Malice (Malice Duology #1)(40)
Rose nods in agreement, and Mistress Lavender throws them both a scathing warning. “Graces, that’s enough. To my knowledge, His Majesty is not in the habit of lopping off heads after dessert.”
Marigold pouts. “What about before?”
“It is however”—Mistress Lavender’s attention swivels back to me—“quite an unusual situation. You’ve never been named before. I don’t know what to make of it. Do you, Alyce?”
All I can do is shake my head. Why would the king want me at a dinner? Does he know about Kal? About my true abilities? Has he finally decided to do away with the Dark Grace? My thoughts strike against one another like pieces of flint, goading a flame that will burn me up.
But I have no time to sort them out. Mistress Lavender rings her bell and I’m carted off before I can argue any further.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It takes three highly disgruntled servants working on me, but I’m dressed and ready faster than I believe possible. One of my stiffer black gowns is deemed passable, but Mistress Lavender had it made for me years ago. I despised the thing and never wore it, and now the sleeves don’t quite reach my wrists and the hem is too high to be fashionable. Next to Rose and the other Graces I look like I’m going to a funeral—for someone I hated. My hair refuses to stay pinned in place, the greasy strands slipping out and sliding at odd angles down my neck. The dress couldn’t be aired out before I put it on, so I smell faintly of cedar wood and musty satin. Rose makes sure I know it, wrinkling her nose and coughing into a frothy lace handkerchief the entire carriage ride. Marigold, for her part, acts like I’m not even here, jabbing me with her elbow each time she “rearranges her skirts.”
I’m too lost in my own worries to care, the clopping of the horses’ hooves matching the iron-clad rhythm of my heartbeat. Laurel keeps offering me encouraging looks, but they do little to inspire me. I still feel like I’m on my way to the scaffold.
At the palace, we’re quickly ushered inside. Mistress Lavender tugs out the royal invitation and holds it in front of her like a shield, clearly expecting to need to explain my presence. But the guards make no move to stop me. Don’t even acknowledge me, save for stiffened shoulders and the barest of winces when I draw near. They must have been warned, which makes me even more nervous.
Rose performs an elaborate show of calling out to every courtier we meet on the way to the royal wing, tossing out empty compliments and reminding them to book appointments with her well in advance. To anyone else, she would seem the picture of confidence. But I catch the anxious, too-high pitch of her laugh. The way the Briar roses on her bracelet jangle with each overly enthusiastic wave.
And I see the way the others respond to her as well. Whispers hidden behind gloves and fans. Condescending smiles from other Graces. Dark, suspicious glances flung behind her back like blades. I haven’t meddled with her patrons since I caught her crying in her parlor, but the recent incidents have left a scar on her reputation. I almost feel sorry for her, especially since it’s my fault she’s suffering.
And then Rose veers in just the right way to make me stagger into a statuette of a bronzed dragon. Pain lances up my side as the corner of the marble pedestal finds my hip bone. Maybe I’ll slip an ugliness elixir into her tea.
The décor in this part of the palace is just as nauseating as in the ballroom. Like the rest of the newer wings, the royal private residence was commissioned when the Briar Kings decided that Leythana’s original home had grown too drab for the richest realm in the world. They spared no expense in the renovations.
Instead of sconces, tiny gilded dragons—likely designed by the innovation Graces—line the halls, spewing fire from their miniature snouts. Elaborate arrangements of Grace-cultivated Briar roses burst into bloom in opal-veined vases, petals shifting from lavender to indigo to scarlet. Ornate tapestries woven with scenes of Briar’s history adorn the walls. I’m drawn to one in particular: Leythana being blessed by the Etherians, her crown dripping with glittery gold. There’s another beside it showing the mortal army poisoning Malterre during the War of the Fae. Vila cower and shrivel at the soldiers’ feet, mouths open in wrenching screams. The magic from the innovation Graces makes it appear as though their green blood is still flowing. That the humans are still laughing, victorious. I look away.
Mistress Lavender halts in front of a pair of glass doors featuring a mosaic pattern that’s an exact, smaller copy of the dragon in the ballroom. She announces herself and her Graces, but her voice falters a bit when she gets to me.
The herald’s flat brown eyes widen as he takes me in, and my palms begin to sweat. But he says nothing, only turns in a forced, mechanical motion and slams his dragon-headed cane onto the marble floor. The doors swing open.
“Mistress Lavender, Housemistress of Lavender House, and her charges, their Graces Rose of Beauty, Marigold of Charm, and Laurel of Wisdom. And”—I think I hear him swallow—“the Dark Grace.”
I sense the movement in the room before he steps aside to grant us access. The private dining hall is only about the size of a few of our parlors put together, but a thousand times more intimidating. A dais looms at the other side. King Tarkin and Queen Mariel are already seated at a table with carved dragons for legs, the polished top balancing on the tips of their taloned wings. Servants with plates of hors d’oeuvres hurry back and forth, pretending not to notice my entrance. There are about five or six other tables in front of the dais. One holds the handful of Royal Graces. The wreaths of gilded laurel crowning their vibrant heads gleam as they regard me with curiosity mixed with repugnance. At the other tables, dozens of jewel-laden necks crane in my direction, wine flutes and spoons freezing on the way to gaping lips.