“I’ve no wish to be an assassin.”
The Briar King picks up one of the markers on the table, a bronze horse with an armored rider. And it’s then that I manage a closer look at the maps. The coastline arching like a bow on the far eastern edge. The mountain range to the north. And a hazy, pale pink area far beyond. Etheria. What would the Briar King be doing with maps of Etheria? There are also smaller pewter markers in patterns tracking haphazard paths through the mountains. Pinpointing areas that make no sense to me.
Tarkin slams the marker down. I flinch.
“Do you wish to be rich?” he asks. “Do you wish to tread on the bent backs of all those who have wronged you? Lord Endlewild, perhaps. The Graces, who treat you like a feral dog even though your power far surpasses theirs.”
I can hardly breathe around the desire that courses through me. Yes, I want those things.
“You shall have it,” Tarkin promises. “That, and more. Work with me, Dark Grace. Together we can bring about a new age in Briar.”
The call of a seagull penetrates the glass, sounding like hope and freedom and everything I’ve ever wished for.
But this is a bad business. I don’t know what the Briar King is plotting, but it’s dangerous. The very idea should be enough to turn me away from him. But for once, I could use my title for my own advantage. If Briar loses a few nobles along the way, it will not be my hand that poisons them. Not really.
Tarkin reads my acceptance in the lines of my face. He rubs his thumb over his signet ring. “As I thought. You can expect your first commission shortly.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When I return to Lavender House, the Graces are busy with their evening patrons. I tiptoe past their parlors, hoping to slip out to my Lair unnoticed. Callow will be peevish at my long absence. And I’m exhausted, my mind still reeling from Tarkin’s offer and the new, impossible predicament I find myself in. The last door is slightly ajar—Rose’s. The night lamps have been lit, but there doesn’t seem to be a patron waiting for her inside. I press closer, catching the clink of metal on glass. The fizz of enhancements reacting.
Keeping to the shadows, I position myself so that I can see into the bright slit of light. Rose is sitting at the table. Alone. She’s heaping scoopfuls of a bright silver powder into a bowl. I recognize it immediately.
“What are you doing?” I shove into the room. She yelps. The metallic shavings go flying onto the floor.
“Get out of here! You’re always lurking, you filthy beast.” She sweeps some of the spilled powder into her palm and adds it to her brew. “This is my parlor.”
“I know what that is.” Before she can react, I swoop over to the table and pluck her bowl out of reach.
“Give that back.” She bares her teeth.
“Bloodrot”—I keep the bowl behind my back as she swipes at me—“is dangerous for a Grace. For anyone.”
The leaden shavings in Rose’s bowl are believed by some to extend the longevity of a Grace’s abilities. Bloodrot is a blood thinner, and so a Grace will dose herself with the stuff in the hopes that less of her blood will be required to create an elixir, thus keeping her from Fading before her time. But that logic is ludicrous. First of all, manipulation of a Grace’s gift—by anyone—is illegal and carries a steep sentence with the Grace Council. More than that, the quicksilver powder is called bloodrot for a reason. Too much causes sickness. The metal poisons the organs, settles in the heart and ossifies. And it’s far more likely that a Grace will misjudge her dosage and bleed out if she so much as suffers a nick in the right place.
“You could die from using this.”
“And you’d know all about how to kill someone, wouldn’t you, Malyce?” Her eyes are so wild and livid they seem to tinge crimson. But I don’t take her bait. I duck under her outstretched arms and bolt across the room.
“I won’t let you kill yourself.” I’m panting now, the bowl wedged between my stomach and the back of a winged armchair.
“I’d rather be dead than lose my gift.” She lunges around the side of the chair. “Do you know what happens to a Faded Grace?”
“There’s nothing wrong with—”
“Nothing!” The word rises into a screech. “No one gives a dragon’s tooth about a Faded Grace. No patrons, no invitations. Faded might as well mean dead.”
“The Crown is obligated to care for you. What about having your own house like Mistress Lavender? Or all the Graces who’ve married and—”