Malice (Malice Duology #1)(81)
“I’m not a prisoner,” Rose says quickly. Automatically—as if she’s said it often to others. Or to herself.
“Aren’t you?” I finish applying the ointment to her hand and begin to wrap it with a clean cloth. “Forced by law to spend your gift on nobles who have little interest in you once you’ve Faded? I was at the trial, too. What they did to Narcisse was…” I can’t bring myself to go on. Narcisse’s ghostly presence flickers between us. “You’re worth more than your blood.”
Rose scoffs. “You sound like Laurel. Soft and weak. We’re nothing without our gifts. What do you think would have happened to you if that grotesque shade of green didn’t mean you had power? You would have been killed. A mongrel not worth her own breath.” The rage in my veins burns hotter. My wrapping is brutal, too tight. But I don’t ease up. Rose doesn’t, either. “And I’ve read my birth records. I would have been a sailor’s daughter had I not been gifted. I would have had no fine things. No admirers or importance. I’d be barely better than the fish sold in the Common District. I want more than that. And so would you, if you had any sense.”
“I have sense enough to know when I’m being used.” I tie up the bandage roughly enough to make her yelp. “What the royals give, they can take away. And they will—as soon as it suits them. Just as they did to Narcisse.”
For half a breath, I think I see anguish flash behind her Fae-blessed eyes. Her fingers twitch, like she wants to reach out to me. But I must have imagined it. “If you’re finished,” she says, familiar acid back in her tone, “I need to go.”
“You’re not going anywhere but to bed.” I toss the bloodied water into the fire. Ochre steam rises. Rose looks sick.
“The rug—”
“I’ll clean it.” Dragon knows why. I’m feeling generous, I suppose. Or I know what it’s like to want out of your life so badly you’ll do something desperate. Whatever the reason, it’s not to ingratiate me in Rose’s eyes. She doesn’t even thank me.
Rose stands, still unsteady on her feet. She runs a shaky hand through the remains of her chignon and my insides clench.
“Rose.”
“What is it?” she snaps.
I approach her slowly, as one would a cornered animal, and reach my fingers into her snow-matted ringlets.
“What is it?” But the question wobbles in a way that tells me she already knows.
Carefully, I tug a lock free, stretching it out under Rose’s nose. She doesn’t scream, but her mouth hangs open. And then a horrible, inhuman keening escapes her.
The once vibrant-pink curl is silver.
CHAPTER THIRTY
If any of the servants saw the evidence of Rose’s accident before I cleaned her parlor, they have the good sense not to let on. It had taken me until the small hours of the morning to finish scrubbing the blood from the rug, marveling at my own stupidity all the while. A parting gift, I kept telling myself—not that Rose deserves one.
Before I herded her upstairs, Rose had taken a pair of my scissors and cut her silver streak, close to her scalp so her dressing maid wouldn’t see any traces of the telltale color. It could have been the shock of losing so much of her blood so quickly that made her hair turn. She kept telling me so as I helped her to bed, shaking and whimpering and entirely unlike the Rose I’ve known for the past several years. For her sake, I hope it does grow back as rosy as ever. If not—a chill goes through me when I think of what she might do. Of her face at breakfast the next morning, when she found out Pearl was chosen as the ascending Royal Grace. The slump of her shoulders when Mistress Lavender offered threadbare condolences laced with disappointment about the loss for our house standings.
It makes no sense for me to feel pity for someone who has made my life a living hell since she stepped through the gates of Lavender House. But I do. Rose’s gift is the only thing that makes her feel in control of her destiny. And it’s slipping away.
A few days after the incident, I’m in my Lair, adding to my patron log—a fat book that I’ll turn in to Mistress Lavender at the end of the month. Inside the wide columns, I note the kinds of elixirs I was asked to create, as well as the amount of blood I’d spilled, in drops, for each. Every Grace is required to report these details to her housemistress and the Grace Council, who then use the information to determine the strength of a Grace. Concerns arise when a Grace who once needed only three drops of blood to craft an elixir begins to need four or more. Or when her elixirs begin to Fade faster than in the past.
Given the pressure of house standings and the ever-present fear of Fading, it’s tempting for Graces to lie about the amount of blood they expend per elixir. Rose has accused Pearl of such deceit when she thinks only Marigold can hear her. But if Pearl is lying, the Grace Council would know soon enough. Patrons aren’t shy of lodging complaints with housemistresses if their elixirs wear off quickly or don’t manifest as intended. And after Narcisse, I’m not sure if any Grace will be brave enough to anger the Crown by being caught in such a scheme.
There’s a knock at my door and I admit a waifish servant carrying my earnings in a black velvet pouch. I take it and wave him off, spilling the contents onto the open pages of my book and counting. One hundred gold, more than a usual week’s work. My patrons, it seems, are noticing my growing power. My schedule lengthens by the day. Let them take advantage of it while they can. The Dark Grace will not be in residence for much longer.