Page 12 of Malice

“Alyce, really,” Mistress Lavender chides, herding me through the kitchen. “The ball istonight. 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, setting the plate down on the top of a side table.

Folded neatly on the twisted coverlet of my bed is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. It’s onyx silk, overlaid with a sheer, gossamer fabric that shines like spun moonlight. Beads of jet dance in intricate patterns down the bodice. The sleeves are the same silvery fabric as the skirt and cut to fall next to the hem, like long, delicate wings. Next to the gown is a mask, one large enough to cover the wearer’s entire face. Black, silver-dusted ostrich plumes protrude from the forehead and there’s a stiff veil of black and gold netting gathered around the eyeholes, thick enough that it will obscure the midnight color of my gaze.

Beneath the mask, a note:

No one need know.

L

—

It takes several attempts to convince a servant to both help me into this gown and flag down a carriage to take me to the palace. Her name is Lorne, I think. And I can tell by her puckered lips and pinched brow that she doesn’t think I should be going. But after some convincing, her own fear of the Dark Grace wins out and she finally begins unlacing my work dress.

The new gown fits like a glove. Laurel must have spent her own coin to have it made for me. It’s the nicest gift I’ve ever received. The only gift, actually. An unfamiliar surge of emotion swells beneath my breastbone as Lorne does up the fastenings at the back of the bodice. Perhaps Laurel is fonder of me than I thought.

Lorne pins up my hair in a fashion she slyly comments will flatter me, which I take to mean it will hide the oil and dirt I didn’t have time to wash out. Because the style isn’t particularly flattering—just tightly braided and coiled at the crown of my head. She adds a healthy dusting of Grace powder as well. It itches where it sticks to my chest and neck.

By the time she’s finished, the carriage is already waiting. Lorne fastens the mask to my face, then helps me navigate the stairs in my tissue-thin skirts, pausing at the front door. She hesitates, then opens up a closet and pulls out a Grace cloak. One of Rose’s that she hardly ever wears. It’s gold taffeta trimmed with mink. Gems bright as petrified sunlight are studded down the back, patterned in the Grace sigil of a blooming Briar rose wreathed in laurel leaves. I argue with her at first. The powder is one thing, but to wear the sigil feels too close to flouting the Grace Laws.