Page 17 of Malice

I’ve heard Rose express similar sentiments. Though they share the same golden blood, the Etherians want little to do with the Graces they create with their blessings. To the Fae, the Graces are part of an alliance agreement. An end to the war that almost destroyed Etheria. But they’re bitter about having to share any part of their magic with the humans. Though technically kin to the Fae, the Graces have no claim on the magical power that threads through Etheria. Their human heritage taints their gilded blood, the same way that the Vila taints mine.

“We were talking about your house.” He sends me spinning and reels me back in, and I try to steady my breathing and let Endlewild blur into nothing. “Let me guess. Lark House? They had an influx of newly Bloomed Graces at the last ceremony.”

Gold dances like a flame among the Graces on the dance floor. It flashes in the swish of satin and the jangle of bracelets. The dozens of honeyed eyes skirting around us.

“And what is your gift?” Arnley bends me into a graceful dip, one of his eyebrows quirking up as his hand on my back drifts slightly lower than it ought to be. And I can’t help but notice the cleft in his chin. The shadow of stubble on his jaw. “You’re certainly filled to bursting with charm. And wit.”

Heisshameless. The musicians reach the end of this dance and begin another, but Arnley doesn’t change partners. He repositions his arms and twirls me in time to the faster tempo.

“Or perhaps.” He steps behind me and lifts me up, the words tickling the crook of my neck. “A pleasure Grace?”

I blaze hot and cold at the same time. Pleasure Graces are gifted in the more…intimate arts. I can see a few of them now. Crimson-lipped and full-bodied. Several of them are wearing more Grace powder than gowns, like living, gilded statues sipping fizzy wine and fawning over ruddy-cheeked nobles. It’s of little surprise that a few of those men sport the Grace sigil pinned to their lapels, denoting their status as members of the Grace Council.

“Certainly not.”

Arnley laughs. “Not a pleasure Grace, then. That’s all right. I’ve never needed one.” He trails a black-gloved finger down my jawline, just under the ridge of the mask. “Not charm or wit or pleasure. You must be—”

“Amongrel.”

My head yanks back hard enough to crack my neck. My arms pinwheel, hands batting at thin air.

“What are you doing?” Arnley flings the question at someone else, rescuing me before I topple over.

But it’s too late. Ribbons snapped, my mask slips from my face and meets the craggy facets of a sapphire embedded in the floor. I stand staring at the ruined pieces. The false diamonds glisten, like petrified tears. A peony-pink heel grinds mercilessly into the feathers.

“I knew I recognized that cloak when you walked in.” The dancers nearest us, two fox-tailed men, slow to a halt. “You’ve no right to wear it.”

Arnley’s grip is still tight on my arms. Protective. “Rose, what are you…?”

“Lookat her, Arnley.”

He leans away. I feel rather than hear his sharp intake of breath. And then his hands loosen. He backs away instantly, as if he’s been burned.

“The Dark Grace.”

An all-too-familiar muttering ricochets through the crowd. My arms lock around my middle, as if I can shield myself. As if I could do anything to prevent what I know is coming.

“That’s right, Arnley.” The venom in Rose’s voice is sticky-sweet. “You’ve been dancing withMalycethis whole night. I hope she didn’t curse you.”

I drag my gaze up. And I would have thought that twenty years of enduring a realm’s hatred would have prepared me for the expression on Arnley’s face. Fear mixed with revulsion. Blanching, he scrubs his hands against his trousers. My eyes begin to sting.

Vaguely, I realize the music has stopped. It seems the entire ballroom circles our trio now, gasps rippling from the inside out as the news of my identity spreads. I catch a glimpse of the ladies I’d seen before. They lean into each other, even the butterflies on their gowns stilling.

“You thought you could come here and be one of us?” Rose laughs, brittle and cruel. She stomps on the mask again. Ebony shards spin wildly in every direction. “You’ll never be. You don’t belong here.”

On the royal dais, Tarkin rises, clearly debating whether he should have me forcibly removed by the guards. Mariel shrinks into his side. But it isn’t the Briar King who turns my guts to pudding. It’s the Etherian ambassador, the orb of his staff glowing hot as his magic builds. He stares me down, thin lips pressed into a line. I can smell his loathing from here.

Anger and humiliation ball up inside my chest, stabbing their thorns into the underside of my flesh. Into my bones. Until my vision tinges red. I want nothing more than to give these people exactly what they so clearly desire. Spit my cursed blood in their faces and watch them shrivel. Poison their wine. Murder their children.

But I am not fool enough to think I would live beyond my first strike.

And so, coward that I am, I pick up my skirts and sprint toward the first door I can find, a parting tide of party guests in my wake.

CHAPTER NINE

I run until one of my infernal slippers tears and sends me sprawling. Rage boils in my veins. I snatch up the shoe and hurl it as far from me as possible. My dress is in shambles. The skirt is torn where my throbbing knees met the ground, the fabric billowing like shredded cobwebs.

I force down breaths soaked in earth and dew and pace back and forth between the manicured hedges on either side of me. No matter how hard I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, I can still see the courtiers. Rose’s triumphant smirk as Arnley staggered away from me. The horrified expressions of the women with the butterfly sashes. I knew better than this. That I could never be one of them. And yet I let myself hope that just for one night—