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

years ago. I watched the royal family send her out to sea on a floating pyre. Waited on the cliffs with the rest of the Grace District, until the flames were only a distant blaze on the horizon.

I tighten my mask.

“How old is she now?”

He maneuvers around a corner. “You don’t know? I thought everyone did.”

I’m grateful he can’t detect the burn on my cheeks. “Yes, I—well, it’s hard to keep track.” When you don’t care.

He laughs at that, flicking the reins again. “Right you are there, Your Grace.”

I flinch at the honorific. For the first time in my life, it’s not spoken to me with contempt or loathing, but with respect. I’d imagined the change would feel triumphant. Instead, slime slides down my spine and I fight to keep my shoulders from bowing inward.

“Her Highness is turning twenty.”

One more year, then. It makes me sad, though I can’t fathom why. The royals have never shown kindness to me, unless you count not executing me when I was an infant—an event Mistress Lavender assures me was discussed. But my name is never listed among the honors announced at the yearly Grace Celebration. I was not recognized at a Blooming Ceremony when I began accepting patrons. And if I wasn’t disguised, I have no doubt they’d find some reason to turn me away tonight. Mistress Lavender said herself that she didn’t know if the invitation included me. And I know the truth in my heart: The Dark Grace is meant to lurk in shadows, keeping the nasty secrets of the nobility. They do not wish to see me in the light.

For the rest of the trip, the driver prattles on about his family. He boasts a brood of six children, apparently, who hope to find work in the Common District, the boys on ships if they’re lucky. I’m only half listening. We’re passing the manor houses of the minor nobility, those who aren’t favored with a suite of rooms in the palace itself. Servants’ shadows flit in the glow behind drawn curtains. They’ll be heading back to the Common District once their chores are done. No one from that district receives an invitation to royal functions. And I wonder how those servants feel about being excluded from the glittering world they help maintain. If the aches in their shoulders and feet and backs throb with resentment as mine do.

But those servants are soon forgotten when we reach the palace gates. Torchlight laps at the white gold filigree and Briar roses. Sweat spots on the palms of my new gloves. The waist of the gown digs into my ribs, the lace at my neckline prickling against my skin. The driver helps me down, and I’m thankful for the support of his calloused hand. These satin slippers pinch places usually unbothered in my worn leather boots. I’m certain the guards are watching me with suspicion. Without Mistress Lavender here to prove that she allowed me to attend, I half expect that someone will spring from the bushes, rip off my mask, tear the cloak from my shoulders, and send me home in disgrace.

But as I approach the entrance, the men stationed there give only a stiff bow at the waist, the kind every Grace receives in greeting. And then I’m being waved through. Into the palace. As a Grace.

—

If I thought the parlors in Lavender House were atrociously overdone, it is nothing compared to the palace’s ballroom. A massive stained-glass window devours one wall, a vibrant mosaic arranged in a life-size rendering of the royal emblem: a dragon in flight. A scarlet Briar rose blazes on its chest. Its giant ruby eyes seem to pin me inside the entrance, as if it knows I don’t belong. Candlewax drips from golden sconces and dazzling chandeliers, servants flying from one to the next to replace them before the lights gutter out. Tendrils of smoke drift lazily from tiny pots of burning incense, which produces a honeyed, floral scent meant to combat the tang of sweat and perfume, but only serves to nauseate. The marble floor is shot through with amber and encrusted with amethysts and opals, the royal colors. Trays overburdened with goblets of bubbling wine and bowls of plump fruit and shallow dishes of shimmery pink Etherium powder float by on the arms of liveried footmen.

And there are people. Everywhere.

Aside from my excursions in the Grace District, I’ve never seen so many in one place. Their costumes are ridiculous. One woman is dressed as some kind of sea nymph. Painted shells dangle at her ears and throat, and her gown is an opaque turquoise with candy-scaled fish embroidered into the folds of her skirts that seem to leap and dive as she moves—fabric clearly designed by the innovation Graces, who can use their elixirs to give extraordinary abilities to inanimate objects. Several others wear translucent wings strapped to their shoulders that flap back and forth in lazy tempos. Masks are adorned with Grace-grown chrysanthemums that wither and rebloom into varying hues every few seconds. Some of the men have bottlebrush tails swishing behind their waists and tiny, twitching fox’s ears secured to pomade-crusted heads.

There’s scarcely room to move as I push slowly through the ballroom doors, which are a staggering two stories high and accented with gems of every color, and into the party. A servant materializes from thin air and unfastens my cloak before I can stop her, mumbling something about where to retrieve it later.

Without my cloak, I feel totally exposed. I glance around, standing stock-still. A rat caught in a trap.

But no one is staring at me.

Adrenaline surges through me. There are no crushing judgmental gazes. No derisive whispers slithering into my ears. The guests pay me no more attention than they would a sitting room chair. As if I were as ordinary as possible. As if I belong here.

Footsteps still unsteady, I begin to maneuver my way along the outskirts of the ballroom. Conversation and laughter and music clash