Malice (Malice Duology #1)(21)
“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 since Leythana’s reign began. But though his placement here might be considered by many to be a luxury, it’s clear that the Fae lord views his tenure a prison sentence. He’s dressed in Briar court fashion, but the sigil of the High Court of the Etheria—laurel leaves twined together around an iridescent orb—is embroidered on his doublet. And he stares down at the party guests as if they’re clusters of rodents. His spindly fingers curl around his staff, a rough-cut, unpolished birch branch. An orb like the one stitched in the High Court’s emblem pulses at the top, swirling with his magic. With hardly a word from Endlewild, that staff could erupt with power. Smash me to bits.
The area just to the right of my navel throbs, where a garish half-moon scar, the perfect imprint of the side of Endlewild’s staff, rests. It’s a remnant of one of his more aggressive attempts to use his light magic to clear my blood of evil. I remember the way that orb felt as he’d pressed it to my skin. The smell of scorched flesh and the white-hot agony. Those unforgiving, knobby-boned fingers clamped around my wrists as I begged and begged…
The next step is a surprise. I stumble into a woman whose bustle and train are made out of actual peacock feathers. Arnley catches me, apologizes on our behalf, and adjusts our course with a damnably charming wink. “Don’t let that spoilsport bother you. Awful creature. Honestly, I don’t know why he shows up to these things if he hates the rest of us so much.”
I’ve heard Rose express similar sentiments. Though they share the same golden blood, the Etherians want little to do with the Graces they create with their blessings. To the Fae, the Graces are part of an alliance agreement. An end to the war that almost destroyed Etheria. But they’re bitter about having to share any part of their magic with the humans. Though technically kin to the Fae, the Graces have no claim on the magical power that threads through Etheria. Their human heritage taints their gilded blood, the same way that the Vila taints mine.
“We were talking about your house.” He sends me spinning and reels me back in, and I try to steady my breathing and let Endlewild blur into nothing. “Let me guess. Lark House? They had an influx of newly Bloomed Graces at the last ceremony.”
Gold dances like a flame among the Graces on the dance floor. It flashes in the swish of satin and the jangle of bracelets. The dozens of honeyed eyes skirting around us.
“And what is your gift?” Arnley bends me into a graceful dip, one of his eyebrows quirking up as his hand on my back drifts slightly lower than it ought to be. And I can’t help but notice the cleft in his chin. The shadow of stubble on his jaw. “You’re certainly filled to bursting with charm. And wit.”
He is shameless. The musicians reach the end of this dance and begin another, but Arnley doesn’t change partners. He repositions his arms and twirls me in time to the faster tempo.
“Or perhaps.” He steps behind me and lifts me up, the words tickling the crook of my neck. “A pleasure Grace?”
I blaze hot and cold at the same time. Pleasure Graces are gifted in the more…intimate arts. I can see a few of them now. Crimson-lipped and full-bodied. Several of them are wearing more Grace powder than gowns, like living, gilded statues sipping fizzy wine and fawning over ruddy-cheeked nobles. It’s of little surprise that a few of those men sport the Grace sigil pinned to their lapels, denoting their status as members of the Grace Council.
“Certainly not.”
Arnley laughs. “Not a pleasure Grace, then. That’s all right. I’ve never needed one.” He trails a black-gloved finger down my jawline, just under the ridge of the mask. “Not charm or wit or pleasure. You must be—”
“A mongrel.”
My head yanks back hard enough to crack my neck. My arms pinwheel, hands batting at thin air.
“What are you doing?” Arnley flings the question at someone else, rescuing me before I topple over.
But it’s too late. Ribbons snapped, my mask slips from my face and meets the craggy facets of a sapphire embedded in the floor. I stand staring at the ruined pieces. The false diamonds glisten, like petrified tears. A peony-pink heel grinds mercilessly into the feathers.
“I knew I recognized that cloak when you walked in.” The dancers nearest us, two fox-tailed men, slow to a halt. “You’ve no right to wear it.”