“A cat.” I school my features into the neutral expression I’ve perfected over the years.
“Yes, a cat.” She fiddles with the buttons at her sleeves. “A cat too pretty for its own good. She’s getting too much attention from the other…cats.”
Dragon’s teeth, she’s even worse than the others. And I once had a man tell me his own rose garden smelled too nice and was attracting bees.
“And you wish to…”
“I don’t want to harm the cat,” the woman says automatically. “I just want…”
“To give her a few warts?” A standard ugliness elixir.
Her gaze brightens in the gloom. How predictable. New patrons are always so grateful when I offer suggestions. I think it makes them feel less the villain. Like they didn’t come here specifically to do harm to someone they’ve convinced themselves deserves it.
The patron nods and I motion for her to sit at a worn wooden table near the hearth as I start assembling ingredients for the elixir. Swamp water. A dash of powdered nightshade. And, for the warts, I cart over the short, boxy cage that houses my toad, Prince Markham.
The woman stammers, flinching as I plop His Highness on the table in front of her. He lets out a belchy croak.
Only the crackle of the flames and the grind of the pestle break the silence as I work. I’m grateful. Sometimes my patrons try to plump up their lies, offering needless explanations and sugarcoated stories. Hoping I’ll nod along. Make it easier on their consciences. I never do. They deserve whatever guilt festers in their guts.
But this woman only chews the inside of her cheek, glancing at the door every few moments as if she’s worried she’ll be discovered. She needn’t be. Every aspect of my craft is steeped in secrecy. Patrons book their appointments with me using a shrouded alcove around the side of the house, built specifically for the purpose. There’s a little screen secured into the wall, where patrons or their servants can murmur their needs to our house manager, Delphine. She even takes the payments through a slot and allows aliases on the bookings, a practice forbidden to the other Graces. If Delphine guesses who the patrons are, she’s paid well enough to keep her mouth shut.
My current patron, who calls herself Mistress Briar—how original—seems to have forgotten about the great care Lavender House has taken to protect her identity. Despite the Lair’s cold, sweat beads on her upper lip and she dabs it away with a lace handkerchief. She jumps every time Callow moves on her perch. Ignoring her restlessness, I hold a long needle over a candle flame, and then with a quiet apology, I pierce one of Prince Markham’s warts. He gurgles in protest as a few drops of his blood, so dark they’re almost black, fall into the waiting vial. I add it to the rest of the mixture.
Now for the most important piece. With a small scalpel, I press down on my finger. A line of green blood—the source of my power—wells. I count to three, inhaling the faint scent of woodsmoke and loam that is my magic, as it dribbles onto the other enhancements. Immediately, the mixture hisses. I stir it with a long spoon until a cloud of black smoke erupts from the mortar. My patron covers her slender, highborn nose and coughs.
“For your cat.” I raise an eyebrow, pouring the elixir into a vial and sliding it across the table. “The more you use, the more warts she’ll get.”
She nods and pockets it, not daring to say another word, not even deigning to thank me.
As the door snicks closed behind her, I curse the familiar sickening feeling that settles like hot coals inside me. I should be used to these requests by now. I can’t even count the number of ugliness elixirs I’ve produced over the years. And I’m bound by the Grace Laws to satisfy my patrons’ needs.
But the woman’s abrupt dismissal still stings, as does every other slight I’ve endured since I began working in Lavender House. My patrons pay good coin for my services, but not one of them would willingly meet my eye if they passed me on the street. I am reviled and despised for the very reasons I’m sought out. A figure of dark, evil magic. A member of a race all but stamped out. A Vila.
A monster.
CHAPTER TWO
“Honestly, if I have to shade Lady Dulcet’s eyes lavender one more time.” Rose selects an apricot tart from a tiered stand at tea that afternoon. Her fluffy rat of a dog, Calliope, whines at her side. “Today was the third appointment this month.”
“It’s in honor of the princess, surely,” Marigold chimes in, slathering a healthy layer of jam onto a scone. “It is her birthday.”