I read one story in which a Shifter bargained with a mortal—a year of the human’s service in exchange for a pair of wings. The human was unaware that a Shifter can only change its own body. And so after the year was up, the Shifter fashioned a pair of wings out of wax and fixed them to the human’s shoulders. Overjoyed, the mortal leapt off the nearest cliff. He soared over the waves of the Carthegean Sea, but the wings soon melted in the heat of the sun, sending the unwitting mortal to crash into the water and drown.
I cannot be a Shifter.
If the prisoner spoke true, why wasn’t I killed, like all the other Shifters I’d read about? Destroyed before they could wreak havoc on the realm. Why did the Briar King let me exhale a single breath once he knew of my existence?
The questions rend me to ribbons. Corrupt my dreams when I stumble into spurts of sleep. In the swirling images, fur sprouts from my skin and my teeth lengthen into fangs. I try to run, but my legs are fins or spindly spider’s legs and I cannot move, only scream and—
Something slams into my shoulder hard enough to throw me halfway off the bed.
“Get up, you useless creature.”
I catch myself before I fall to the floor and then wince against the white blur of the morning. A shadow looms over me.
“How am I supposed to treat my patrons without ground peacock feathers?”
A petal-pink curl dangles in front of my face. Rose. She tosses a broken vial at my fingertips, and I’m barely able to jerk away before the shards lodge in my skin. I groan, hefting myself upright. That damn sack. In my flight from the black tower, my clumsy hands had dropped it more than once. I’m surprised only the one vial was smashed.
“I’ll get another.” I rub the sleep from my eyes.
“Oh no, you won’t.” Rose taps her slipper and the bells sewn onto the toes jingle. “I’ve already sent a servant. But it will come out of your wages. Mistress Lavender said.”
I doubt that, but I’m too groggy to argue. “That’s fine. Get out.”
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Glass crunches under her heel.
“Someone was dragged off the wrong side of the bed.”
“It’s your own fault if you’re lazy. I’ve been up for ages. Already had three patrons.”
“How’s your blood looking?” It’s a low jab, but an effective one. Twin splotches, like gilded dandelions, erupt on Rose’s cheeks. “Finding any silver specks?”
“My blood looks far better than yours.” She sneers. “I’d jump off the Crimson Cliffs if I had green in my veins. Do everyone a favor.”
“Careful, Rose.” I rest my chin on my knees and grin. “You never know what the Dark Grace might do. Poor thing. Your teeth are still a bit gray around the edges.”
She snaps her lips closed and whirls, the bells on her shoes tinkling.
“Speaking of patrons,” she calls over her shoulder. “Yours have been waiting for the past half hour.”
The door slams behind her and I bark out a litany of curses, rushing to pick out a fresh dress. The black wax seal of Delphine’s schedule, still waiting to be broken, glares at me from the floor. A servant must have slipped it under the door on their rounds to wake the Graces. But I’d been sleeping too deeply to hear their knock. Dragon’s teeth! Mistress Lavender hates for patrons to wait; it makes them more likely to bring their business to another house and lower our standings. And even if I am the Dark Grace, the only one in the realm, she insists I adhere to the same standard of service as the others.
I rake a comb through my lank, oily hair and splash some water on my face. The reflection in my spotted mirror isn’t inspiring. But I drag myself downstairs anyway, stuffing a breakfast roll in my mouth and ripping open my schedule before heading to the Lair.
“Alyce, really,” Mistress Lavender chides, herding me through the kitchen. “The ball is tonight. The house cannot afford any mistakes.”
I mutter a few apologies while she continues to rant about duty and service and Lavender House’s rank, then I scuttle out the door.
For the rest of the day I entertain patrons: I whip up elixirs to leaden nimble feet. To tarnish lustrous skin and snub graceful noses. To replace a pleasant singing voice or musical laugh with the squawk of a crow. It doesn’t matter if the victims have already employed the service of a Grace. My magic is stronger, a fact we learned when it was decided that I was to open my own practice and the Grace Council was testing the limits of my power against the Graces’。 A Grace can attempt to cover the effects of my elixirs, but the darkness always bleeds through. The ill effects of my magic Fade eventually, but they cannot be completely undone, not even by the healing Graces. Much as I abhor being the Dark Grace, my blood’s power to thwart the Graces’ always gives me a rush of victory.