Like me, the Graces draw power from their blood. But while my blood is the green of the Vila, the Graces share the golden-colored blood of the light Fae of Etheria, the Fae courts beyond Briar’s northern mountain border. Centuries ago, the High King of the Fae, Oryn, and the Briarian ruler entered into an alliance agreement. In exchange for the humans’ aid during the War of the Fae, the Etherians granted Briar the Graces. Born of human women, the Graces possess only a fraction of the power a full-blooded Fae can wield. The Etherians have mighty staffs said to be able to command the sea currents or turn straw into gold. Their long lives skirt the boundaries of immortality. But the Graces’ gilded blood can only produce charms and blessings when added to an elixir. And eventually, that golden blood Fades to a dull silver color. The Fade is slow at first, usually starting at around age thirty. A Grace will begin to need more drops of her blood in each elixir. Strands of her vibrant hair will turn silver, as will the signature golden hue of her eyes. And then, the most feared sign of all, flecks of silver will appear in her blood. After that, it’s only a matter of time before the Grace’s gift is spent and she endures the rest of her life as powerless as any other mortal woman.
I imagine my own green blood will Fade one day, as I’m not full-blooded Vila. But I don’t care half as much about losing my power as the Graces do. I’ve seen Rose picking through her hair when she thinks she’s alone, looking for the dreaded telltale silver in her roots. And if she’s overzealous—crafting too many elixirs or increasing the dosage of her blood to heighten their potency—her gift could Fade well before her time.
“Don’t even dare.” Rose’s golden eyes narrow to slits. She’s been marked as one of the most skilled beauty Graces since she Bloomed five years ago, consistently ranked in the top quarter of the house standings each year. “Mistress Lavender will dock your coin for spreading such lies.”
“And what will she do to you?” Laurel lazily flips a page. “For speaking ill of a patron?”
Rose’s pink curls begin to vibrate. I smile into my tea.
“And what are you so pleased about, Malyce?”
After so many years, I would have thought myself immune to the ugly nickname. But humiliation flames in my cheeks anyway. Rose watches me with her perpetual haughty smirk as she drops another sugar cube into her teacup.
“Well. Are you going to sit there and gawp at me?” She drums her nails against the linen tablecloth. “Pass the cream.”
Scowling, I reach for the pitcher. But not before I use the tines of my fork to open the small wound on my fingertip, earned from crafting elixirs that morning. I let a pearl of green blood fall into the cream before Rose can see. She accepts the pitcher carefully, making sure not to accidently brush hands with me, and chatters to Marigold about inane court gossip.
One heartbeat. Two. I suck the tip of my finger, tasting the leather and damp earth of my magic. The next time Rose sips her tea, her lips come away black. She chokes, spewing a stream of filth across the table.
“You stupid Vila!” Rose slams her fists on the table. The dishes rattle. Her pearly teeth are now coated in pitch. Laurel covers her shocked laughter with her book.
“I’m not a Vila.” Not entirely, anyway. Though my exact heritage is unclear, it’s obvious from my outward appearance that I am at least half human. The other half, though…
“You’re right.” Calliope yaps and growls, her wispy-haired ears lying flat. “You’re worse. You’re a mongrel.”
The room goes silent. Even the buttery afternoon sunlight dulls as a cloud passes by the arched windows. Laurel and Marigold dart nervous glances between us. They’re wondering what I’ll do next. Make boils erupt on Rose’s skin? Tie her tongue into a knot? Anger surges inside me. I want nothing more than to do exactly what they expect of me. To live up to my reputation. The Dark Grace. Dealer of black wishes and evil deeds. But I don’t get the chance.
“Graces!” Mistress Lavender sails into the room, clapping twice. “That’s quite enough.”
“It’s her fault. Look at what she did to me!” Rose bares her inky teeth. Her tongue looks like a garden slug.
Mistress Lavender sighs, beleaguered. “Alyce, really.”
“This is intolerable,” Rose continues. “I cannot be expected to work in a house that—”
“Rose, go and clean up.”
“But—”
“I trust you have your schedule from Delphine. You don’t want your patrons to see you looking like that.” Mistress Lavender straightens her bodice. “I’ll deal with your sister.”
“She’s not our sister.” Rose flings her napkin onto the crumbly pastry remains on her plate, pinches Marigold’s elbow, and stalks away, her dog trotting at her heels. Laurel follows mutely behind them, shooting me a sympathetic look.
“I don’t understand you, Alyce.” Mistress Lavender perches in the always-empty seat beside me. Her gaze—silver now that she’s Faded—is tempered with accusation. “Why do you insist on making a target of yourself?”
“Me?” My blood begins to heat. “Rose hates me. All of them do. I’m too…different.”
The word presses against my eardrums and my temples begin to throb. My “sisters” are Graces, able to grant hundreds of prized attributes with mere drops of their blood. I study the reptilian green veins marring the backs of my hands. Next to the Graces, I’m like the sludge staining Rose’s teacup: a nuisance someone else has to clean up.
“That may be.” Mistress Lavender risks a tentative touch on my arm. The amethyst ring on her first finger, denoting her status as housemistress of Lavender House, glints. “But you earn your keep in this house. You have value, Alyce.”
I snort. “Curses?”
“All magic has a purpose.” A
