Malice

would never approve it, and the Grace Council would have a fit. Mariel would rather see me thrown into the sea. He must think me an idiot if he imagines I will believe such a promise.
“What things might you need?” I venture.
“Does it matter?” His mustache twitches, the only sign that I’m grating against his infamous temper. “I’m offering you wealth and power and influence. Other courtiers would kill for such an opportunity.”
“I am not a courtier,” I counter. “And the Grace Laws prevent me from causing intentional harm.”
Tarkin’s small mouth screws into a snarl. I brace myself, expecting that ringed hand to leave welts on my cheek. Expecting the guards to be called to haul me to the prison cells beneath the mountain. Instead, his expression softens. It is far more terrifying than a slap.
“Do we really need to concern ourselves with such petty trifles?”
I grip the arms of my chair until I feel the blood drumming in my fingertips. Those “trifles” have kept me bound to Briar for the last two decades.
“You will harm no one,” he reasons. “And no one else will know of our arrangement. That’s rather the point. I’m prepared to pay you triple your normal rate, off the ledgers. It won’t help you much in the Grace standings, but perhaps we will see about awarding you your own house. Chambers in the palace, perhaps. You would be an asset here.”
I’d rather live at the bottom of the sea. But something else about Tarkin’s offer is ridiculously appealing. Three times my rate, and I don’t have to give any of it to Lavender House. My gaze travels out the windows, over the grid of buildings and homes, to the sea and into the endless blue of the horizon line. Ships crowd the harbor. With enough gold, any one of them might take me away to a new life. Still, it would mean submitting to a monster.
“I’ve no wish to be an assassin.”
The Briar King picks up one of the markers on the table, a bronze horse with an armored rider. And it’s then that I manage a closer look at the maps. The coastline arching like a bow on the far eastern edge. The mountain range to the north. And a hazy, pale pink area far beyond. Etheria. What would the Briar King be doing with maps of Etheria? There are also smaller pewter markers in patterns tracking haphazard paths through the mountains. Pinpointing areas that make no sense to me.
Tarkin slams the marker down. I flinch.
“Do you wish to be rich?” he asks. “Do you wish to tread on the bent backs of all those who have wronged you? Lord Endlewild, perhaps. The Graces, who treat you like a feral dog even though your power far surpasses theirs.”
I can hardly breathe around the desire that courses through me. Yes, I want those things.
“You shall have it,” Tarkin promises. “That, and more. Work with me, Dark Grace. Together we can bring about a new age in Briar.”
The call of a seagull penetrates the glass, sounding like hope and freedom and everything I’ve ever wished for.
But this is a bad business. I don’t know what the Briar King is plotting, but it’s dangerous. The very idea should be enough to turn me away from him. But for once, I could use my title for my own advantage. If Briar loses a few nobles along the way, it will not be my hand that poisons them. Not really.
Tarkin reads my acceptance in the lines of my face. He rubs his thumb over his signet ring. “As I thought. You can expect your first commission shortly.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN
When I return to Lavender House, the Graces are busy with their evening patrons. I tiptoe past their parlors, hoping to slip out to my Lair unnoticed. Callow will be peevish at my long absence. And I’m exhausted, my mind still reeling from Tarkin’s offer and the new, impossible predicament I find myself in. The last door is slightly ajar—Rose’s. The night lamps have been lit, but there doesn’t seem to be a patron waiting for her inside. I press closer, catching the clink of metal on glass. The fizz of enhancements reacting.
Keeping to the shadows, I position myself so that I can see into the bright slit of light. Rose is sitting at the table. Alone. She’s heaping scoopfuls of a bright silver powder into a bowl. I recognize it immediately.
“What are you doing?” I shove into the room. She yelps. The metallic shavings go flying onto the floor.
“Get out of here! You’re always lurking, you filthy beast.” She sweeps some of the spilled powder into her palm and adds it to her brew. “This is my parlor.”
“I know what that is.” Before she can react, I swoop over to the table and pluck her bowl out of reach.
“Give that back.” She bares her teeth.
“Bloodrot”—I keep the bowl behind my back as she swipes at me—“is dangerous for a Grace. For anyone.”
The leaden shavings in Rose’s bowl are believed by some to extend the longevity of a Grace’s abilities. Bloodrot is a blood thinner, and so a Grace will dose herself with the stuff in the hopes that less of her blood will be required to create an elixir, thus keeping her from Fading before her time. But that logic is ludicrous. First of all, manipulation of a Grace’s gift—by anyone—is illegal and carries a steep sentence with the Grace Council. More than that, the quicksilver powder is called bloodrot for a reason. Too much causes sickness. The metal poisons the organs, settles in the heart and ossifies. And it’s far more likely that a Grace will misjudge her dosage and bleed out if she so much as suffers a nick in the right place.
“You could die from using this.”
“And you’d know all about how to kill someone, wouldn’t you, Malyce?” Her eyes are so wild and livid they seem to tinge crimson. But I