Malice

and power to come. Surround yourselves with loyalty and love. And if nothing else, remember this:
That which is given oft cannot be regained.
—Lost letter from Leythana, first Briar Queen, to her heirs. Age of the Rose, 45

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Give me that.” Rose snatches an envelope out of a servant’s fingers before he can deposit it on Mistress Lavender’s place setting at breakfast.
“It’s addressed to the housemistress.” The poor thing is more mouse than boy. Clusters of freckles collide with one another as his brow furrows. I sip my tea.
“Do you see her here?” Rose glares at him with a look that could singe hair.
The servant wisely bows and leaves.
Rose breaks the violet-colored seal and unfolds the missive. She hasn’t applied her rouge yet, and so her cheeks are a sickly shade of pale yellow. Next to Laurel and Marigold, each sporting a healthy, golden Grace flush, Rose looks like one of my terminally ill patrons. It’s winter now, some three months since I caught her with the bloodrot. Even longer since the last time I interfered with one of her patrons. But it doesn’t seem like she’s let up on her dosage.
“It’s official,” Rose breathes, passing the scalloped-edged announcement to an impatient Marigold. “The Royal Grace is Fading. And quickly, by the wording of that message.”
“Which one?” Laurel cracks her boiled egg with the back of her spoon, her attention glued to her book.
“Beauty,” Marigold squeaks. Then she squeals, clapping her hands together and throwing her arms around Rose’s shoulders.
“How sad.” Laurel picks bits of shell from the egg. “How ever will the royals survive?”
“Don’t think I can’t read your tone.” Rose untangles herself from Marigold’s strangling embrace with a grimace. “You’re jealous.”
“Quite.” Laurel snorts. “I’d like to serve in the palace as much as Alyce would.”
I cough around my pastry at the mention of my name.
“The Dark Grace does serve in the palace,” Marigold sniffs. “But few survive her ‘appointments.’ ”
I swallow hard, the unchewed crust scratching down my throat. “I’d like to be left out of this.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You will be.” Rose daintily dabs at her mouth. “The queen has decided there will be a contest to determine the most skilled of the beauty Graces. The winner will succeed the Fading Grace.”
“I suppose you’re going to compete?” I raise a sly eyebrow, raking my gaze over the circles under her eyes. The bones of her neck showing through her lemon-tinged skin.
“Of course I am. And you can all thank me for it when you receive the bump in standings after I win.” She grits her teeth, making a visible effort to keep her anger in check. Compared to our early years together, Rose has been downright pleasant toward me of late. I suppose she’s worried I’ll tell Mistress Lavender what she’s doing with the bloodrot. She needn’t be concerned. I have much bigger secrets.
“I’ll thank you now,” Marigold pipes up. “You will invite me to the palace, won’t you? Often? You won’t forget?”
“You’ll have to beat Pearl.” The name is soft on Laurel’s lips, but it might as well have been a dagger flung into Rose’s chest. She slams her napkin down.
“I can charm circles around that haughty—”
“Good morning, Graces.” Mistress Lavender bustles into the room, bringing a thick swell of the cloying scent of her namesake that burns in my nostrils. Calliope sneezes from her post at Rose’s feet. But before the housemistress can even settle into her chair, Marigold is babbling, regurgitating the details of the morning’s events as she thrusts the palace’s letter under Mistress Lavender’s pointed nose.
Laurel and I exchange a smirk. But then I notice Rose and my stomach sinks a little. She does not look the part of a confident Grace, poised to take her place among the royals. She looks weak and ill and so very frightened.
I excuse myself without another word.
—
“I don’t envy the subject of those thoughts.” Aurora’s voice brings me back to the present late that evening. She appears regularly as clockwork now. Twice a week, on the nights her guards play cards and descend into drunken half-wits. I find myself wishing they would do so more often.
After breakfast, I’d returned to the Lair to find yet another commission waiting. A solid gold bracelet the king bid me curse to paralyze the wearer. Its mahogany box glares at me from where I’d stashed it on a shelf.
“Is something the matter?”
“No.” Another lie piled atop countless others. I have enough to build the black tower twice over. “Just a hectic week.”
“I think I witnessed your handiwork at court.” Aurora selects a miniature jam tart and pops it into her mouth. “One of my mother’s ladies, a skilled dancer, could do nothing but stumble over her own feet once a single note of music was struck.”
I cringe, remembering that particular elixir from a few days ago. Another lady-in-waiting commissioned it. But I can’t divulge that.
“It was quite the entertainment,” Aurora says around her next bite. “I ordered the most complicated dances played the rest of the night and kept throwing partners at her.”
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head at her strange sense of humor. Pearl’s words from so long ago come back to me, though. That Aurora is only interested in me because I’m vile and hideous. I bite down on my tongue until the thought fades.
“Oh, and have I told you about the prince’s letter?”
“Prince?” I scramble to keep up. She hasn’t mentioned a prince lately. Except—“You mean the Ryna prince? The one whose star chart matches yours. He’s writing to you?”
“Apparently we’re supposed to be getting to know each other.” I might be imagining it, but it seems she won’t meet my gaze. “Even if he isn’t the one who breaks my curse, I suppose it can’t hurt to establish diplomatic relations.”
Maybe not. But a pang lands between my ribs, even as I scold myself for being unreasonable. It’s no business of mine to whom Aurora writes. Or why. And