Malice, page 2
“Graces!” Mistress Lavender sails into the room, clapping twice. “That’s quite enough.”
“It’s her fault. Look at what she did to me!” Rose bares her inky teeth. Her tongue looks like a garden slug.
Mistress Lavender sighs, beleaguered. “Alyce, really.”
“This is intolerable,” Rose continues. “I cannot be expected to work in a house that—”
“Rose, go and clean up.”
“But—”
“I trust you have your schedule from Delphine. You don’t want your patrons to see you looking like that.” Mistress Lavender straightens her bodice. “I’ll deal with your sister.”
“She’s not our sister.” Rose flings her napkin onto the crumbly pastry remains on her plate, pinches Marigold’s elbow, and stalks away, her dog trotting at her heels. Laurel follows mutely behind them, shooting me a sympathetic look.
“I don’t understand you, Alyce.” Mistress Lavender perches in the always-empty seat beside me. Her gaze—silver now that she’s Faded—is tempered with accusation. “Why do you insist on making a target of yourself?”
“Me?” My blood begins to heat. “Rose hates me. All of them do. I’m too…different.”
The word presses against my eardrums and my temples begin to throb. My “sisters” are Graces, able to grant hundreds of prized attributes with mere drops of their blood. I study the reptilian green veins marring the backs of my hands. Next to the Graces, I’m like the sludge staining Rose’s teacup: a nuisance someone else has to clean up.
“That may be.” Mistress Lavender risks a tentative touch on my arm. The amethyst ring on her first finger, denoting her status as housemistress of Lavender House, glints. “But you earn your keep in this house. You have value, Alyce.”
I snort. “Curses?”
“All magic has a purpose.” A refrain I’ve heard a hundred thousand times. As if it’s possible to somehow gloss over the fact that the purpose of my magic seems to be to do harm. “And it isn’t as if you lack for patrons. Lavender House rose three rankings once you Bloomed. Surely that’s worth something. Even to you.”
I clench my fingernails into my palms. It isn’t.
There are about twenty Grace houses in Briar, each with anywhere from three to thirty Graces. Every year, the Grace Council—a handful of noblemen selected by the king and tasked with regulating the Grace system—determines the rank of those houses based on a number of factors: the tabulation of each house’s yearly earnings, accuracy and precision of its Graces’ elixirs, growth from the previous year, patron loyalty, and a hundred other things, it seems. Official rankings are announced at the Grace Celebration thrown at the palace each spring. High-ranking houses accrue royal favor and increased patronage. Exceptional Graces and housemistresses are recognized with gifts and more desirable house placements. Mistress Lavender, obsessed with earning a position at a more prestigious house, drills our weaknesses into us at every opportunity.
“I don’t give a dragon’s ass—”
“Mind your attitude, my dear.” Mistress Lavender squeezes a warning into my shoulder. “That’s no way to speak of your house. You earn triple the coin of your sisters. Why don’t you spend some of your wages on…well…” She looks around the room, like the answer might be written on the floral-papered walls. “Perhaps you’d like to wear something a trifle more…becoming?”
Yes, because a change of dress would instantaneously reverse the ostracism I’ve endured for twenty years. But at least Mistress Lavender didn’t suggest letting Rose try to alter my appearance or Marigold school my manners with one of their elixirs. My childhood was riddled with excruciating failed attempts to conceal my macabre blood, resculpt my bones, and cool my temper. They all slid off me like oil from water, leaving me exactly as I am now: stringy, jet-black hair that refuses to stay in any sort of passable arrangement; dry, tissue-thin skin; a figure as flat and bland as dry toast; and a temperament that’s only festered over the years.
“I don’t need new clothes.” I’ve no patience for such fripperies. And, in truth, I think my patrons enjoy seeing me this way. A hideous half-Vila in stained, musty clothes.
“Well.” Mistress Lavender pats a stray silver ringlet back into place. Before she Faded, our housemistress was gifted in wit. And I know she’s trying her best to access the dregs of that power and sway me to her side. But the attempt is useless. I’ll never be like the others.
“I just wish you wouldn’t be so contrary. I’m sure there’s some sweetness in your core. We just have to tempt it out.” She examines the ratty tips of my hair, lines bracketing the corners of her mouth. I angle away from her. “In the meantime, will you please stop baiting the others? You only draw more attention to yourself.”
I start to argue that I don’t bait everyone. Just Rose. Sometimes Marigold. And only when they deserve it. But at that moment, the glass-paned double doors of the dining room burst open. Rose barrels through, waving a gilt-edged parchment. Marigold tumbles in behind her, warm brown face flushed beneath her glittery powder.
“It’s from the palace!” Calliope nearly trips over Rose’s feet as her mistress twirls with delight. The dog’s tiny nails skitter over the parquet floor. “They’ve added a ball to Princess Aurora’s birthday celebrations!”
Mistress Lavender snatches the invitation out of Rose’s hand.
“Oh, it will be wonderful!” Marigold begins dancing with an imaginary partner. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a grand party. Her other birthdays have been positively grim.”
She isn’t wrong. Parties and balls are commonplace at the palace, especially for the Graces, who seem to be invited to such gatherings every week. But since the deaths of the crown princess’s two elder sisters, the birthday celebrations the royal family has held in honor of their remaining daughter have been lacking. Last year, there was only a dinner to which a select few were invited. Rose wasn’t one of them, and we heard about it for weeks.
“Dragon’s teeth, why did they wait so long to announce? We’ve no time to prepare.”
As if Rose doesn’t have a wardrobe full of ridiculous outfits she buys with all the coin she makes. Just the other day, she came downstairs wearing a hat with an actual bird’s nest secured into the netting, with three jewel-speckled eggs glistening inside it. Eggs that, thanks to some innovative Grace magic, hatched a trio of twittering diamond canary chicks every so often. I was half tempted to untether Callow and let her use the thing as a roost.
Rose begins ticking things off on her fingers. “I’ll need a new gown, of course. And slippers. Do you think Madame LaRoche could have them ready in time?”
Mistress Lavender peers at her over her half-moon spectacles. “This says the ball is in a week. A new gown so quickly would be quite the request, Rose, dear.”
“But I’m a favorite of madame’s. And I give her enough coin to deserve the effort.” She frowns. “Perhaps an elixir will encourage her to get me what I need.”
“That isn’t allowed and you know it,” Laurel chides from across the room. Tall and willowy, Laurel’s beauty isn’t gaudy and overdone like the other Graces’. Though always well-dressed, the wisdom Grace makes no effort to procure expensive clothing or jewelry. Her emerald-green hair is tied in a neat, uncomplicated braid, deep black complexion free of the golden powder the other Graces apply liberally to their faces and necks. Sometimes I even catch her with ink or enhancements smudged across her forehead. “Graces aren’t permitted to bestow personal favors.”
“Don’t quote the Grace Laws at me.” Rose glowers. “You’d grant a favor to Madame LaRoche in a trice if she could give you something you craved badly enough. You just don’t care about fashion.”
“Laurel is right,” Mistress Lavender intercedes. “Payment is always required for our services and not”—she holds up one finger as Rose begins to argue—“in the form of gifts or favors. The Grace Laws are very clear, Rose. You can’t go about flouting them. It’s for your protection, as well as for fairness’s sake.”
Just after the War of the Fae, when the Graces were new to Briar, wealthy nobles would buy Grace children, lock them away, and force them to work only for their own families. Some even tried to extract the Etherian magic from the captive Graces’ blood and replicate its power. These horrible practices led to the establishment of the Grace Council and the passing of the Grace Laws, which are still in effect today. Last I checked, there are over four hundred Grace Laws, and the council adds new ones whenever it sees fit.
Some of the laws are fair enough: Graces are required to be paid for their services, which is where Rose gets her coin to buy slippers made of sea glass and rare cloudlike ostrich plumes imported from other realms. Briar is also obligated to care for its Graces once they Fade—like providing a housemistress placement, a good marriage, or a stipend. But some laws are unpopular even among the Graces, when they dare to complain about them. Rose hates the law forbidding her from showing bias toward any one patron or family, thus thwarting her scheme to bribe Madame LaRoche into completing her gown in time for the ball.
It’s an extraordinary occurrence when Rose doesn’t get her way, and I have to cover my mouth to hide my grin.
“What are you smirking at, Malyce?” Rose sneers in my direction. “You don’t even get to go to the ball. They’d never let something like you ruin a royal celebration.”
Something. Rage claws up my chest. I shouldn’t let Rose provoke me like this, but I can’t help it. She knows every weakness. My fingers twitch. I want to wipe that look off her face and use it to scrub the floors.
“I don’t see why she can’t go to the ball.” Laurel reads over Mistress Lavender’s shoulder. “The invitation is addressed to the Graces.”
“She’s not a Grace.” This time it’s Marigold.
“I’m known as the Dark Grace. Even at the palace.” I don’t give a dragon’s tooth about the ball. But I don’t want them to be right.
The honeyed tint of Rose’s skin flames bright copper. Marigold splutters something unintelligible. And Laurel curves a slow smile. We’re not exactly allies, Laurel and I, but she’s never hated me the way the other two do. I nod my thanks.
Mistress Lavender clears her throat and removes her spectacles, silver gaze studying me carefully. “I’m delighted to see you taking such an unprecedented interest in Grace activities, Alyce. Though I’m not entirely sure the invitation is meant for you.”
“It isn’t.” Rose grips the back of a chair so hard it looks like it might buckle. I wonder if I could come up with an elixir to make her glossy pink curls fall out, one by one. “She’s never even gone to a Grace Celebration. Why should she be invited to the princess’s birthday?”
“That may be true. But simply because she’s never accompanied us to a Grace Celebration doesn’t mean she would not have been permitted to attend one. I have always excused her on account of, well…” Mistress Lavender clears her throat. “Now, however…” She taps the edge of the parchment against the tabletop. “I suppose, as long as you’re caught up on your appointments and other duties, I see no reason why you should not go with us.”
I think I see steam billow from Rose’s nostrils. Marigold lets out a cry. They both try to speak at once, but Mistress Lavender raises a pale white hand to stay them. “We must be inclusive, Graces. Alyce is under my protection, and it’s my decision if she goes.”
“Some party this will be,” Rose grumbles. “No one will be able to enjoy themselves. Everyone will be too afraid she’ll curse them. A Vila skulking in the palace, indeed.”
“That’s quite enough. I’m sure you all have patrons coming. Or has Delphine been slacking in her duties?” Mistress Lavender pockets the invitation and begins steering the others out of the room, but not before Rose’s words twist into me with painful precision.
Even in an evening gown, the guests will know who I am. What I do. Already, when I move through the Grace District, the crowds part around me like I have some kind of plague. What will it be like for me in a ballroom?
A nudge on my elbow brings me out of my thoughts.
“It’s a masque.” Laurel speaks close to my ear. “If you don’t wish it, no one need know you were ever there.”
A masque. A night where I can shed the identity of Dark Grace and become anyone I wish. The idea creeps over me like the sun rising over the sea. And I decide that the Dark Grace—no, Alyce—is going to make her first appearance at a royal ball.
CHAPTER THREE
The next week is the busiest for Lavender House that I can remember. Patrons flock to our Graces, eager to dole out exuberant amounts of coin for Rose to smooth the bumps on their noses and plump their lips. For Marigold to enhance their dancing skills or lilt their shrill laughter. Even Laurel is beset with nobles wanting to know the perfect gift to get the princess or the style of clothing they should wear to the celebration.
And the Dark Grace is not forgotten. For every name Delphine pens on the Graces’ schedules, there seems to be two on mine. It’s all the usual demands—elixirs for hair-thinning and unriddable stenches and unsightly rashes. Anything a patron might think of to give themselves an edge against the perceived competition they’ll face at the ball.
“It’s utterly demeaning.” Laurel massages her temples in the main parlor between patron visits. It’s Friday and we’ve seen more patrons this week than in the last month. Delphine can barely manage to fit everyone in our schedules. Her huge appointment book sits open on her desk in the alcove, quill still dripping with ink where she left it to snatch a bite from the kitchen. And it’s not only Lavender House: All of the Grace houses are reeling. “Is this the worth of my gift? To help a vapid patron decide whether to wear pink or blue?”
As per the Grace Laws, Laurel cannot refuse a paying patron. It’s another way the Grace Council contrives to keep the Graces from showing bias among their patrons. Any Grace who refuses to use her gift—unless she has express permission—is punished. Usually, a larger portion of her profits are forfeited to the Crown and Grace Council, who already take their healthy cut of coin. But some Graces are brought to trial and face much steeper consequences. The last trial was a year ago, and the Grace in question was placed in a strict punitive house where she is monitored at all times to ensure she’s following the laws.
“You won’t be griping once you can order more of your precious books.” Rose bustles through the doors, stuffing a pastry bulging with strawberries and cream into her mouth. She flops onto a jade chaise and Calliope seems to materialize out of thin air, leaning her front paws on Rose’s knees and wagging her plumy tail.
“At least I’m not wasting my income on clothes.” Laurel lifts an eyebrow.
Even without an “encouraging” elixir, Madame LaRoche was able to accommodate Rose’s request for a new gown—and Rose has done nothing but blabber about the fine details since she returned from the clothier’s. The monstrosity of silk and lace is blushing peony, the exact same shade as Rose’s hair, accented with seed pearls and rosebuds and trimmed with a fine layer of real, whisper-thin gold. I don’t even want to imagine the cost.
“I’m not wasting my income at all. You might not care about this house’s standings, but I do. No patron will visit a beauty Grace if she doesn’t look her part. Do you think anyone would bother to book appointments with me if I dressed like Alyce?” She scoffs, but I ignore the jab. “I want everyone in the realm to see that I’m simply swimming in coin. In fact…” Rose whips her schedule from her bodice and brandishes it at us. I can hardly see the parchment for all the times and names. “I’ve told Delphine to shorten my appointments so I can accommodate more patrons.”
Laurel pulls back from the schedule as if it has fangs. “Why are you trying so hard?”
“I don’t know why you don’t try harder.” Rose scoops Calliope into her lap and nuzzles her nose into the storm of white fur. “Don’t you want a larger house? A wider following? Invitations to the palace?”
I suppress the urge to groan, caring less than the pus from one of Prince Markham’s warts about any of those “rewards.” Part of the annual Grace Celebration includes a Blooming Ceremony, which is when the new Graces demonstrate their skills and are assigned both a house and a preliminary fee by the Grace Council. In order to keep competition between the houses fair, Graces are placed evenly throughout the district, regardless of the type or strength of their gift. In fact, lesser houses like ours often receive the more talented newly Bloomed Graces so that we might have a chance of keeping up with the larger houses. But a Grace’s placement is by no means permanent. Like the housemistresses, a Grace can be reassigned or even request a transfer from the Grace Council. Rose has been trying to wheedle her way into Willow House for years, even though they already have an exceptionally gifted beauty Grace—Pearl.
With several dozen Graces sharing the same type of gift, it’s no surprise that the rivalry between them can be fierce. Pearl has an enormous following. She earned the most coin out of all Graces last year. There are even hints that she might replace one of the Royal Graces, those so talented they’re given apartments at the palace and fees that can only be afforded by the richest nobles and the royal family.
“I’m happy to work less and let my gift linger.” Laurel pours more tea.
“Then Mistress Lavender can just leave you to wallow here when she earns her promotion.” Rose leans back so her head rests against the plush curve of the chaise. “I plan to be her prime Grace at her new house.”
“If you haven’t Faded by then.”
