“Tell her that.” I jerk my chin at the door of Rose’s parlor.
“I have. And now I’m telling you. It ends. Today. Aren’t you tired of it? The constant battles and sniping? None of the other housemistresses have to deal with such nonsense.”
I highly doubt that, but say nothing. And I am tired. But making peace with Rose won’t ease my pains. Only leaving Briar can do that. Even so, arguing with Mistress Lavender will get me nowhere. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” She pats my shoulder awkwardly, then starts down the stairs. “Rose said the same. I’m sure between the two of you, we’ll have a much better arrangement.”
I roll my eyes behind her retreating back, stuffing an entire cinnamon roll into my mouth. It’s gone cold, the glaze slimy. Yet another disappointment for the day.
But as I trudge up the stairs, laughter trills from a parlor. Rose’s. I press myself against the balustrade, leaving sticky fingermarks on the polished wood. I can just hear her chatting with her patron, effervescent and charming as always. I eat the other pastry, chewing slowly, considering.
I learned my lesson with the duke; I’m no healer. I am Vila. And perhaps it’s time to use my power the way I was born to do.
Holding my breath, I slink down the steps, avoiding the noisy planks of wood I’ve catalogued over the years. I hug the wall, pressing myself so close to the green-striped paper that I can see Rose fully through the slit in the door. She’s beaming her brilliant Grace smile, complimenting her patron on inane things like the shape of the woman’s eyebrows and the shade of her face powder. The patron coos and china clinks as she sips her tea.
Rose fusses with her mixture. Reaches for the long rose-headed pin she will use to draw her blood. Three sparkling drops fall like liquid sunlight amid the other ingredients. A puff of ocher smoke erupts from the bowl, and then Rose pours everything into a goblet and passes it to her patron.
The woman’s plump, greedy hands grab for the glass, jeweled rings glinting in the morning light that streams through the tall windows of Rose’s parlor. She takes no pains to appear ladylike. Two gulps and I know it’s gone. I think I even hear a muffled burp.
I release a shaky, silent breath. Close my eyes and concentrate the way I did when I sent my power out to find the heart of the storm. It will be harder this time. I have no idea what I’m looking for. Do I focus on Rose or the patron? What will the magic in the elixir feel like? I wish Kal were here to guide me.
But it doesn’t take long. Perhaps because my magic recognizes that of the light Fae. Or because Rose’s gift is actually as potent as she believes. But my own darkness bumps against the silken gold almost instantly. Unlike the duke and the storm, Rose’s magic isn’t like a heart. It’s a thrumming cord, like mine. A riot of glittering sparks. If I breathe deeply, I can just catch the honeyed floral scent that must be the light Fae power. In a moment, it will find the heart of the patron’s magic and shape it as the elixir bids.
But not yet.
I wind the dark limb of my magic around the shimmering strip of Rose’s power. Hers is warm and solid. But it’s malleable. I bid the bands of my magic to burrow like snakes into Rose’s gift. Exhilaration swells as my power obeys. I inhale woodsmoke and charred iron. Weaken, I push the command with all my might. Become ugly. Monstrous.
Rose’s gasp is all the confirmation I need that it worked.
“What’s wrong?” The patron sets the glass down.
Even through the gap in the door, Rose’s shock is evident.
“I—” She fumbles with the instruments on her table, upsetting a jar of crushed mint. “We did not quite achieve the right balance.” A smile plasters itself on her face, her voice too high. Too desperate.
“Let me see.”
“Not yet. Allow me—” There’s a plea beneath her words the patron doesn’t miss.
She snatches up a hand mirror before Rose can stop her. There’s a moment of jagged-edged silence, shattered by a shriek. And then a dull thunk as something drops to the ground.
“What have you done?” The question feels like a slap, even to me.
“I—I don’t understand…” Rose is close to tears. “It’s never—”
“The rumors about this house are true.” There’s a rustle of silk as the patron rises. A smack of wood as her chair topples. “You are cursed. Either that, or your power is Fading.”
“No, please—”
But it’s too late. Angry footsteps storm across Rose’s parlor and I melt into the nearest corner. In her haste to leave Lavender House, the patron looks right past me. But I certainly see her. Her skin has thickened and puckered, mirroring the exact shade and texture of an orange. Craters the size of pinpricks are visible from her hairline, over her face, and down her neck. I clap a hand over my mouth, hardly able to contain my glee.