Page 42 of Malice

Kal must scent my uncertainty. He circles me.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Kal has cultivated my gifts. Not tried to drown or bleed them out of me. The puckered half-moon scar on my stomach sears as though freshly made, the phantom pain hitting every nerve. I grit my teeth against it.

“Then try.”

Mustering the dregs of my confidence, I find the cord of my magic, the scent of loam and woodsmoke swelling. At first, my grip slackens, unsure of what I want and how to wield this new ability. Then I look down at my hands. The reptilian blood and nearly translucent skin that has plagued me since the day I was born. Marked me as a monster. As anotherno one wanted.

“Tell it what to do,” Kal coaxes from beside me. “Do not wish. Command.”

Keeping a hold on my power, I picture Laurel. She is seamless and polished. Effortlessly elegant. I dare to imagine myself in the same fashion, and tell my magic to obey. At first, there’s nothing. No invisible limb curling out of me or a thrumming of power. But then the tips of my fingers begin to tingle. My ragged, bitten fingernails lengthen into identical pearly half-moons. The dry, scaly surface of my skin smooths and glows. It happens so quickly I jerk back in surprise, losing my control. The illusion vanishes.

“I— IShifted.” I don’t know whether to be awed or horrified.

“Almost.” Kal puts both hands on my shoulders, directing my focus to him. “Try again. This time, change everything at once. You will know when it is done.”

My magic is waiting for me, warm and buzzing behind my sternum. Eager to be used.

I want to be beautiful,I tell it.

It only wiggles. That was too close to a wish. A mere suggestion. Setting my jaw and steeling my spine, I try again.

Beauty.I don’t picture anyone in particular. Just the idea, pushing it out with everything that I have. To my utter amazement, my magic responds like a horse spurred into a canter. Heat races from my toes to the crown of my head. My bones stretch, a gentle tugging sensation that feels almost comforting. My scalp prickles, hair rising and rearranging as if caught in a sea breeze. Muscles go warm and rubbery, the way they do in a hot bath. The scent of woodsmoke and wet earth wraps around me like a blanket, mixed with something else. Appleblossoms, I think. And spring rain.

And then everything stills. I can feel the cold, salt-soaked wind stinging my cheeks. I blink my eyes open, sleepy and disoriented. I’m taller, I think. Almost eye level with Kal. He is staring at me, his mouth hanging open.

“What is it?” My pulse speeds up. I flex my hands, finding that long, slender fingers have replaced my own. There’s no trace of my Vila blood. My shoes are too big. The bodice of my gown looser. The floor tilts and I think I will faint, but Kal catches me around the waist and guides me closer to the gap in the wall, where the russet-streaked sunset is lighting up a shallow puddle on the stones.

“Look,” he says, herding me forward when he gets too close to the light.

I am numb and shaking, but force one foot in front of the other. Lean over the molten amber mirror. The woman looking back at me widens her eyes. Opens her mouth in a soundless scream. And then the floor hurtles up, meeting my shoulder with a sharp crack before the world winks out like a snuffed candle.

Because it was not my face in the water.

It was Aurora’s.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next day, all I can think about is Aurora’s reflection where mine should have been. The gentle slope of her nose. The hollow of her unmarred throat. I find myself looking for her in every mirror, startled when it’s my own sallow face in the glass.

I’m so distracted that I’m a half-hour late for one patron, and another has to ring the bell until it practically snaps off its cord before I answer. Three broken jars of enhancements later, I’m slogging through teatime, unable to eat a bite as Rose’s vapid court gossip washes over me.

“Alyce?”

When I look up, I find that the entire table is staring at me. My ears burn.

“Sorry,” I mumble, stirring another sugar cube into my tea and grabbing an apricot tart in the hopes that the jolt of sweetness will keep my mind from drifting. Marigold snickers.

“As I was saying,” Mistress Lavender continues, “Delphine will be rescheduling your afternoon patrons.” She slides an envelope across the table, her eyebrows arching up over her half-moon spectacles. “You have a summons from the palace.”

The flaky pastry crust balls in my mouth and glues itself to the back of my throat.

Day summons are rare, the court preferring me to ease their loved ones into death beneath the shroud of nightfall. Accidents happen, I tell myself. Sudden illnesses.

But then I see that the parchment bears a violet wax seal imprinted with a dragon in flight. The royal crest. The apricot jam sours on my tongue.

“Don’t keep them waiting,” Marigold croons.