Malice, Heather Walter [hardest books to read txt] 📗

blood looks far better than yours.” She sneers. “I’d jump off the Crimson Cliffs if I had green in my veins. Do everyone a favor.”

“Careful, Rose.” I rest my chin on my knees and grin. “You never know what the Dark Grace might do. Poor thing. Your teeth are still a bit gray around the edges.”

She snaps her lips closed and whirls, the bells on her shoes tinkling.

“Speaking of patrons,” she calls over her shoulder. “Yours have been waiting for the past half hour.”

The door slams behind her and I bark out a litany of curses, rushing to pick out a fresh dress. The black wax seal of Delphine’s schedule, still waiting to be broken, glares at me from the floor. A servant must have slipped it under the door on their rounds to wake the Graces. But I’d been sleeping too deeply to hear their knock. Dragon’s teeth! Mistress Lavender hates for patrons to wait; it makes them more likely to bring their business to another house and lower our standings. And even if I am the Dark Grace, the only one in the realm, she insists I adhere to the same standard of service as the others.

I rake a comb through my lank, oily hair and splash some water on my face. The reflection in my spotted mirror isn’t inspiring. But I drag myself downstairs anyway, stuffing a breakfast roll in my mouth and ripping open my schedule before heading to the Lair.

“Alyce, really,” Mistress Lavender chides, herding me through the kitchen. “The ball is tonight. The house cannot afford any mistakes.”

I mutter a few apologies while she continues to rant about duty and service and Lavender House’s rank, then I scuttle out the door.

For the rest of the day I entertain patrons: I whip up elixirs to leaden nimble feet. To tarnish lustrous skin and snub graceful noses. To replace a pleasant singing voice or musical laugh with the squawk of a crow. It doesn’t matter if the victims have already employed the service of a Grace. My magic is stronger, a fact we learned when it was decided that I was to open my own practice and the Grace Council was testing the limits of my power against the Graces’. A Grace can attempt to cover the effects of my elixirs, but the darkness always bleeds through. The ill effects of my magic Fade eventually, but they cannot be completely undone, not even by the healing Graces. Much as I abhor being the Dark Grace, my blood’s power to thwart the Graces’ always gives me a rush of victory.

It’s not until evening that I’m finally stoppering my last vial. The patron is already dressed in his finery for the ball and is quick to depart. My bones ache, fingertips sore from where I’ve slashed myself over a dozen times already. It’s all I can do to feed Callow and haul myself back to the house, desperate for a bowl of whatever Cook has waiting in the kitchen. The smell has been making my mouth water for hours.

“Dragon’s teeth, but you look a fright!”

My mood only further sours as Rose sweeps into view. She looks like an elaborately decorated dessert in her cascade of silk skirts and pearl-studded ringlets. She whips a matching fan out of her reticule and waves it under her nose with distaste. “And what have you been cooking up?”

“Toad piss.” I shake my skirts in the hopes that the dirt and soot will spoil her gown. “I’ll be sure to add some to your bottles of scent.”

Rose glares and steps away from me. Marigold flounces in behind her, dressed in frills of daffodil silk. Heavy gold limns her eyes. Grace powder sparkles on her brown shoulders.

“You aren’t ready!” She feigns shock, an ivory-gloved hand at her breast, then deals a conspiratorial smirk to Rose.

“I had patrons.” I divide a look between them, confused. “Why didn’t you?” This close to the ball, they should have been swamped.

“Oh, we’ve been finished for simply hours.” Rose twirls her fan. “Delphine arranged it. A courtesy so that we could prepare for the ball.”

“I was granted no such courtesy. My last patron just left.”

“Really?” A tiny crease digs between Rose’s brows. One of the peach-colored ostrich plumes on her fan brushes against her cheekbone. “An oversight, I’m sure.”

Marigold titters. “It’s a shame you won’t be ready.”

A bell chimes from the drawing room, announcing the arrival of their carriage. Marigold links arms with Rose, who bestows an infuriating wink upon me. “Good night, Alyce. We’ll tell Mistress Lavender you’ve decided to stay home.”

My blood grows so hot I think my skin might be glowing green as their bustles round the corner toward the front door. This is Rose’s doing. She probably bribed Delphine to shift my appointments until the last possible moment. It wouldn’t have taken much coin. Every servant in this wretched house hates me. It would be useless to involve Mistress Lavender. I can’t prove anything. And I’ll never be ready in time. I haven’t even thought of what to wear.

Part of me wants to go as I am now, just to spite them all. Show up on the palace doorstep in my sweat-stained, reeking gown with remnants of enhancements still caked under my fingernails and smudged on my face. A picture of the deranged creature they think I am. See if they have the gall to turn me away.

But they would turn me away. And Rose would revel in it. I’d never live it down.

And so I turn my attention to the trays of leftover tarts from today’s Grace sessions. I fill a plate—blueberry, raspberry, cardamom—piling them as high as I can, and head up to my attic room. I didn’t want to go to the ball anyway, I remind myself. Wouldn’t have even thought to go if Rose hadn’t rankled me. But now—

There’s a heap of fabric on my bed that doesn’t belong there.

My mouth freezes around a bite of creamy filling. I swallow quickly,