Malice

daughters—and only once crowned. For many of the royal daughters, the restriction meant little—it was soon discovered that the magic in the Vila’s curse kept them barren until the curse was broken. Younger surviving princesses could adopt children, and many did. But the blood that carried the curse had to be contained.
And now there is only Aurora.
“Please.” Arnley swats her words away, diamond cuff links twinkling. “One way or another, the crown will find a head.”
Rose hisses at him to be quiet.
Questions riffle through my mind. What does Arnley mean by that? I don’t remember reading about an heir crisis in any of the books on Briar’s history. There was certainly nothing about what would happen if Leythana’s descendants died out. Are there measures in place? Not that I particularly care.
“She’s a beauty, perhaps,” a woman chimes in, bringing me back into the circle. She’s a Grace, I can tell by her massive arrangement of sapphire hair, roughly in the shape of a beehive. Tiny gilded bees, another gift from the innovation Graces, hover and buzz around her towering braids. “But so brazen. That dress.”
“I love it,” Rose proclaims, adjusting one of the feathers on her headdress. “I’m going to have Madame LaRoche make an exact copy for me. In red.”
“I’d certainly like to see that.” Arnley’s voice is closer to a purr, thick and a little slurred with the wine.
“Arnley.” Rose smacks him with her fan. “You shameless flirt. Come, the music is changing. You owe me a dance.”
Yes. I push the thought out with all my might. Go and dance. Far away from here. But Arnley’s attention swivels back to me, sending my stomach to my toes.
“You know I’d never skip a dance with you, Rose.” He grins and gently extracts himself from her talons. “But I’m afraid I’ve been utterly enchanted by this mysterious guest.”
Six pairs of eyes pinion me to the jewel-crusted marble. This feeling I know well. My mouth goes dry as my pulse kicks up. Dragon’s teeth, I was a fool to come here tonight. What was I thinking?
“I never—” I begin, ready to push him off.
But Rose tilts her head at me, drawing her fan through her fingers like a blade. “I don’t recognize you.”
Damn it all. Stupid, foolish me.
“Isn’t that the point?” The beehive Grace laughs. “It’s a masque.”
Rose’s face twists. Even a grimace looks lovely on her. Her tiny nose twitches, as if she can scent the deception, and the vise of my bodice seems to cinch. “But I would still like to know the lady who has captivated our dear Arnley.” She combs a jagged-edged gaze up and down my body. “You appear to be a Grace, but I don’t know you. Are you newly Bloomed? How many came out at the last Blooming Ceremony?”
The other Grace counts off on her fingers. “Ten, perhaps? I’ve lost track.”
“Yes, and the Grace Celebration was months ago. Why haven’t we seen you before?”
“I—” The edges of the eyeholes in my mask begin to darken. I feel a strong arm wind itself around my waist.
“Don’t be jealous, Rose.” Arnley waggles a finger at her. “It’s unbecoming. You know how much I adore surprises. Let this one linger awhile longer.” And with a dashing grin at me, the courtier steers me away.
—
Dancing with Arnley is equal parts terror and euphoria. As he navigates our place among the couples on the dance floor, I try to argue that I’m a horrible dancer. I’m unpracticed. Dancing with me will only make him look the worse for choosing me. Almost as idiotic as I am for coming to the palace in the first place. But he’s deaf to my protests. And it turns out it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d swallowed one of my own lead-feet elixirs.
Though clearly touched by the wine, Arnley glides me over the marble as easily as a ship skating across a calm sea. I find myself completing spins and twirls, dips and hops. Heat bursts where his broad hands land on the cobweb lacing at the back of my gown. Other couples watch us through the slits in their masks. But he pays them no mind. His Grace-gifted eyes never leave mine, their sapphire color depthless in the light of the hundreds of candles.
“Is this your first time at the palace?” he asks as he pulls me close. Under the floral headiness of the wine on his breath, I catch the scents of leather and spiced tobacco, not entirely unpleasant. “Aside from your Blooming Ceremony, of course.”
“No.” I immediately wish I could reel it back. I’m sometimes called to assist the dying, using my elixirs to ease their pain and make their passing swift. My least favorite kind of errand. But I’ve never been to this part of the royal residence. Never been welcomed inside as a guest. Only as a necessary evil.
“Really?” His grip tightens at my waist, lightning darting between my ribs as he hoists me into the air. No one has touched me like this before. Not willingly. “And yet we’ve never met. How curious. But you are a Grace.” His gaze flits to the Grace powder Lorne caked in my hair. “Which is your house—or are you staying here, at the palace? But I suppose you can’t be one of the Royal Graces. I’d definitely know you.”
“No.” I curse myself for not having thought of a lie. “House—”
We whirl past the royal dais, where a new figure watches the festivities with ill-concealed disdain. His skin appears peeled from the trunk of an oak tree, riddled with currents of bronze. His hair is neatly tied at his nape, the coarse strands—presently boasting the summer colors of dewed green leaves and jewel-bright berries—change with the seasons. But his eyes are steady. Always the stark, molten gold of a Grace. Yet he is not a Grace.
Endlewild. The Etherian ambassador to the Briar Court.
The light Fae live long, practically immortal lives. Endlewild is only the second ambassador to reside in the realm