“Good luck,” I say. Meaning it, for some unfathomable reason.
She only snorts, fastens the clasp of her mink-lined cloak, embroidered Briar rose sigil winking in the lantern light, and sails away.
Alone, I am restless. The Lair is too cold to work in, and I am desperate for something to do. I move up to my attic, thinking to look through some of Aurora’s books, or read Kal’s again, to remind myself of my true heritage. But the words slide under my eyes without sticking. Even Callow prefers to sleep rather than keep me company, the peevish thing. All I can think about is Kal and Aurora and Endlewild and the damned Ryna prince who is probably on his way across the sea right now. Maybe his ship will sink.
From my bed, I watch the snow still falling outside my window. It’s too thick to glimpse the lights of the palace in the distance. The air too heavy to hear the music that sometimes floats from those royal parties. Aurora is there, I have no doubt. Once the prince arrives, there will be a wedding. And soon the time we spent together here will only be a memory. Her husband will not tolerate someone like me as an advisor. And Aurora will marry him, regardless of what she says.
Another bout of infernal tears scalds my eyelids, and I hate myself for it. The princess is impulsive, used to having countless toys at her disposal. I was one of them. Entertaining until the stuffing leaked from my seams.
I devour another cranberry tart, giving in to my own self-pity, even though I know I need to focus on Kal. On life after Briar, when I can shed the mantle of Dark Grace forever.
A crash downstairs startles me. I sit up straight, swiping crumbs from my lips with the back of my hand. I’m sure it was a servant. A dropped tray or a toppled chair.
Another crash.
The clatter of porcelain breaking. And then the dull thump of something heavy hitting the floor. I scramble out from beneath my blankets. Is it Endlewild? Has he come to kill me, as he swore he would if he found out about my Vila power?
I will kill him first, a feral part of my soul vows.
I hardly feel the steps beneath my feet as I slink down the stairs. The house is dark, with only a single taper lit at the front entrance for the Graces’ return, which won’t be for hours yet.
Where are the servants? Why haven’t they come running?
The parlor at the end of the hall is bright, light from the cracked door spilling into the gloom. It’s Rose’s. Why would Endlewild be skulking in there?
Adrenaline rises to a high pitch as I approach the door. My magic is ready. I grip it as one would a sword hilt, ready to lash out at the slightest hint of danger.
Peering through the slit in the door, I hold my breath, worried Endlewild can hear even that. But there is nothing. The room is vacant. A vase is shattered on the floor. Grace-grown peonies, colors still changing from fuchsia to violet, lie in the wreckage. The armchair by the fire is overturned. And that’s when I see it. The heel of a shoe. A rose-petal pink shoe.
I burst into the room. It’s not Endlewild. No intruder at all. Sprawled on the floor, her beribboned gown sodden and ruined with muddy snow stains, is Rose.
And spreading beneath her, faster than I thought possible, is a puddle of glittering, golden blood.
* * *
—
“Rose!” I roll her over and slap her cheeks. She moans and tosses her head. One of her hands is bleeding, more than any hand wound ought to bleed, the source of the blood I’m kneeling in.
I keep calling her name, tearing off a strip of her petticoat and winding it around the slash in her palm. With the Grace powder caked on her skin, it’s hard to tell how large the wound is. I count to three and the blood has already eaten through the wrapping.
The damn bloodrot, I realize instantly.
“You stupid fool,” I curse at her, tearing off more petticoat and trying to rebind her hand. It’s useless. “Where are the damn servants?”
“Sent them away.” Rose’s words slur together.
I roll my eyes, unsurprised. “Well, I’m fetching them.”
“No.” A crinkle forms between her brows. Her skin is like ice, lips tinged dark amber. Had she walked here? “No one can see.”
Leave it to Rose to be concerned about appearances even in a moment as dire as this. But it’s more than that. I haven’t seen this much Grace blood spilled at once since Narcisse’s trial. I wince at the memory of the molten gold dripping into the vials. The sound of Narcisse’s skull hitting the marble. If I don’t help, it will be Rose’s blood tingeing silver.
“Damn it, Rose.” I wiggle my arms under Rose’s shoulders and haul her upright. She can stand, but barely, leaning most of her weight on me as I lead her out of the parlor, through the kitchen, and out the back door to my Lair. Her bandage is leaking, so I press her hand into her chest to catch the blood.