Page 25 of Malice

The crisp points of the crumpled parchment dig into my palm. “Not by all,” I answer. “But by enough.”

—

This time, I am not welcomed at the swirling gates of the palace. The Weltrosses’ servant leads me through an achingly familiar back entrance. I remember my first visit through these cloistered halls. My knees could hardly hold me and my hands slipped on my kit, knowing I was here to end a life. Torn about whether or not I could do it.

The Grace Laws regarding these services are gray at best, and the Grace Council has conveniently neglected to clarify them. While Grace magic can’t be used to intentionally cause harm, the definition ofharmis loose. After all, Graces can only produce blessings and charms with their Fae-blessed blood. Rose couldn’t use her beauty gift to hurt a fly. But Laurel, for instance, could potentially employ her enhanced wisdom to discern the best way to cause someone pain or the best strategy in battle. Treasonous practices when used against Briar.

Since I am half Vila, mine is the only power able to inflict direct, premeditated harm. And while I can’t sell a poison knowing that it would be used to murder someone in good health, giving that elixir to the terminally ill or injured is a different matter. I don’t know how Mistress Lavender first thought of the practice, or if it was even her idea at all. But once my skill in the darker arts began to manifest, the task fell like an iron weight on my shoulders. For an exorbitant amount of coin, one can hire the Dark Grace to ease a passing. The patron must be known to be near death—too far gone for either a healing Grace or Etherium to have any effect—and there must be witnesses. But I can do it.

No, I amrequiredto do it under Grace Law.

Even though I don’t want to.

Even though it only solidifies my reputation as a murderess.

It is a reputation that crests behind me in whispers and black looks as I’m led through the labyrinth of stairs in the back of the palace. Servants, arms laden with silver tea trays, bottles of wine, cheeses, and fruits, scuttle like mice. They give us a wide berth, some of them almost tripping over their toes as my identity registers on their faces. I keep my hood raised, as if the material could shield me from their razor-sharp judgment.

The Weltrosses’ chambers are in the wings closest to the older, abandoned part of the palace. But nothing of Leythana’s first home is evident here. The apartments are huge and lavish, filled with gilt-framed portraits and frescoed ceilings and crystal chandeliers, their iridescent prisms cut in the shape of delicate roses. But the reek of stale sick and creeping death tarnishes the finery. I don’t know how the duchess stands it, especially as the acrid scents mingle with the candle smoke and earthy, burning herbs some healing Grace probably recommended. Herbs that are by no means helping.

The duchess has the decency to greet me herself when her servant announces my presence, leaving the duke’s bedside and approaching me with wary footsteps. He’s been like this for days, I can tell immediately just from the circles ringing the underside of both of her eyes. Her scarlet dressing gown is wrapped tightly around her frame, which is all sharp angles and jutting bones. The light from the fireplace shines against her warm black skin, highlighting the gaunt hollows of her cheeks.

“I did not know what else to do.” Her voice is strained. Exhausted.

Part of me wants to take one of her too-thin hands in mine. Soothe her and tell her she did the best she could. That her husband will be out of pain soon. But then her nose wrinkles slightly as she takes in the rainwater stains on my dress and the other evidence of my afternoon at the black tower. I didn’t have time to change before leaving Lavender House, much less even wash my face. I grip my kit harder.

“There must be another witness,” I tell her. “And his doctor.”

The duchess murmurs something to the servant, who flits away and returns with two others in tow. Dr. Renault is one. I recognize her sallow white face and badgerlike features from some of my other visits. The other person is a round woman who keeps sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“This is the duke’s sister,” Duchess Weltross says, indicating the weeping woman. “Surely her presence as witness is sufficient?”

I nod and direct my next question to Renault. “Has everything been done to assist this man?”

She watches me stiffly from behind a veil of disdain so thick it ripples. The weasly woman has never liked me. Doctors rarely do. In truth, any physician could accomplish what I do in these cases. My blood makes a poison more potent, more efficient, but anyone can kill a dying person. They choose to relegate this task to me in order to save themselves from it.

“Yes,” Renault snaps, turning up her nose at me.

“And you’re certain he is beyond your skill?” I love asking that question. Forcing them to admit they’ve failed at something. That they had to come to me.

“He is beyond anyone’s skill. Exceptyours.”

Ignoring the insult, I turn my attention to the duke’s sister. “And do you know of any reason he should not be allowed to die? Any person wishing him dead?”

It took years of schooling my features into neutrality for this part of the process. More than once, I’ve had my suspicions about disgruntled wives or husbands and friends with grudges. And I’ve seen my share of patrons who exhibited signs of long-term poisoning. Blackened tongues. Sallow skin laced with brittle veins the color of nightshade berries. But I am not paid to investigate possible murders. So when the bereft witness just shakes her head and prattles off a string of blubbery nonsense through her handkerchief, I make my way to the duke.

He’s in worse shape than I imagined. Each breath he takes is a shuddering, wet rasp. His lips are cracked and white, the insides lined with garish streaks of red. Blood trickles down the side of his mouth. The duchess wipes it away with a gentleness that tugs at my heart.

“Duke Weltross.” This is the most important part. “Do you wish to die?”

Sometimes the patrons can’t reply, they’re so far gone. And the answer doesn’t truly matter. All that counts is that I asked the question. The duke moans. His body twitches. And then, to my immense relief, he nods.

The next part should be quick. I have an elixir ready: belladonna and valerian and foxglove, mixed with a few drops of my blood. A swallow from the patron, and it’s all over. But my hands hesitate on the lid of my kit, remembering what happened earlier with Kal. How I’d found the heart of the storm and commanded it to my will. What was it Kal had said—that even humans have a spark of magic in their souls? I watch the labored rise and fall of the duke’s chest.

What if I could help him? Heal instead of harm?

It isn’t possible,my mind hisses.You’re Vila. Your power is bred from pain and despair. Evil—exactly like Endlewild always claimed.

But Kal said a Vila’s power is ten times that of an Etherian’s. He didn’t seem to think they were the wicked creatures I’ve been raised to believe. My power hinges on intent. What if I could use that intent differently? I could banish my reputation as the Dark Grace tonight.