Malice, page 7
A few taut moments pass, the duke still clutching Aurora’s hand as if he might break the curse with the force of his will alone. And then she gently frees herself, unbuttons the sleeve of her gown, and displays her forearm to the audience. The room lets out a disappointed sigh.
There it is, stamped into the princess’s otherwise flawless skin: a Briar rose surrounded by bloody thorns. The curse mark borne by each of Leythana’s heirs until they either find their true love or…
The king claps the dejected suitor on his shoulder, dismissing him, and the musicians begin playing again. But not even the music can mask the frantic whispers of the court or smooth the queen’s pinched brow. In fact, the only person who seems the least bit undisturbed is Aurora herself. Far from anxious, the princess appears…relieved.
And I might be imagining it, but I think I see a smile ghost across her face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Well, I say she made a lucky escape.” Arnley tosses back another glass, this time with an even larger dose of Etherium mixed into the wine. A few other nobles join us, eyeing me sideways but saying nothing. “I’m not sure being stuck with that one would have been much better than succumbing to the curse.”
Titters of laughter.
“Oh, Arnley, you are horrid.” This voice I know. It slices straight through my chest.
Rose.
She saunters into our circle, silk gloves concealing her predator’s claws, and loops her arm through Arnley’s. Her mask is barely a mask at all, just a thin strip of golden tulle resting across her eyes and secured to an elaborate headdress in the shape of a swan. Crystals glisten like drops of water on its feathers. Of course she wouldn’t want her identity concealed—it might mean she’s not the center of attention.
“I feel sorry for the poor thing. Such a beauty. All that Grace magic simply wasted if she doesn’t find someone within the year. Just like her sisters. And she is the last heir.”
In other realms, there can be any number of claimants to a throne. A cousin or nephew or even a favorite can be named successor in place of a direct heir. In Cryseria, whenever the monarch dies, a trial by battle is the method of crowning the new ruler. It’s something I’d love to witness if I ever manage to leave Briar. Here, the Etherian treaty is clear—only Leythana’s blood can wear the crown of bramble and thorn. Before the curse, perhaps it was possible for some distant relation of Leythana’s to take the place of a reigning queen’s daughter. Not anymore.
The first years after the curse were turmoil. Because the Vila’s magic was so powerful, so steeped in hate, all of Briar’s potential heirs bore the curse mark, no matter how far down they were in the line of succession. Women who had already reached their twenty-first year suddenly dropped dead when it turned out they hadn’t found their true loves, a nasty revelation for husbands and wives whose royal-blooded spouse abruptly perished. There was so much death that it was decreed that only immediate heirs were permitted to produce daughters—and only once crowned. For many of the royal daughters, the restriction meant little—it was soon discovered that the magic in the Vila’s curse kept them barren until the curse was broken. Younger surviving princesses could adopt children, and many did. But the blood that carried the curse had to be contained.
And now there is only Aurora.
“Please.” Arnley swats her words away, diamond cuff links twinkling. “One way or another, the crown will find a head.”
Rose hisses at him to be quiet.
Questions riffle through my mind. What does Arnley mean by that? I don’t remember reading about an heir crisis in any of the books on Briar’s history. There was certainly nothing about what would happen if Leythana’s descendants died out. Are there measures in place? Not that I particularly care.
“She’s a beauty, perhaps,” a woman chimes in, bringing me back into the circle. She’s a Grace, I can tell by her massive arrangement of sapphire hair, roughly in the shape of a beehive. Tiny gilded bees, another gift from the innovation Graces, hover and buzz around her towering braids. “But so brazen. That dress.”
“I love it,” Rose proclaims, adjusting one of the feathers on her headdress. “I’m going to have Madame LaRoche make an exact copy for me. In red.”
“I’d certainly like to see that.” Arnley’s voice is closer to a purr, thick and a little slurred with the wine.
“Arnley.” Rose smacks him with her fan. “You shameless flirt. Come, the music is changing. You owe me a dance.”
Yes. I push the thought out with all my might. Go and dance. Far away from here. But Arnley’s attention swivels back to me, sending my stomach to my toes.
“You know I’d never skip a dance with you, Rose.” He grins and gently extracts himself from her talons. “But I’m afraid I’ve been utterly enchanted by this mysterious guest.”
Six pairs of eyes pinion me to the jewel-crusted marble. This feeling I know well. My mouth goes dry as my pulse kicks up. Dragon’s teeth, I was a fool to come here tonight. What was I thinking?
“I never—” I begin, ready to push him off.
But Rose tilts her head at me, drawing her fan through her fingers like a blade. “I don’t recognize you.”
Damn it all. Stupid, foolish me.
“Isn’t that the point?” The beehive Grace laughs. “It’s a masque.”
Rose’s face twists. Even a grimace looks lovely on her. Her tiny nose twitches, as if she can scent the deception, and the vise of my bodice seems to cinch. “But I would still like to know the lady who has captivated our dear Arnley.” She combs a jagged-edged gaze up and down my body. “You appear to be a Grace, but I don’t know you. Are you newly Bloomed? How many came out at the last Blooming Ceremony?”
The other Grace counts off on her fingers. “Ten, perhaps? I’ve lost track.”
“Yes, and the Grace Celebration was months ago. Why haven’t we seen you before?”
“I—” The edges of the eyeholes in my mask begin to darken. I feel a strong arm wind itself around my waist.
“Don’t be jealous, Rose.” Arnley waggles a finger at her. “It’s unbecoming. You know how much I adore surprises. Let this one linger awhile longer.” And with a dashing grin at me, the courtier steers me away.
* * *
—
Dancing with Arnley is equal parts terror and euphoria. As he navigates our place among the couples on the dance floor, I try to argue that I’m a horrible dancer. I’m unpracticed. Dancing with me will only make him look the worse for choosing me. Almost as idiotic as I am for coming to the palace in the first place. But he’s deaf to my protests. And it turns out it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d swallowed one of my own lead-feet elixirs.
Though clearly touched by the wine, Arnley glides me over the marble as easily as a ship skating across a calm sea. I find myself completing spins and twirls, dips and hops. Heat bursts where his broad hands land on the cobweb lacing at the back of my gown. Other couples watch us through the slits in their masks. But he pays them no mind. His Grace-gifted eyes never leave mine, their sapphire color depthless in the light of the hundreds of candles.
“Is this your first time at the palace?” he asks as he pulls me close. Under the floral headiness of the wine on his breath, I catch the scents of leather and spiced tobacco, not entirely unpleasant. “Aside from your Blooming Ceremony, of course.”
“No.” I immediately wish I could reel it back. I’m sometimes called to assist the dying, using my elixirs to ease their pain and make their passing swift. My least favorite kind of errand. But I’ve never been to this part of the royal residence. Never been welcomed inside as a guest. Only as a necessary evil.
“Really?” His grip tightens at my waist, lightning darting between my ribs as he hoists me into the air. No one has touched me like this before. Not willingly. “And yet we’ve never met. How curious. But you are a Grace.” His gaze flits to the Grace powder Lorne caked in my hair. “Which is your house—or are you staying here, at the palace? But I suppose you can’t be one of the Royal Graces. I’d definitely know you.”
“No.” I curse myself for not having thought of a lie. “House—”
We whirl past the royal dais, where a new figure watches the festivities with ill-concealed disdain. His skin appears peeled from the trunk of an oak tree, riddled with currents of bronze. His hair is neatly tied at his nape, the coarse strands—presently boasting the summer colors of dewed green leaves and jewel-bright berries—change with the seasons. But his eyes are steady. Always the stark, molten gold of a Grace. Yet he is not a Grace.
Endlewild. The Etherian ambassador to the Briar Court.
The light Fae live long, practically immortal lives. Endlewild is only the second ambassador to reside in the realm since Leythana’s reign began. But though his placement here might be considered by many to be a luxury, it’s clear that the Fae lord views his tenure a prison sentence. He’s dressed in Briar court fashion, but the sigil of the High Court of the Etheria—laurel leaves twined together around an iridescent orb—is embroidered on his doublet. And he stares down at the party guests as if they’re clusters of rodents. His spindly fingers curl around his staff, a rough-cut, unpolished birch branch. An orb like the one stitched in the High Court’s emblem pulses at the top, swirling with his magic. With hardly a word from Endlewild, that staff could erupt with power. Smash me to bits.
The area just to the right of my navel throbs, where a garish half-moon scar, the perfect imprint of the side of Endlewild’s staff, rests. It’s a remnant of one of his more aggressive attempts to use his light magic to clear my blood of evil. I remember the way that orb felt as he’d pressed it to my skin. The smell of scorched flesh and the white-hot agony. Those unforgiving, knobby-boned fingers clamped around my wrists as I begged and begged…
The next step is a surprise. I stumble into a woman whose bustle and train are made out of actual peacock feathers. Arnley catches me, apologizes on our behalf, and adjusts our course with a damnably charming wink. “Don’t let that spoilsport bother you. Awful creature. Honestly, I don’t know why he shows up to these things if he hates the rest of us so much.”
I’ve heard Rose express similar sentiments. Though they share the same golden blood, the Etherians want little to do with the Graces they create with their blessings. To the Fae, the Graces are part of an alliance agreement. An end to the war that almost destroyed Etheria. But they’re bitter about having to share any part of their magic with the humans. Though technically kin to the Fae, the Graces have no claim on the magical power that threads through Etheria. Their human heritage taints their gilded blood, the same way that the Vila taints mine.
“We were talking about your house.” He sends me spinning and reels me back in, and I try to steady my breathing and let Endlewild blur into nothing. “Let me guess. Lark House? They had an influx of newly Bloomed Graces at the last ceremony.”
Gold dances like a flame among the Graces on the dance floor. It flashes in the swish of satin and the jangle of bracelets. The dozens of honeyed eyes skirting around us.
“And what is your gift?” Arnley bends me into a graceful dip, one of his eyebrows quirking up as his hand on my back drifts slightly lower than it ought to be. And I can’t help but notice the cleft in his chin. The shadow of stubble on his jaw. “You’re certainly filled to bursting with charm. And wit.”
He is shameless. The musicians reach the end of this dance and begin another, but Arnley doesn’t change partners. He repositions his arms and twirls me in time to the faster tempo.
“Or perhaps.” He steps behind me and lifts me up, the words tickling the crook of my neck. “A pleasure Grace?”
I blaze hot and cold at the same time. Pleasure Graces are gifted in the more…intimate arts. I can see a few of them now. Crimson-lipped and full-bodied. Several of them are wearing more Grace powder than gowns, like living, gilded statues sipping fizzy wine and fawning over ruddy-cheeked nobles. It’s of little surprise that a few of those men sport the Grace sigil pinned to their lapels, denoting their status as members of the Grace Council.
“Certainly not.”
Arnley laughs. “Not a pleasure Grace, then. That’s all right. I’ve never needed one.” He trails a black-gloved finger down my jawline, just under the ridge of the mask. “Not charm or wit or pleasure. You must be—”
“A mongrel.”
My head yanks back hard enough to crack my neck. My arms pinwheel, hands batting at thin air.
“What are you doing?” Arnley flings the question at someone else, rescuing me before I topple over.
But it’s too late. Ribbons snapped, my mask slips from my face and meets the craggy facets of a sapphire embedded in the floor. I stand staring at the ruined pieces. The false diamonds glisten, like petrified tears. A peony-pink heel grinds mercilessly into the feathers.
“I knew I recognized that cloak when you walked in.” The dancers nearest us, two fox-tailed men, slow to a halt. “You’ve no right to wear it.”
Arnley’s grip is still tight on my arms. Protective. “Rose, what are you…?”
“Look at her, Arnley.”
He leans away. I feel rather than hear his sharp intake of breath. And then his hands loosen. He backs away instantly, as if he’s been burned.
“The Dark Grace.”
An all-too-familiar muttering ricochets through the crowd. My arms lock around my middle, as if I can shield myself. As if I could do anything to prevent what I know is coming.
“That’s right, Arnley.” The venom in Rose’s voice is sticky-sweet. “You’ve been dancing with Malyce this whole night. I hope she didn’t curse you.”
I drag my gaze up. And I would have thought that twenty years of enduring a realm’s hatred would have prepared me for the expression on Arnley’s face. Fear mixed with revulsion. Blanching, he scrubs his hands against his trousers. My eyes begin to sting.
Vaguely, I realize the music has stopped. It seems the entire ballroom circles our trio now, gasps rippling from the inside out as the news of my identity spreads. I catch a glimpse of the ladies I’d seen before. They lean into each other, even the butterflies on their gowns stilling.
“You thought you could come here and be one of us?” Rose laughs, brittle and cruel. She stomps on the mask again. Ebony shards spin wildly in every direction. “You’ll never be. You don’t belong here.”
On the royal dais, Tarkin rises, clearly debating whether he should have me forcibly removed by the guards. Mariel shrinks into his side. But it isn’t the Briar King who turns my guts to pudding. It’s the Etherian ambassador, the orb of his staff glowing hot as his magic builds. He stares me down, thin lips pressed into a line. I can smell his loathing from here.
Anger and humiliation ball up inside my chest, stabbing their thorns into the underside of my flesh. Into my bones. Until my vision tinges red. I want nothing more than to give these people exactly what they so clearly desire. Spit my cursed blood in their faces and watch them shrivel. Poison their wine. Murder their children.
But I am not fool enough to think I would live beyond my first strike.
And so, coward that I am, I pick up my skirts and sprint toward the first door I can find, a parting tide of party guests in my wake.
CHAPTER NINE
I run until one of my infernal slippers tears and sends me sprawling. Rage boils in my veins. I snatch up the shoe and hurl it as far from me as possible. My dress is in shambles. The skirt is torn where my throbbing knees met the ground, the fabric billowing like shredded cobwebs.
I force down breaths soaked in earth and dew and pace back and forth between the manicured hedges on either side of me. No matter how hard I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, I can still see the courtiers. Rose’s triumphant smirk as Arnley staggered away from me. The horrified expressions of the women with the butterfly sashes. I knew better than this. That I could never be one of them. And yet I let myself hope that just for one night—
I’m a fool.
A fountain gurgles just ahead. I splash chilly water on my face, letting it dribble down my cheeks and drip off my chin. It leaves a gritty residue, which has me blinking in surprise. The water from the fountain is no longer clear, but a black, sticky mud. My palms sting and then I’m hit with the smell of woodsmoke. Damn everything. I must have cut my hands when I fell, and my blood in the water caused—I suck my teeth—this.
Dragon’s teeth. Of course it did. The sludge spewing from the fountain is just like the soured cream at tea. Like the time I’d fallen down the stairs as a child, broken my lip, and the spots of my blood on the rug in the hallway chewed the fabric to ash. This is what Vila blood does. It destroys everything it touches.
Riding the fresh wave of my anger, I shove both hands into the murky filth. Steam rises instantly. The blackened water roils and coughs and spits over the varnished white sculptures of leaping fish and bathing maidens, leaving them ugly and distorted. Exactly like me.
“It’s true,” a soft voice says behind me. The fountain calms. “You’re the Dark Grace.”
So someone followed me. Eager to get a glimpse of the mongrel. I count to ten as I release a slow breath, willing myself not to react. To bite back whatever snide remark dances on my tongue. When I turn, I need not worry about words at all.
Princess Aurora, the amethysts in her diadem reflecting the moonlight, stares back at me. “Well? Aren’t you?”
It takes me a moment to remember how to speak. This close, the princess is breathtaking. And she should be. At their births, the royal daughters are besieged by the Graces, each vying for the chance to offer their gift and curry favor. Even if the princess had been born with straw for hair and bloodred eyes, her faults would have been remedied by nightfall.
