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

her parlor, but the recent incidents have left a scar on her reputation. I almost feel sorry for her, especially since it’s my fault she’s suffering.

And then Rose veers in just the right way to make me stagger into a statuette of a bronzed dragon. Pain lances up my side as the corner of the marble pedestal finds my hip bone. Maybe I’ll slip an ugliness elixir into her tea.

The décor in this part of the palace is just as nauseating as in the ballroom. Like the rest of the newer wings, the royal private residence was commissioned when the Briar Kings decided that Leythana’s original home had grown too drab for the richest realm in the world. They spared no expense in the renovations.

Instead of sconces, tiny gilded dragons—likely designed by the innovation Graces—line the halls, spewing fire from their miniature snouts. Elaborate arrangements of Grace-cultivated Briar roses burst into bloom in opal-veined vases, petals shifting from lavender to indigo to scarlet. Ornate tapestries woven with scenes of Briar’s history adorn the walls. I’m drawn to one in particular: Leythana being blessed by the Etherians, her crown dripping with glittery gold. There’s another beside it showing the mortal army poisoning Malterre during the War of the Fae. Vila cower and shrivel at the soldiers’ feet, mouths open in wrenching screams. The magic from the innovation Graces makes it appear as though their green blood is still flowing. That the humans are still laughing, victorious. I look away.

Mistress Lavender halts in front of a pair of glass doors featuring a mosaic pattern that’s an exact, smaller copy of the dragon in the ballroom. She announces herself and her Graces, but her voice falters a bit when she gets to me.

The herald’s flat brown eyes widen as he takes me in, and my palms begin to sweat. But he says nothing, only turns in a forced, mechanical motion and slams his dragon-headed cane onto the marble floor. The doors swing open.

“Mistress Lavender, Housemistress of Lavender House, and her charges, their Graces Rose of Beauty, Marigold of Charm, and Laurel of Wisdom. And”—I think I hear him swallow—“the Dark Grace.”

I sense the movement in the room before he steps aside to grant us access. The private dining hall is only about the size of a few of our parlors put together, but a thousand times more intimidating. A dais looms at the other side. King Tarkin and Queen Mariel are already seated at a table with carved dragons for legs, the polished top balancing on the tips of their taloned wings. Servants with plates of hors d’oeuvres hurry back and forth, pretending not to notice my entrance. There are about five or six other tables in front of the dais. One holds the handful of Royal Graces. The wreaths of gilded laurel crowning their vibrant heads gleam as they regard me with curiosity mixed with repugnance. At the other tables, dozens of jewel-laden necks crane in my direction, wine flutes and spoons freezing on the way to gaping lips.

My breathing comes fast and sharp, sawing in and out of my lungs like one of Cook’s serrated knives. I lick my lips, finding them chapped and cracked because I’d picked at them so much on the way here. There is nowhere to look. Nowhere to go. My brain screams at me to turn around. Flee whatever is waiting for me here. I take a half step back, preparing. And then a voice cuts through the tension.

“You came!”

A blur of crimson brocade comes barreling from a hidden corner of the room, too quickly for me to move out of the way. She is upon me in an instant, grasping my shoulders and giving each cheek a quick kiss.

“I hoped you would.”

“P-princess Aurora.” A sharp jab in the ribs from Laurel reminds me to drop into a curtsy, as the rest of them have already done. Murmurs of “Your Highness” ripple like waves.

“What did I tell you about that?” she whispers, drawing me back to stand. “Thank you for attending our dinner,” she says to the others. “And for bringing our dear Alyce.”

I wish there were a way to capture the look on Rose’s face as she gawks between us, her painted mouth hanging open so far I can see the back of her throat.

“You invited her?” Her face goes white, then splotched with amber. Matching blossoms explode on the exposed skin of her chest. “Here?”

Mistress Lavender pinches her elbow.

“You seem surprised.” Aurora links arms with me. “Now come, Alyce. Take a turn with me before dinner.”

Laurel deals me a grin as the princess guides me away. But the rest of them are horror-struck. And I can’t say I feel much steadier. My limbs are like rubber. Muttering and stares follow us with every step.

“You invited me?” I repeat, willing my focus to stay on the Briar roses embroidered on the heavy damask drapes. The busts of former queens, their crowns of bramble and thorn glazed with candlelight. The gentle cadence of lutes being played in a corner. Anything but the needling attention of the other guests. A servant hiccups as he passes us, almost dropping his tray of thinly sliced meat folded to look like dragons. I’ve never missed my hooded cloak more.

Aurora gives my arm a shake. “How many times must I say it? Yes.”

“But—” Doubts and questions buzz like a stirred hornet’s nest in my mind. “Why?”

She blinks at me. “I want my book back. You promised to return it.”

Dragon’s teeth, the book. I bite down on my tongue so hard I taste the loam of my blood. How exactly do I tell her it’s at the bottom of the Carthegean Sea?

“Don’t look so worried.” She laughs, attracting even more stares. “I’m only teasing. I wanted to see you again. Is that so strange?”

Yes. Extremely strange. “But—”

“If I’d known you were going to interrogate me the entire night, I’d never have invited you.” She sighs, steering us around a stuffed peacock perched