Malice (Malice Duology #1)(7)

“Oh. Is that not what you are? Forgive me.” She smiles, snakelike, and I fight the impulse to stuff that list down her throat. “But since you are free and all the servants are busy helping the Graces.” She bobs the paper in my direction, as if offering a treat to her insipid dog.

Laurel looks at me, a question in her eyes. I consider just walking away. But then Rose would only whine to Mistress Lavender, who would then probably have me fetch what Rose needs anyway, along with everything on everyone else’s lists. And then Rose would have the satisfaction of both winning and seeing me scolded. I grit my teeth and yank the paper out of her hand hard enough to rip the corner.

    At least this way I’ll get a break from her company.



* * *



—

Rose’s list is filled with the usual enhancements. Flowers like juniper and mountain laurel and others that we don’t grow in our own garden. There are also robin’s eggs and crow feathers and birch wood. Unlike the Etherians themselves, who wield their magic with their staffs, a Grace must employ enhancements to shape her elixirs. So when a patron wants their eyes shaded a certain color—as with Lady Dulcet’s frequent requests for Rose to turn hers lavender—a Grace might take the desired hue from a plant and mix it with her own gilded blood. Laurel uses sage and yew and mint in her elixirs to stimulate different parts of her patrons’ minds.

I also need enhancements, though I have nowhere near the store of knowledge about my own abilities that the Graces enjoy. Grace magic has been studied since the first Fae-blessed infant appeared in Briar. The number of Graces born per year varies—sometimes as many as twelve and sometimes none at all. But always female and always marked by a shock of vibrant hair, golden eyes, and golden-colored blood to match. Once identified, the infants are given over to the care of the Crown and raised in nurseries, where they spend their first fifteen years learning their craft and determining the nature of their gift. Eventually each is presented at the Blooming Ceremony to begin her work.

    But that was not my story. There was no bittersweet parting as my parents handed me off to the Grace Council and accepted their stipend. No coddled childhood in a nursery with Grace mothers coaxing and sheltering my burgeoning gift.

I was discarded. A squalling infant brought to the Grace Council by a fishmonger in the Common District. All Mistress Lavender told me about the man was that he vehemently swore he wasn’t my father and that he claimed to have found me bundled into a basket in a deserted alley near the harbor. No one knows how I got there, or why I was left, or who my true parents might be. And though my blood carried a spark of magic, I wasn’t permitted to taint the other Grace children in the nursery with my presence. Mistress Lavender volunteered to take me in—persuaded by a bump in salary, no doubt—and sequestered me in the attic room of Lavender House.

Twenty years later, I’m still there.

The Grace pennants in the pink, yellow, and green of our house snap above me as I push the front door open. Almost without my bidding, my gaze travels to the coral-tinged tips of the Etherian mountain range in the north, the border between the mortal lands of Briar and the Fae courts.

In Briar itself, the only magic that exists is that which the Graces and I provide with our blood. But every soul in the realm knows the stories surrounding the Etherian lands. It’s said that the soil in the Fae courts can sprout anything from treasure-bearing trees to treacle-petaled flowers, each one grown from the seed of a whispered wish. That birds sing the future in their melodies. That fish can grant a heart’s greatest desire if swallowed whole when caught. Nearly a thousand years ago, Briar was only a barren wasteland. But that didn’t stop countless mortals from sailing across the Carthegean Sea, marching through our future realm, and trying to breach the mountains and claim the magic of the Fae.

    The Etherians soon grew tired of pushing back army after army. And once Briar was established—the only mortal realm on this side of the Carthegean Sea—the first queen swore to protect the mountain border from encroaching humans. As part of this alliance, the Fae granted Briar permission to mine Etherium—a magic-rich mineral found in the heart of the Etherian Mountains. The ground-up powder can be used to cure ailments, enhance beauty, and I’ve even heard that a strong enough dose can bring feelings of euphoria. With the healing Graces in Briar, we have little need of Etherium’s medicinal properties. But the nobles in the Grace District like to keep vials on hand in order to nurse wine-soaked heads, and small dishes are always provided for patrons to enjoy in the Grace parlors. But the true bliss the mineral brings is in its lucrative overseas trade. The realms across the Carthegean Sea can’t get enough Etherium. And our seemingly endless, exclusive supply is the reason Briar boasts the title of wealthiest realm in the world.

But not even Briar’s ocean-deep coffers grant us the right to set foot beyond the mountains. Etheria belongs to the Fae alone. It’s a restriction that many of the nobles complain is unjust. Some, usually drunk, even claim that they would explore Malterre, the land where the Vila once dwelled. If I look closely enough, I think I can see the shadows dance in the distance. Hear the cry of a lonely raven and detect the pungent bite of sulfur.

    The home of my ancestors.

Malterre is abandoned now, salted with a poison that wiped out nearly all of the cursed race of Vila when humans and Etherians banded together to end the War of the Fae. But the fact of their near extinction does not curb the gruesome tales still circulating about the creatures. That the Vila plucked mortal infants straight from their cradles and replaced them with changelings. That they lured humans to their lairs and used them as slaves. That a mere look from one could turn your blood to ice or stop your heart.