Page 38 of Malice

I sink into a deep curtsy, head spinning with the remnants of wine and the sheer impossibility of this situation. But the queen gives me little time to recover. With a gesture Rose sometimes uses with Calliope, Queen Mariel indicates that I should follow her through a set of glass doors and out into the night.

“My daughter seems to have taken quite a liking to you.” The sounds of clinking crystal and falsetto laughter fade behind us as Her Majesty leads me along a white-and-purple-tiled porch. The palace gardens roll out from the steps in a riot of lilies and topiaries and manicured paths. There’s a clean, sweet scent to the night. Fireflies ride the wind, which is brisk now that autumn is creeping in.

“I—” I fumble. “I am honored to have her favor.”

It seems the right answer. Queen Mariel inclines her head a fraction. “I would like to know your intentions.”

Intentions? No one has ever asked me that before. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

The queen wheels to a stop. “What do you want with my daughter? You are the Dark Grace. There must be some motive.”

“I— I just want—” The air is suddenly too close. The fabric of my gown sticks to my back. “Your Majesty, I only— I want to be her friend.” The words sound so foreign. So utterly unbelievable. I have no friends. No one would choose to be mine.

The queen watches me for a long moment, twisting one of the garnet rings on her slender fingers. I can see Aurora in the curve of her bronze-kissed cheek. The height of her forehead. The way she bites her bottom lip when she’s thinking. Then she turns and keeps walking, leaving me to hurry behind her burgundy skirts.

“My daughter is young. Impressionable. She has not seen much of the world.” She lifts her chin higher, quickens her pace. “And this may be the last year of her life, if—” Her voice cracks.

“I understand, Your Majesty.”

“Do you?” She stops again, so abruptly I almost trip over my own feet. “I’m not sure that you do. Aurora is the last heir. Every moment, every second of her life must be funneled toward securing her throne and breaking her curse.”

A cold, slick feeling sloshes in my stomach and I’m worried the venison will resurface.

“She does not have time for cr—” Mariel catches herself, but I know what she was about to say.Creatures. Animals. “For anything else. Forfriends.I have lost two daughters to the curse.” She rubs at the inside of her forearm, where her own mark once rested. “I will not lose another. And I will not be the last Briar Queen.”

My jaw aches from clenching my teeth together. There’s a burning behind my eyes, but I will not show weakness. “I want her to rule as well.” And I mean it. Briar needs a queen like Aurora would be. Like Leythana.

“Good.” Moonlight glints silver against the tips of the thorns on her crown. I have no doubt she’d impale me with them if she could. “I do not know what happened with Duke Weltross.” When I open my mouth to respond she raises her voice. “And I do not care to know. Such matters are for the king to deal with.”

So therewasa conversation about me. A nightbird sings sweetly from its perch, the sound so incongruous to the tension humming between us.

“But I will not have my daughter, the crown princess of Briar, mixed up in such matters.” She pauses, letting her words sink their teeth deep. “I trust that from this day forward, you will remember your place.”

There is nothing to say. Nothing I can do but drop into another curtsy, the marble tiles blurring. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“We will not have this conversation again, Dark Grace.”

I bite my lips to keep my words locked inside them and wait until the clacking of her slippers has faded before I rise from my position. Because that was not a warning. Not a threat. It was a promise.

After the queen is gone, all I can do is seethe. I press my forehead into the cold veneer of a column, but it does nothing to ease my temper. Nothing to extinguish the rage licking my insides like tongues of flame. I want to tear this palace down, stone by cursed stone. Find every heart of human magic and grind them all up like I do enhancements beneath my pestle. I want—

Feeding off my desire, my power explodes out of its cage and dives for the first target it can find. It careens into a rosebush, plump Grace-grown blooms lolling their heads in the breeze. The plant’s magic is nothing more than a wriggling worm against mine, filling my nose with the scent of summer rain and velvet petals.

Dragon take these roses. This entire realm, saturated with its own self-importance and willing to smother the rest of us under its greed. A tingling starts in my toes and surges upward. My blood sings through my veins. The scent of charred stone and flint floods my lungs.

At my slight push, the rosebush triples in size, stems growing as thick around as my arms. The leaves sharpen, edges barbed. Soft lavender petals darken to a red like wet mortal blood. Jagged-toothed thorns cut through the meaty flesh of the stems. The branches sway and groan in the breeze—a sound like a growl. Like the whole bush is a beast waiting to strike. And itwouldstrike, I realize, if I wished it to. I could command one of those branches to tighten around someone’s neck until it snapped. Bid the thorns to shred their skin and arteries to ribbons.

The grisly image startles me back into the present. My magic loosens its grip and ebbs away. What a fool I am, using my power this close to the palace. To Endlewild. The fountain was an accident. But this—this is dangerous. No one can know the true extent of my power.

I turn back to the porch, smoothing my skirts and schooling my face into neutrality. Panic slams into me like an icy wave. A shadow lurks in the doors of the drawing room, huge and hulking and most certainly King Tarkin. His face is in darkness.

But even from here, I see the white gleam of his smile.

—

I cannot breathe. Not as my feet fly across gravel paths to the waiting carriages, where I demand to be taken back to Lavender House. Not as I hurl myself upstairs and claw off my gown, snapping at the servants to leave me be.

Seams pop. Fabric rips. It isn’t enough. I can still see Tarkin leering at me in the night. Endlewild watching my every move like a wolf about to pounce. The same way he looked at me every day during his “treatments.” I rip the coverlets off my bed and flip over the mattress. Grab one of the pillows, tear the cover apart with my teeth, and yank the feathers out in fistfuls. The washbasin shatters when I heave over its table, the sound of breaking porcelain undeniably satisfying. The wardrobe is too sturdy to take much damage from my bare hands, but I kick and pound at it anyway. Throw open the doors, toss my pathetic dresses to the floor, and attempt to stomp them into the floorboards.