But like a muscle that’s never been used, my power soon tires. And the deeper a heart of magic is buried within an object—as with the stones—the more control it takes to command. By the time I’m done practicing, there’s a hammering behind my eyes and a strange weakness in my mind that softens my brain until it feels like putty. My whole body aches, as if I’ve run up the Etherian mountain range and down again. Even so, I am exhilarated. And when I at last begin to wander home through the humid haze of the storm’s wake, Callow still bristling over nearly having drowned when the storm emptied on her back, I vow to show Briar exactly what the Dark Grace can do.
* * *
—
I return to Lavender House through back alleys dark enough to hide my face and enter through the kitchen. Cook and the servants have already cleaned up from dinner, but I find an apple and don’t even bother wiping the juice from my chin as I inhale its tart sweetness. I’d eaten all the bread and cheese I’d taken to the tower and am still ravenous. That was another thing Kal warned me about: As my magic wakes, I’ll need more food to fuel it.
I’m more than happy to oblige my hunger and begin rooting around the kitchen, hunting leftover tarts and treats to appease Callow. But a few moments later, Mistress Lavender’s screeching can be heard from the main parlor several doors down. It kills the rest of my appetite. I bid Callow keep quiet and tiptoe closer to the kitchen door, then out into the hallway, melting into the shadows.
“But where is she?” The question bounces off the papered walls. “I can’t send the servant back empty-handed. There will be consequences. The house will be—”
“Here she is. Lurking, as always.”
Dragon’s teeth. I’m usually excellent at hiding. The servants typically glide right past while I’m eavesdropping, as if I’m no more than a window treatment.
Because you’re a Shifter, a nasty part of my mind whispers.
Marigold glares, hands planted on the waist of her honeysuckle dressing gown. “And she has that filthy bird.”
Mistress Lavender explodes into view, silver ringlets springing in every direction. One cheek is still rouged. Her painted lips are smeared, coral pink smudged onto her chin. Someone interrupted her evening toilette. My stomach sours. This cannot bode well for me.
“Alyce, where have you been?” She doesn’t even wait for a response as she grabs my arm and tows me into the parlor. Callow clicks her beak and ruffles her wings, and I struggle to calm her. “Delphine had to reschedule three patrons for tomorrow, so now you’re double booked. If you disappear like that again, you’ll owe the house for the lost time. Do you understand me?”
I mumble my assent, seething at Marigold’s haughty smirk. A servant I don’t recognize waits in a corner, wringing a wine-colored cap in his hands. I’m not sure if his nervousness is because of Mistress Lavender’s fuming or my own presence.
“And you’re needed at the palace. At once.”
“Why?” The servant, a jittery slip of a boy, isn’t wearing royal livery.
“It’s Duke Weltross.” Mistress Lavender drops her voice, shoving a rumpled paper into my free hand while keeping a wary eye on Callow. I register the burgundy seal of the duke’s house and my heart clenches. His wife, the duchess, is often a patron of Lavender House, one of Marigold’s. And I’d heard her husband was ill. I did not think he was ill enough for my sort of treatment. “The duchess sent word. He’s in a bad way, Alyce.”
I don’t have to open the summons to know what Duchess Weltross wants. A swift, gentle passing for her husband. Freedom from her duties as nursemaid. The queasiness that always accompanies my terminal patrons already begins to churn and the ache in my temples increases by tenfold. Dark Grace. Bringer of death.
“My kit is downstairs” is all I can say.
“Marigold, go and fetch it,” Mistress Lavender instructs. “And take the bird with you.”
“But I—” Marigold gapes at Callow like she’s a dragon instead of a tame kestrel. But Mistress Lavender doesn’t let her finish.
“Go! And don’t dawdle. She’s late enough as it is. I’ll fetch her cloak.”
My limbs feel made of lead. I want to refuse this errand. I’m better than this. More than the villain they’ve created. I close my eyes, consider tapping into the magic of the wood and stones and mortar of this house and bringing it all down around their ears.
But I do not. Because I’m a coward.