Malice (Malice Duology #1)(39)
A wind sighs around us, laced with the hint of an early autumn. I tug my cloak closer. “But then why did the war start?”
“Why does any war start?” A gull laughs as it soars past the tower. “The Etherians abhorred the Vila for their difference. For the fact that their magic was the stronger breed. Vila power takes light magic and distorts it. And they loathe you for it.”
The scar on my middle aches, and I imagine that I can feel Endlewild’s grip bruising my arms as he pinned me down and held his staff to my skin. More than ever I’m certain that the book the Fae lord gave me was another instrument of his torture. That he wanted me to believe I was an abomination. Unworthy of even the air I breathed.
The angle of the sun has changed, casting me in shadow. Kal closes the distance between us in two sweeping strides.
“History is written by victors.” He cups my face in his ice-cold hands. Frost tickles my nose. “Embrace your gift. Your heritage. Such wild, untapped power. You are perfect.”
No one has ever, ever called me that word before. And I can’t help the sob that thunders up my throat. Kal pulls me close, tucks my head under his chin. I let my arms wrap around his waist, not even caring that it feels like I’m embracing a solid block of ice. That his heartbeat is slow and irregular and so faint I might be imagining it.
“It is the Graces who are monsters,” he says softly, his wintry breath on the shell of my ear. “For letting you believe such things about yourself.”
Long-held pain and resentment bleeds out of me, scraping me clean. Until I am an empty, hollow husk. I do not know what to say. What to do.
“I will never treat you so poorly.” Kal pulls back and tips my chin up. I see nothing of deception in his onyx gaze. Only appreciation. And caring, something I hardly recognize.
I wipe my freezing, wet cheeks with my sleeve. “Teach me, then.”
* * *
—
I return to Lavender House in the early evening, after a grueling training session.
I’m still not ready to Shift, and so we focused on my Vila power. Kal explained that it was easy for me to sabotage Rose’s patrons because I wanted fiercely to punish her. My intent was strong. But I must learn to steer my magic the way a rider controls her horse. And like any fledgling rider, I’m thrown on my ass more often than not—especially when the magic of another object is difficult to find. Which is why the small rock Kal bid me sculpt into a beastly gargoyle turned out as a lumpy, larger rock. And then the sword he wanted me to forge from a thorn was just a dull, rusty dagger. By the end of it, my head was pounding and my muscles spent.
Even as my body screams for a hot meal and my own bed, I’m anxious to delve into the book Kal gave me. The pages seem to whisper to me from my sack, begging to be read. And so I don’t even notice when Mistress Lavender and the others are waiting for me in the main parlor.
“What have you done now?” It’s Marigold who pipes up first, her lemon-drop hair done up in a honeycomb cluster. Golden powder crusts her bronze cheeks.
I look from one to the next. Marigold and Rose are watching me like cats with cornered mice. Laurel with an expression that might be sympathy. And Mistress Lavender taps a cream-colored roll of parchment against the arm of her chair, her face pinched with worry.
The sack slips off my shoulder. Do they know where I’ve been? About Kal? About my magic? I hand my cloak off to a servant, trying to hide the tremor in my limbs.
Delphine slides me a sly glance as she pretends to be arranging tomorrow’s schedules at her desk, crisp envelopes clacking on polished wood.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I attempt, as evenly as I can. “I had no patrons and I spent the day gathering enhancements.”
Rose scoffs, exchanging an eye-roll with Marigold. I breathe a hope that no one asks to look in my sack and discovers Kal’s book.
“It appears you’re wanted at the palace.” Mistress Lavender says slowly, as if she can’t quite believe it herself.
“To be punished.” Rose smirks.
“You don’t know that.” Laurel rearranges the hunter-green taffeta skirts of her gown—a gown too fine for an evening at home. Why is she dressed like that? And Mistress Lavender is wearing her official Head of Household golden sash. Embroidered lavender flowers dance along the hem. The Grace seal, picked out in amber stones, shines in the lamplight.
“The royal family is hosting an intimate dinner, to which we are invited.” For all her obsession over rank, I would think Mistress Lavender would be elated. Ours is one of the minor Grace houses, and we’re rarely afforded such exclusive invitations. But she’s looking at the missive like she hopes its contents might have changed. “And your presence is specifically requested.”
She passes the letter to me. I gape at the words as if they’re written in a foreign tongue. But no. There it is. An extra line just after the others’ names:
Alyce, the Dark Grace
A new shot of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. Summoned—to a dinner? That has never happened. I wasn’t even included in the Blooming Ceremony when I began using my gift. I’ve never attended a Grace Celebration. I find Laurel’s curious gaze, but she just lifts her eyebrows.
“It’s because of the duke.” Marigold is quick to fill the silence. The tiny hummingbird baubles dangling from her ears sparkle. “You killed a member of the nobility. They’ll probably execute you.”