Page 81 of Malice

A loud, barking laugh. “If that were the case, my dear, the entire palace would be fast asleep, never to wake.” She giggles again. “I’m happy to see your spirits restored. And I hope to help keep you occupied—while your husband is indisposed.”

The woman murmurs something, breathless. And I move away, uninterested in the bed play of Briar’s upper class. Foreboding thrums at the base of my neck. So the king has deployed his brooches. But he’s sent no guards to arrest me for blatantly ignoring his orders.

I don’t have time to puzzle out what that might mean. The herald at the royal entrance bangs his dragon-headed cane and announces the royal family.

Queen Mariel practically floats into the ballroom, the happiest I’ve ever seen her. And she certainly dressed for the occasion—as though the royal wedding might take place this very night. A collar of teardrop pearls and enormous diamonds glitters on her neck. Her bodice and skirts are studded with ruby Briar roses. From this angle, it appears as if her crown of bramble and thorns is drenched in fresh Etherian blood.

Tarkin is a step behind her as always, wearing enough jewel-encrusted chains and bright-ribboned medals to sink him to the bottom of the Carthegean Sea. Outrage shoots from the tips of my toes and tingles in the roots of my hair when I think of what he stole from me. It takes every ounce of self-control not to send my power into him and grind his magic to dust.

“Loyal subjects.” The Briar King maneuvers around his wife. “This is a most anticipated night, when the stars have at last aligned for our beloved daughter and heir, Aurora.”

There’s a ripple in the crowd, a hundred necks craning, and then Aurora glides into view. I was not ready to see her. A gasp wrenches free from my lungs. Though most of the guests are dressed in their winter brocades and velvets, Aurora wears a close-cut silk that sets all the courtiers whispering. The gown is a deep plum color, riddled with hints of crimson that wink and glow like embers in the candlelight. Delicate lace sleeves hang from gilded straps on her shoulders. The neckline is square and low, exposing the elegant lines of her collarbone. A high garnet choker climbs the column of her neck.

I remind myself that I’m angry with her. Clench my fists, repeating the litany of wrongs in my mind. She used me. Discarded me. But all I really feel in the chambers of my treasonous heart is the desire for her to look at me. To speak to me again. To touch me. To—

I force myself to look away.

The king drones on, but his words are warped and run together. Something about the excitement of the curse breaking and the new royal family soon to be. And then there is another crack on the marble floor, loud enough to jar my attention back to the present.

“Prince Elias of Ryna.”

Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the same colors I saw flapping on his standards—navy and bronze—is the star-chosen prince. The room is quiet enough that I can hear every thump of his boots like a hammer against my breastbone. He is handsome. Several nearby courtiers comment on his brushed copper skin and strong jaw. And he does not have the cruel look of the Briar King. The corners of Elias’s lips turn up in a soft smile. His brown eyes are kind. He stops two steps below where Aurora waits and sweeps into a low, effortless bow. Waits until she offers her hand before he takes it.

When their fingers meet, recognition eddies between them. This is not some stranger Aurora’s parents flung at her head. She knows this man. Anticipated his arrival.

And she is radiant.

Light glows from beneath her skin, more than any Grace could have gifted her. Her expression filled with something that makes the floor tip beneath my slippers—hope. Shewantsthis, I realize miserably. Wantshiskiss to break the curse. One by one, every moment we shared together wilts. Every promise she made crumbles to ash.

The room holds its breath as Prince Elias rises to Aurora’s level and asks her permission to kiss her. She agrees—blushes,damn it all—and then he bends. Closer and closer, driving knives into my belly with each inch. Aurora’s eyes close. Her chin lifts. And then the prince brushes a chaste kiss on her parted lips.

Nothing happens.

Tarkin’s mustache jumps. He whispers something to the queen, who inserts herself between the couple and jerks Aurora’s sleeve up her forearm.

Mariel’s jaw sets. She shakes her head.

A chorus of disappointment begins to swell, the court launching into motion once again. Aurora’s expression slackens. And though I should feel some measure of satisfaction in the way she blinks away tears, in the defeated slump of her shoulders, all I feel is pain. I want to go to her. Comfort her. And I hate myself for it.

What happens next is a blur. The king calls for order, trying to piece together a half-baked speech about hope and perseverance. The apparently not-so-star-chosen Prince Elias offers another bow and leaves, Aurora close behind him.

Is she chasing him? Consoling him?

I am quick on her heels, dodging clusters of courtiers and harried servants. Ducking under arms and narrowly missing dancers. I catch a glimpse of Rose, gossiping madly with some other Graces. Laurel, who takes a second look at me as I fly past.

The door behind the dais slams shut as Aurora’s plum train swishes into darkness. And the two men guarding it, each of whom boast tree trunks for arms, don’t look particularly inclined to let me through.

Summoning my courage, I veer around a pair of women who seem much more concerned about the taste of each other’s necks than what happened with the princess, and huddle behind an opal-veined pedestal. A huge, heavy vase rests on top. Peonies and roses and dahlias overflow from the rim, petals brightening and dimming in every imaginable hue as the seconds tick by. What I need is a distraction.

I press my palms into the stone and send my power to search for the magic there. I think I find it, but the pedestal’s drowsy heart is buried too deeply for me to command properly. And so I venture elsewhere, seeking instead the slippery current of magic in the water in the vase. That is simple to manipulate. It swells under my power, almost willing as I tighten my darkness around it and push through my command. The water churns. Steam rises from the lip of the vase, porcelain groaning as it heats. There’s a rumbling gurgle. A scalding droplet leaps out and sizzles on the cold marble. A fissure races up from the rounded base of the vase. The colossal thing wobbles. Moans.

And then bursts in a deafening explosion of glass and porcelain. An answering scream ricochets around the chamber as shards of vase and blistering water find gowns and exposed skin. The guards scatter toward the conflicting cries, swords drawn.

And in the commotion, for the first time and fueled by my overwhelming need, I Shift myself to complete invisibility and slip into the torch-lit corridor.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

My feet are too slow.