Malice

had taken me until the small hours of the morning to finish scrubbing the blood from the rug, marveling at my own stupidity all the while. A parting gift, I kept telling myself—not that Rose deserves one.
Before I herded her upstairs, Rose had taken a pair of my scissors and cut her silver streak, close to her scalp so her dressing maid wouldn’t see any traces of the telltale color. It could have been the shock of losing so much of her blood so quickly that made her hair turn. She kept telling me so as I helped her to bed, shaking and whimpering and entirely unlike the Rose I’ve known for the past several years. For her sake, I hope it does grow back as rosy as ever. If not—a chill goes through me when I think of what she might do. Of her face at breakfast the next morning, when she found out Pearl was chosen as the ascending Royal Grace. The slump of her shoulders when Mistress Lavender offered threadbare condolences laced with disappointment about the loss for our house standings.
It makes no sense for me to feel pity for someone who has made my life a living hell since she stepped through the gates of Lavender House. But I do. Rose’s gift is the only thing that makes her feel in control of her destiny. And it’s slipping away.
A few days after the incident, I’m in my Lair, adding to my patron log—a fat book that I’ll turn in to Mistress Lavender at the end of the month. Inside the wide columns, I note the kinds of elixirs I was asked to create, as well as the amount of blood I’d spilled, in drops, for each. Every Grace is required to report these details to her housemistress and the Grace Council, who then use the information to determine the strength of a Grace. Concerns arise when a Grace who once needed only three drops of blood to craft an elixir begins to need four or more. Or when her elixirs begin to Fade faster than in the past.
Given the pressure of house standings and the ever-present fear of Fading, it’s tempting for Graces to lie about the amount of blood they expend per elixir. Rose has accused Pearl of such deceit when she thinks only Marigold can hear her. But if Pearl is lying, the Grace Council would know soon enough. Patrons aren’t shy of lodging complaints with housemistresses if their elixirs wear off quickly or don’t manifest as intended. And after Narcisse, I’m not sure if any Grace will be brave enough to anger the Crown by being caught in such a scheme.
There’s a knock at my door and I admit a waifish servant carrying my earnings in a black velvet pouch. I take it and wave him off, spilling the contents onto the open pages of my book and counting. One hundred gold, more than a usual week’s work. My patrons, it seems, are noticing my growing power. My schedule lengthens by the day. Let them take advantage of it while they can. The Dark Grace will not be in residence for much longer.
Sighing, I sweep the gold back into the pouch and go to add it to the rest. But when I unlock my safe, I freeze. The space inside, which houses all my years of earnings—the profit from every drop I spilled in service to a patron—is empty.
A small black box leers at me instead, a matching envelope resting on top.
Cold flashes across every nerve.
I lift the lid. It’s satin-lined, the color like slick mortal blood. Nestled within the folds are a half-dozen brooches. Thin gold whorls and twists into the shape of a dragon, scales set with a myriad of opals and sapphires that flash in the hearth light.
I tear open the envelope:
The wearer dies an untraceable death.
A mad rushing—like a storm over the sea—roars in my ears. I cannot breathe. Cannot think. I’m back in the throne room after Narcisse’s trial, Tarkin smiling at me in that calculating way that stripped me bare.
He knew.
He found out that I was trying to leave Briar and he took my gold so that I couldn’t book passage on a ship. The message is so clear he might as well be screaming it from the palace. My throat clogs, an iron weight clamping around my neck and tightening with each breath. Tarkin’s collared beast. That’s what I am.
But how did he know? I’ve combed through the possibilities often enough, trying to figure out how his servants found a way into my Lair when they left his commissions. They also knew where I kept my safe. Discovered my plan to escape. But I’ve noticed no one lurking. No repeat patrons or new servants.
Unless.
The cord of my magic undulates.
It was someone inside Lavender House.
—
The kitchen staff scatters in my wake. Even surly Cook veers out of my way without bluster. A flighty maid drops an egg with a strangled cry and I don’t even bother to dodge the splattered yolk. The other Graces are in the main parlor. I can hear their easy conversation. The high pitch of Mistress Lavender’s vapid laughter. I plow through the glass-paned doors.
“Which one of you was it?” Rage crackles in the pounding of my pulse at my wrists. At the underside of my jaw. In my chest. It is everything I can do to keep my power contained.
The chatter dies, four pairs of eyes pivoting to my entrance. Mistress Lavender pales to a watery gray, her teacup frozen in mid-sip. I see myself in the silver of her gaze. Wild-eyed and hair flying. Teeth bared. A monster.
Laurel sets down her biscuit.
“What’s happened?” she asks, unnervingly calm as her gift of wisdom guides her.
My magic is ready to explode. Ready to unleash my worst on these women who have caged me in this house my entire life and have now ruined my only means of escape.
“Someone has been spying