Malice

was alarmed. I returned from tea with the Countess LeSalle and thought the earl was dead! His lips were blue.”
“My poor dear.” The sound of a hand being kissed. “What an ordeal for you.”
A sniffle. “It was horrid. And then, once the physicians arrived and determined that he was not dead, I was distraught over the thought it might be contagious. I’ve hardly been able to sleep for worry I’ll not wake.”
I roll my eyes at the lady’s histrionics, quite certain there are a number of other reasons she’s not sleeping while her husband is suffering under my curse.
“Lady Selligan, but your health is so dear to us. You must take care.”
She blows loudly into what must be her companion’s offered handkerchief. “I know, I know. And the doctor assured me all is well. The earl will wake in time, they promise. Not even the king appears concerned—even though Lord Selligan is a member of his council and a personal friend. His Majesty sent a gift just the day before. A lovely brooch. Quite expensive. I haven’t had the heart to take it off of him.”
I bite down on my tongue to keep silent.
“I’m sure the Briar King is beside himself, to lose such a prized courtier. One would like to know the cause,” the man continues, thoughtful now. “If only to avoid such a fate.”
The lady sighs. “Who knows, these days? Perhaps overindulgence is the culprit.”
A loud, barking laugh. “If that were the case, my dear, the entire palace would be fast asleep, never to wake.” She giggles again. “I’m happy to see your spirits restored. And I hope to help keep you occupied—while your husband is indisposed.”
The woman murmurs something, breathless. And I move away, uninterested in the bed play of Briar’s upper class. Foreboding thrums at the base of my neck. So the king has deployed his brooches. But he’s sent no guards to arrest me for blatantly ignoring his orders.
I don’t have time to puzzle out what that might mean. The herald at the royal entrance bangs his dragon-headed cane and announces the royal family.
Queen Mariel practically floats into the ballroom, the happiest I’ve ever seen her. And she certainly dressed for the occasion—as though the royal wedding might take place this very night. A collar of teardrop pearls and enormous diamonds glitters on her neck. Her bodice and skirts are studded with ruby Briar roses. From this angle, it appears as if her crown of bramble and thorns is drenched in fresh Etherian blood.
Tarkin is a step behind her as always, wearing enough jewel-encrusted chains and bright-ribboned medals to sink him to the bottom of the Carthegean Sea. Outrage shoots from the tips of my toes and tingles in the roots of my hair when I think of what he stole from me. It takes every ounce of self-control not to send my power into him and grind his magic to dust.
“Loyal subjects.” The Briar King maneuvers around his wife. “This is a most anticipated night, when the stars have at last aligned for our beloved daughter and heir, Aurora.”
There’s a ripple in the crowd, a hundred necks craning, and then Aurora glides into view. I was not ready to see her. A gasp wrenches free from my lungs. Though most of the guests are dressed in their winter brocades and velvets, Aurora wears a close-cut silk that sets all the courtiers whispering. The gown is a deep plum color, riddled with hints of crimson that wink and glow like embers in the candlelight. Delicate lace sleeves hang from gilded straps on her shoulders. The neckline is square and low, exposing the elegant lines of her collarbone. A high garnet choker climbs the column of her neck.
I remind myself that I’m angry with her. Clench my fists, repeating the litany of wrongs in my mind. She used me. Discarded me. But all I really feel in the chambers of my treasonous heart is the desire for her to look at me. To speak to me again. To touch me. To—
I force myself to look away.
The king drones on, but his words are warped and run together. Something about the excitement of the curse breaking and the new royal family soon to be. And then there is another crack on the marble floor, loud enough to jar my attention back to the present.
“Prince Elias of Ryna.”
Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the same colors I saw flapping on his standards—navy and bronze—is the star-chosen prince. The room is quiet enough that I can hear every thump of his boots like a hammer against my breastbone. He is handsome. Several nearby courtiers comment on his brushed copper skin and strong jaw. And he does not have the cruel look of the Briar King. The corners of Elias’s lips turn up in a soft smile. His brown eyes are kind. He stops two steps below where Aurora waits and sweeps into a low, effortless bow. Waits until she offers her hand before he takes it.
When their fingers meet, recognition eddies between them. This is not some stranger Aurora’s parents flung at her head. She knows this man. Anticipated his arrival.
And she is radiant.
Light glows from beneath her skin, more than any Grace could have gifted her. Her expression filled with something that makes the floor tip beneath my slippers—hope. She wants this, I realize miserably. Wants his kiss to break the curse. One by one, every moment we shared together wilts. Every promise she made crumbles to ash.
The room holds its breath as Prince Elias rises to Aurora’s level and asks her permission to kiss her. She agrees—blushes, damn it all—and then he bends. Closer and closer, driving knives into my belly with each inch. Aurora’s eyes close. Her chin lifts. And then the prince brushes a chaste kiss on her parted lips.
Nothing happens.
Tarkin’s mustache jumps. He whispers something to the queen, who inserts herself between the couple and jerks Aurora’s sleeve up her forearm.
Mariel’s jaw sets. She shakes