Page 79 of Malice
I wrap my arms around my middle as tight as they will go, the phantom burn of that golden staff scorching my skin.
“You wouldn’t be either if he tortured you a hundred thousand ways, deemed you a half-breed, and promised your death at his earliest convenience.”
A flush smears across Laurel’s cheeks. She looks away. “I know you have a history.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I cringe against the memory of his coarse, bark-like touch. “And what are you doing talking to him anyway? He hates the Graces.”
“I met him when I first Bloomed. He’s partial to the wisdom Graces. I believe he views us as less…materialistic. And we’ve spoken several times at social engagements.” She pauses, pressing her lips together as if considering whether or not to continue. “And he doesn’t hate the Graces. That’s a common misconception. He hates Briar’s obsession with wealth and beauty. Ours is no longer the realm the Fae entrusted to Leythana. And he despises seeing light Fae magic bottled and sold.”
“Sounds like something they should have thought about before they made the alliance agreement during the war.” I burrow deeper into the blanket, that slimy feeling of Endlewild’s gaze still oozing down my spine.
Laurel shrugs. “Perhaps. But I think you have more in common with the Lord Ambassador than you realize.”
I huff out a laugh. “He wants me dead.”
“He’s separated from his kin and court. Made to witness his own breed of magic harvested for vanity and greed. Can you imagine what Narcisse’s trial was like for him?”
Once again, the fallen Grace’s ghost hovers in the shadows. It was hard enough to watch her gilded blood racing through the tubes, picturing my own kind in her place. And I’d noticed Endlewild’s absence at the trial. I’d assumed he hadn’t known about it, but perhaps he did know. And he stayed away because he couldn’t bear the sight.
But anger quickly takes the place of any sympathy I might feel for the Etherian. “Can you imagine what it was like for me? To be half drowned in Etherium baths, fed every sort of vile remedy, tortured with that precious Fae magic—all because my blood was the wrong shade?”
A charged silence buzzes between us. The clock chimes the hour.
“I’m not defending what was done to you.”
“Then why are you telling me this, Laurel?”
“Because.” She leans forward, long arms folding over the open book. The scrolling laurel leaves stitched onto the sleeves of her dressing gown shimmer. “You would be stronger working with the Lord Ambassador than against him. The War of the Fae was ages ago. The past can be forgotten. Paved over with a new alliance.”
Dragon’s teeth, she’s gone mad. “He’ll never accept me.”
“You don’t know that,” she presses. “And believe it or not, you want the same things. The Lord Ambassador abhors the Grace Laws as much as we do. I know they’re the only thing keeping you in Briar. Do you want to spill your blood for the nobles forever?”
“We arenotthe same.” Endlewild poisoned my childhood. My mind. We have nothing in common save a mutual hatred.
“The Graces are standing on a precipice, Alyce. Maybe we’re not bought up by rich men, crammed into tiny rooms while our power is used for their benefit. But we are leashed all the same. And it would not take much for the scales to tip in their favor again.”
I squirm under the weight of her logic. No, it had not taken much for the king’s commissions to escalate into a curse for death. I’ve yet to complete the brooches, and I know I’m trying Tarkin’s patience by stalling. But I just—can’t. Even if some of the nobles do deserve a swift end. This commission is only the beginning. A slippery slope into becoming the monster the realm branded me.
“If there is anything you can do, you must do it.” Laurel’s gaze is fixed on the door, as if she’s worried we’ll be overheard. “Ally with the Fae lord. Prove that your Vila heritage is an asset to the realm. I know you’re not what he believes you to be.”
My fingernails dig into the upholstered arm of the chair. “You have no idea who I am.”WhatI am.
“Yes, I do.” The book thumps on the rug as Laurel slips from her chair and kneels at my feet, seizing my hands. I yank back, but she refuses to let go. “I know you hate being the Dark Grace. And the Grace system is bloated and corrupt. Think of Rose. I’ve seen the way she looks. The circles under her eyes. The thinness of her cheeks. She’s using bloodrot.” She keeps speaking over my surprised cry. “And she’s not the only one. What happened to Narcisse could happen to any of us. The Graces are in danger. You are in danger.”
I don’t know what to say. How to react. I’ve never been welcome among the Graces. To ask me to be their champion is insane. But Laurel pins me like a specimen to a board, fear simmering stark amber in her gaze. It’s the first time I’ve seen it there.
Against my better judgment, I want to help her. But what could I possibly—
The brooches.
An idea slams into me with a rush of adrenaline. Just because I received the king’s commission doesn’t mean I have to complete it the way Tarkin expects. The plan manifests abruptly, as if a veil is being lifted, and I’m almost ashamed I haven’t thought of it before. The Briar King will be livid. Maybe even enough to let Endlewild lop off my head. But then he’d be without his Dark Grace. And I’d never be used as a weapon again.
It’s a risk I just might be fool enough to take.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Another week passes with no sign of Aurora and I smother the smoking remnants of my heart with the promise I made to Laurel—sabotaging the king’s request.
