Malice (Malice Duology #1)(62)
“Find me, my pet.”
I dig my fingers into Aurora’s back as a scream wrenches free from my lungs. And then, just as suddenly as it all began, everything stills. The flames vanish in a cloud of smoke. The chalk on the floor chars to ash. And there is no voice but mine and Aurora’s, both of us still braced together, panting and breathless.
Aurora lets go first, gaping at the destruction of the room. Yellowed, ripped-out pages flutter to the floor. Shards of glass glitter in pools of sticky syrup. Fingers of thick, black smoke slink from the rim of the pot, filling the Lair with a putrid stench. My stomach sinks, mentally tallying up the coin it will take to replace what’s been ruined.
“What was that?”
I stiffen at the question, my knees still trembling.
“I don’t know.”
The lie is easier than the truth. I was sure the ritual was superstitious nonsense. Even if it did work, I thought we might get a glimpse of where the Vila’s magic still dwells. A cave or barren field in Malterre where she must have died during the war. But this—this is the second time the Vila appeared to me. The first, in the mirror, was easy to dismiss as an illusion. But tonight—I’d called and she’d answered.
“There’s power in you. More than you know.” Hilde’s words come back to me, the syllables warping until they sound like the shrilling of the deathknot.
Needing a distraction, I free Callow from the bucket and return her to her perch. I attempt to feed her a scrap of meat, but she snaps at my fingers and sets to fussing with her tousled feathers. She’ll not be forgiving me anytime soon.
Aurora stares at the hearth, its embers still an unearthly shade of green. “Have you ever seen a fire do that? Do you think it was the Vila? The one who cast my curse?”
“If it was, we’re no closer to discovering her magic.” That much is true. The Vila’s cryptic message was utterly useless. My head begins to ache. This was my own fault. What had Hilde said—that the deathknot brought nothing but trouble? I should have listened.
“I’m sorry about the mess.” Aurora rubs at her forearm. The thorned-rose curse mark beneath her sleeve. “But I…I wanted to hope.”
I busy myself with picking up broken bottles, unable to meet her gaze any longer.
Because as much as I feared the ritual, I’d wanted to hope, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The sinister face from the fire reemerges in my dreams. Laughing at me. Opening its mouth to swallow me whole. Shred me to ribbons with its gnashing teeth. I sit bolt upright, heart pounding. The sweat-soaked bedsheets cling to my legs. My fingers ache from clenching the pillows. I force down heaving, uneven breaths, an overripe taste like rotten fruit in my mouth.
Dragging a hand through my damp hair, the previous night comes back to me. It had taken hours to clean the mess, especially since I insisted Aurora return to the palace right away. She wanted to stay, but I couldn’t have her discovered missing. Not after what we’d done. Not with her hand cut by my knife and her blood mixed with mine in a Nightseeker ritual. And so it wasn’t until the first call of a morning lark, the autumn dawn bright after the storm’s fury, that I’d made it back upstairs to my own bed, every muscle throbbing.
And now it looks like it might be close to noon. The sun through my window is warm for this time of year, and the sounds of the Grace District babble below. Errand boys call back and forth. Carriages rattle along the cobblestones. But if it’s so late, why hasn’t my schedule appeared? I throw myself out of bed as quickly as my body will let me, tug on a fresh dress, and splash some water on my face. It’s nowhere near the level of grooming I need to cover what happened last night.
“Here she is.” A grating voice intercepts me at the top of the stairs. Marigold scowls at me from the lower landing. “What were you doing last night?”
My hand flies to the railing before I topple over it. Did I sweep up the ash from the diagram? Had I left the Nightseeker book out? My head is still too fuzzy to remember.
“Why did no one wake me?”
“Mistress had to cancel your patron appointments because of the intolerable reek from your chambers.” As if to illustrate, Marigold lifts a silk sachet dangling from the butterscotch sash of her gown and presses it into her nose.
“The…” I breathe in deeply. There it is. The awful stench from whatever the ritual did with the deathknot. I must have inhaled so much last night that I’m immune to it.
“We’ve barely been able to keep it out of the parlors. And you’re lucky the food in the kitchen wasn’t tainted.” She leans forward and sniffs. “Ugh! And you smell even worse.”
I’m so relieved I sink onto the stairsteps, leaning against the vined carvings on the railing slats. The tip of a wooden leaf pokes into my forehead.
“Tell her how terrible she smells, Rose.” Marigold flaps her handkerchief in my direction as the sound of slippered footsteps nears. “Simply awful. The stench will never leave us.”
Not a muscle of Rose’s face moves. She picks at a starfish-shaped brooch pinned to her bodice. The citrine gems gleam in the shafts of sunlight flooding the entry hall. And I notice something else, too. The sallowness of Rose’s skin. Her cheeks are gold, but only because of an artificial rouge. Her eyes are sunken and dulled, a result of the bloodrot. Apprehension twinges in my chest, wondering how much she’s taking and how often.