forth. Carriages rattle along the cobblestones. But if it’s so late, why hasn’t my schedule appeared? I throw myself out of bed as quickly as my body will let me, tug on a fresh dress, and splash some water on my face. It’s nowhere near the level of grooming I need to cover what happened last night.
“Here she is.” A grating voice intercepts me at the top of the stairs. Marigold scowls at me from the lower landing. “What were you doing last night?”
My hand flies to the railing before I topple over it. Did I sweep up the ash from the diagram? Had I left the Nightseeker book out? My head is still too fuzzy to remember.
“Why did no one wake me?”
“Mistress had to cancel your patron appointments because of the intolerable reek from your chambers.” As if to illustrate, Marigold lifts a silk sachet dangling from the butterscotch sash of her gown and presses it into her nose.
“The…” I breathe in deeply. There it is. The awful stench from whatever the ritual did with the deathknot. I must have inhaled so much last night that I’m immune to it.
“We’ve barely been able to keep it out of the parlors. And you’re lucky the food in the kitchen wasn’t tainted.” She leans forward and sniffs. “Ugh! And you smell even worse.”
I’m so relieved I sink onto the stairsteps, leaning against the vined carvings on the railing slats. The tip of a wooden leaf pokes into my forehead.
“Tell her how terrible she smells, Rose.” Marigold flaps her handkerchief in my direction as the sound of slippered footsteps nears. “Simply awful. The stench will never leave us.”
Not a muscle of Rose’s face moves. She picks at a starfish-shaped brooch pinned to her bodice. The citrine gems gleam in the shafts of sunlight flooding the entry hall. And I notice something else, too. The sallowness of Rose’s skin. Her cheeks are gold, but only because of an artificial rouge. Her eyes are sunken and dulled, a result of the bloodrot. Apprehension twinges in my chest, wondering how much she’s taking and how often.
As if reading the assessment in my gaze, she narrows hers. “Malyce smells no different than usual.” And then she melts away.
“Alyce, what in Briar!” Mistress Lavender pushes through the vacancy Rose left. “I’ve had servants scrubbing your parlor all morning, but still we cannot rid ourselves of this blight.”
I stand up again, trying to keep my guilt from showing. I’d put everything away. Positioned things so that it looks like my stores are full. Though I’ll probably have to use my own coin to replace most of what’s lost.
