Malice

in an overwhelming cacophony of sound. The hard edges of the jewels in the floor bite into the soles of my slippers. I wave away the endless trays flung toward my face, knowing I wouldn’t be able to keep a single mouthful of it down.
Something knocks against my elbow.
“Pardon me.” A man takes a fluid step back from me and bows. His mask covers only the area around his eyes, which are the bright blue of the Carthegean Sea in summer, and are filled with something I don’t see often: pleasant curiosity. About me. “Are you here alone?” He scans our tight perimeter, searching for my companions.
“I—yes,” I admit, unable to snatch a quick enough lie.
“Well, we can’t have that. Allow me to introduce myself.” He bends again. “Lord Arnley.”
Arnley. I’ve heard that name. I think his family has patronized Lavender House before, mainly for Rose. Those eyes certainly indicate the work of a beauty Grace.
“You are a vision this evening.” His gaze sweeps from the hem of my skirt to the tips of the feathers on my mask. “Your costume so obviously complemented my own attire that I felt compelled to seek you out.”
He motions to his waistcoat, a deep black that matches his jacket. Diamond cuff links stud each sleeve. A silver cravat, the same shade as the gauzy overlay on my gown, puffs out from his chest. Suspicion begins to build behind my sternum. He sought me out? Has he been watching me? Had Laurel devised our meeting as some cruel joke?
“Such an exquisite mask,” he continues, oblivious to my wildfire pulse. “But it denies me the privilege of viewing your face. May I?” He reaches a hand toward the ribbon behind my head. I jerk away, needing much more space between us.
“I prefer not.”
“A woman of mystery, I see.” He leans close enough that my nose tickles at the fizzy, peach-cream scent of wine on his breath. “My favorite kind.”
My toes curl inside my slippers, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. Is this flirting? No one has ever spoken to me this way before.
“May I at least have your name?”
A name, damn it all. I had not thought of another name. Alyce is common enough, isn’t it? Or do they all know me? Alyce, the Dark Grace. Malyce. A blast of trumpets saves me from having to answer. The crowd quiets, turning to the dais at the front of the ballroom.
“The Briar Queen!” shouts a wiry man in purple-and-white livery, stamped with the royal dragon emblem. “Mariel. Queen of the realm, Warden of the Fae Border and Defender of the Graced.” He bangs the gilded end of a cane onto the floor. A tiny dragon rears atop its head, a garnet Briar rose flashing like a beating heart on its chest.
Like a wave in the sea, the mass of nobles and Graces dips and bends as the royal family sails through a private ballroom entrance. And though the Briar Queens have forfeited nearly every one of their duties to their husbands, entering a royal function before the king is one of the few privileges that remain for Mariel.
It seems even this small slight irritates the Briar King. He storms through the doors a step behind his wife, resembling an overinflated balloon. Even his crown is almost comically large, likely made so in order to eclipse the wreath of bramble and thorn his wife wears. Fat square-cut rubies glimmer on the speared tips. His purple cape, trimmed in ermine, only adds to his girth as it billows behind him. A matching doublet is almost invisible beneath the mounds of gold and jeweled chains draped around his neck. As soon as possible, he maneuvers Mariel behind him, dwarfing her in every way. And I can’t help but notice the tightness to her features tonight. The restlessness in her step and the way her fingertips tap against the king’s sleeve as she clutches his arm.
It’s clear soon enough what has her so agitated.
Behind the royal couple, the crowd begins to murmur—a tall, graceful young woman glides into view. The Princess Aurora.
In the books I’ve read over the years, I learned that there are kingdoms that insist on a male inheritance. Elder or more capable daughters are passed over in favor of a son to manage a kingdom. I’ve always thought the practice idiotic, the same as inheriting by birth. Look how well it worked for Leythana’s line—warrior queens diminished to pretty ornaments.
But though it’s widely known that Tarkin yearns for a son, he married a Briar Queen. And Briar Queens—due to the Fae blessing on their crown—only have daughters. It’s the same magic that causes Graces to be born female.
The princess’s feet hardly seem to touch the ground as she follows her parents onto the royal dais. A gown of embroidered violet silk hugs her body, its color deepening impossibly to midnight blue as she moves. And every movement is visible. The long length of her waist. The curve of her hips. The soft line of her lower spine as it plunges into a back cut far lower than any I’ve seen here tonight. Or ever.
Whispers begin circulating immediately.
“Scandalous.”
“Improper.”
“The dressmakers will be in a tizzy tomorrow.”
A smile tugs its way from the corners of my mouth. I don’t know what I’d expected from the princess, but a rule-breaker wasn’t on the list. It’s strange to hear such things uttered about someone who isn’t me. But undeniably satisfying.
“As we all know”—the king’s deep voice quiets the undercurrent of chatter—“the curse on our beloved Aurora has yet to be lifted.”
More shifting from the crowd. Aurora stands straighter. Her spun-gold hair, accented with the oranges and coppers and reds of the rising dawn, cascades beneath the slender diadem marking her status.
“But we will not lose hope,” the king continues. “In fact, tonight we welcome a suitor.”
“Not another one.” Arnley snags a wineglass off a servant’s tray, then scoops a heaping spoonful of Etherium from another and mixes it into