Malice (Malice Duology #1)(45)
Seams pop. Fabric rips. It isn’t enough. I can still see Tarkin leering at me in the night. Endlewild watching my every move like a wolf about to pounce. The same way he looked at me every day during his “treatments.” I rip the coverlets off my bed and flip over the mattress. Grab one of the pillows, tear the cover apart with my teeth, and yank the feathers out in fistfuls. The washbasin shatters when I heave over its table, the sound of breaking porcelain undeniably satisfying. The wardrobe is too sturdy to take much damage from my bare hands, but I kick and pound at it anyway. Throw open the doors, toss my pathetic dresses to the floor, and attempt to stomp them into the floorboards.
When I have run out of things to destroy, I crumple amid the mess. Sweat drenches my back and neck. Feathers float around the room and stick to my skin. It is only then that I let myself weep. Sobs wrack me for what feels like hours, days. Until my eyes are swollen and my throat raw and my chest aching. It’s been a long time since I cried like this. The last I can remember was when I was a child, after sessions when I was locked in Endlewild’s frigid, dank chambers for long stretches of time. Burned and pricked and reminded with every horrified glance how different I am. How freakish.
I cry until I can’t anymore, nothing but soft whimpers escaping my salt-stained lips. And then there is only darkness.
* * *
—
Before dawn, I push myself up from the wreckage and clean up what I can. Mistress Lavender will dock my wages if she sees the state of my room. For the first time since my appointment with Duke Weltross, a schedule arrives when the servants make their rounds. I suppose word of my invitation to the palace wormed its way through the Grace District. If the king and queen see fit to dine with me, the nobles must feel far more comfortable soliciting my wares. I squeeze the black-sealed parchment in my fist, wanting nothing more than to feed it to a candleflame. But that would only bring more trouble.
Downstairs, the Graces are taking breakfast. Sunlight streams in from the side gardens, searing against my tear-crusted eyes. The tempo of the hammer in my head increases.
“We couldn’t find you after dinner.” Marigold wastes no time, dunking a strawberry the size of her palm into a bowl of whipped cream. “We thought you’d been called for another ‘appointment.’?”
Laurel’s gaze darts up from the open book balancing on the edge of the table.
“No.” I serve myself a boiled egg and a thick slice of toast. Food is the last thing I want, but I’m weak and dehydrated and know that I’ll need my strength to get through the day. The others watch me closely, clearly expecting me to explain. I don’t.
“Well then.” Rose fusses with the tie of her fuchsia dressing gown, then slips a scrap of bacon to Calliope, who accepts it and trots off in glee. “Where were you? I think I saw the queen spirit you away. And I can’t imagine what she would want with someone like you, if not commanding a service.”
The toast tastes like ash, but I chew slowly, deliberately, breathing so that I don’t visibly bristle. Marigold titters into her napkin.
“Actually, the queen did speak with me.” I dab at my mouth. “It seems one of the Royal Graces is Fading.”
Rose and Marigold suck in a breath in unison. Marigold leans forward, elbows on the tablecloth, oblivious to the way her long dandelion sleeves are trailing into the butter dish.
“Really? Which one?”
“She didn’t say.” I give a noncommittal shrug. “But Her Majesty is searching for a replacement.”
Rose’s teacup is frozen midway to her lips. “Surely she hinted at someone?”
“Oh, yes. She has her mind quite made up.”
“And?” The word sounds more like a creak of rusty iron.
I drizzle honey into my tea.
“She asked if I might be willing to fill the role.”
Rose’s china cup drops back to its saucer. Tea splashes onto the tablecloth. She snatches up her fork so fiercely I think she might stab me with it. “Liar.”
“I suppose you’ll never know.” I pop a few blueberries into my mouth. “Unless you wish to ask the queen herself. At one of your own private audiences.”
Rose’s chair falls over as she launches from her seat. Calliope comes skittering back into the room, yipping at whatever perceived threat upset her mistress.
“One day, you’ll get what you deserve.” Rose’s pink curls vibrate. And then she’s gone in a storm of swirling silk and ribbons. Marigold glares at me and follows, but not before swiping a last pastry from the basket.
“My gift compels me to tell you you’re treading on thin ice.” Laurel doesn’t even look up as she speaks. “You’re a sheep among wolves, Alyce.”
“Am I?” I start in on my egg, hand trembling slightly from the rush of so thoroughly enraging Rose. For a heartbeat, my nails appear as claws as I pick off a bit of shell. “Or am I the wolf, and they’re the sheep?”
Laurel’s golden eyes meet mine, sharp against the dark black of her face. “I imagine we’ll find out soon enough.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Over a month passes without incident. Without any additional invitations to the palace. Not that I care. Aurora sends me several notes, but I feed them to the hearth in my Lair. I’ve no wish to trifle with the queen. Aurora is a princess, and I’m a…someone princesses definitely do not associate with. She’ll forget me in time—just as Pearl predicted. Better sooner than later.