Even as my body screams for a hot meal and my own bed, I’m anxious to delve into the book Kal gave me. The pages seem to whisper to me from my sack, begging to be read. And so I don’t even notice when Mistress Lavender and the others are waiting for me in the main parlor.
“What have you done now?” It’s Marigold who pipes up first, her lemon-drop hair done up in a honeycomb cluster. Golden powder crusts her bronze cheeks.
I look from one to the next. Marigold and Rose are watching me like cats with cornered mice. Laurel with an expression that might be sympathy. And Mistress Lavender taps a cream-colored roll of parchment against the arm of her chair, her face pinched with worry.
The sack slips off my shoulder. Do they know where I’ve been? About Kal? About my magic? I hand my cloak off to a servant, trying to hide the tremor in my limbs.
Delphine slides me a sly glance as she pretends to be arranging tomorrow’s schedules at her desk, crisp envelopes clacking on polished wood.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I attempt, as evenly as I can. “I had no patrons and I spent the day gathering enhancements.”
Rose scoffs, exchanging an eye-roll with Marigold. I breathe a hope that no one asks to look in my sack and discovers Kal’s book.
“It appears you’re wanted at the palace.” Mistress Lavender says slowly, as if she can’t quite believe it herself.
“To be punished.” Rose smirks.
“You don’t know that.” Laurel rearranges the hunter-green taffeta skirts of her gown—a gown too fine for an evening at home. Why is she dressed like that? And Mistress Lavender is wearing her official Head of Household golden sash. Embroidered lavender flowers dance along the hem. The Grace seal, picked out in amber stones, shines in the lamplight.
“The royal family is hosting an intimate dinner, to which we are invited.” For all her obsession over rank, I would think Mistress Lavender would be elated. Ours is one of the minor Grace houses, and we’re rarely afforded such exclusive invitations. But she’s looking at the missive like she hopes its contents might have changed. “And your presence is specifically requested.”
She passes the letter to me. I gape at the words as if they’re written in a foreign tongue. But no. There it is. An extra line just after the others’ names:
Alyce, the Dark Grace
A new shot of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. Summoned—to a dinner? That has never happened. I wasn’t even included in the Blooming Ceremony when I began using my gift. I’ve never attended a Grace Celebration. I find Laurel’s curious gaze, but she just lifts her eyebrows.
“It’s because of the duke.” Marigold is quick to fill the silence. The tiny hummingbird baubles dangling from her ears sparkle. “You killed a member of the nobility. They’ll probably execute you.”
Rose nods in agreement, and Mistress Lavender throws them both a scathing warning. “Graces, that’s enough. To my knowledge, His Majesty is not in the habit of lopping off heads after dessert.”
Marigold pouts. “What about before?”
“It is however”—Mistress Lavender’s attention swivels back to me—“quite an unusual situation. You’ve never been named before. I don’t know what to make of it. Do you, Alyce?”
All I can do is shake my head. Why would the king want me at a dinner? Does he know about Kal? About my true abilities? Has he finally decided to do away with the Dark Grace? My thoughts strike against one another like pieces of flint, goading a flame that will burn me up.
But I have no time to sort them out. Mistress Lavender rings her bell and I’m carted off before I can argue any further.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It takes three highly disgruntled servants working on me, but I’m dressed and ready faster than I believe possible. One of my stiffer black gowns is deemed passable, but Mistress Lavender had it made for me years ago. I despised the thing and never wore it, and now the sleeves don’t quite reach my wrists and the hem is too high to be fashionable. Next to Rose and the other Graces I look like I’m going to a funeral—for someone I hated. My hair refuses to stay pinned in place, the greasy strands slipping out and sliding at odd angles down my neck. The dress couldn’t be aired out before I put it on, so I smell faintly of cedar wood and musty satin. Rose makes sure I know it, wrinkling her nose and coughing into a frothy lace handkerchief the entire carriage ride. Marigold, for her part, acts like I’m not even here, jabbing me with her elbow each time she “rearranges her skirts.”