“Wh-wh-who d-d-d-did—”
That brought a scowl, and he was suddenly familiar. “Don’t know. Had ’em when I got to Joringel. Come on.”
He doesn’t know? I don’t know who did mine, either. So she followed. There was really nothing else to do. He silently walked her to the front steps, and as soon as she reached the massive ironbound doors he trudged off toward the side of the house.
To the servants’ entrance. Leaving Cami standing there openmouthed, wondering what kind of friend he thought he was going to be.
FIFTEEN
THE QUEEN, HER LONG GOLDEN HAIR GLOWING, paces down a long corridor full of mirrors. Velvet swishes as her skirts swing, and everything around her is a soft glimmer. The smoke in the air is incense, perfuming the hallway; she halts before a particular mirror.
Writhing cherubs twist their wings together on the mirror’s iron frame, flakes of rust drifting free and whirling down to the plush carpet. The Queen’s white face floats in its water-clear depths, and it reflects nothing but her. This is her favorite one, you can tell by the way she leans in, smiling a little. The medallion at her chest glows, and the roundness of it is not quite perfect. There is something about it . . .
But wait. The Queen frowns slightly. She does not do so often, for it mars the perfection of her soft features. The skin, dead-white, is drier now. She leans much closer to the mirror, jerking back with a hiss as she finds what she does not expect.
For a moment the edge of the smoky heavy perfume lifts, and a sharper, drier scent underneath rises. It is an edge of rot, a fruit left in a wet dark corner for too long. The Queen’s lip curls, and she whirls away from the mirror. Yet it holds her image as a cup holds wine, a long shimmering, and I can see what she saw. What she fears, what has struck her with terror and fury.
A wrinkle in white skin. A single line, at the corner of her right eye, radiating. And I know I am to blame.
There was no Nico. She sat up, clutching the white down comforter, her ribs heaving. There was no Papa either, and she must not have screamed because the house was quiet. Not even a breath of wind moaning at the edges, the absolute muffled silence of snow over everything. The nightmare retreated, and the blue gauze over the mirror fluttered slightly.
Cami didn’t notice. She was too busy gasping, her throat a pinhole. No wonder she hadn’t made a sound. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were full of perfumed smoke. The chanting receded, a seashell-moan fading into the distance.
Constriction eased. She dragged in great gulps of clean air. No incense here. Her wrists twinged, and she caught herself hunching as if to ward off a blow. Her heels scraped against the soft sheets, and she was out of the bed before she thought of it.
Skritch-scratch.
A soft scraping at her door, loud in the hush. She padded across her room, heart lodged firmly in her just-recently cleared throat, her fingers and toes made of clumsy ice, her nightgown fluttering. The silk was raspy with sweat under her arms, its straps cutting her shoulders and the hem behaving oddly, swirling as if it were heavier.
As if it was motheaten velvet, brushing her skin.
She twisted the crystal knob and jerked the door open.
Tor twitched back. His eyes were live coals, his hair a wild mess, and he was in a black tank top and hastily buttoned jeans.
She hadn’t seen him for two days.
They stared at each other for a long moment, and she finally discovered what made her gaze catch on him all the time.
He looked familiar, somehow. He reminded her of something; she just couldn’t figure out what with her head full of the rushing of a nightmare’s passage.
The stasis broke. Tor pressed a finger to his lips, his boots dangling by their laces from that hand, bumping his chest. There was a hole in his white socks, right over his instep.
Cami’s jaw fell. He’s not supposed to be here. How did he—But then, she realized, he probably stayed overnight because of the snowfall. Some of the garden boys, like most of the maids, did. Especially if they lived in the Old City—the parts of pre-Reeve Haven that hadn’t blighted into the core.
He held something out with the other hand. A thin black velvet case, worn down to the nap at its corners. She took it automatically, and his indrawn breath as their fingers touched was a twin to hers. His skin was cold, and he seemed to be trembling.
Am I dreaming?
She couldn’t tell. Her hand curled around the case. It was too heavy. He nodded, gravely, and backed away before the smile broke over his face. It was oddly sweet, a winter sunrise all its own, white teeth gleaming. Then he went ghosting on quiet sock feet down the hall, melding with the darkness. There wasn’t even a betraying creak from the floorboards.
Cami let out a long shuddering breath. She shut the door and brought the case up to her mouth. Velvet pressed hard against her lips.
I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before. Then why did he feel like a glove? Like a sock or a broken-in pair of charm-laced trainers, like the familiar faces of the books in the library or . . .
I don’t know him. This is a dream, one I won’t even remember tomorrow. She was sure of it.
Until she surfaced to her alarm tinkling “Wake Up Charmgirl,” the streets plowed clean, school resumed . . .
. . . and a long thin bone hairpin, a fall of glittering crystals fastened to one end with smoky golden wire, sitting in its velvet case on the pillow next to hers.
SIXTEEN
THERE WAS, AS USUAL, A STEAMING MUG OF HOT chocolate and a porcelain plate with a delicate fey-lace doily spread over it, two fresh croissants nestled against the snowy paper. Sometimes Marya even did pain au chocolat, when she was feeling especially appreciated. But today the feywoman fluttered around the kitchen, her spiderweb shawl moving on invisible drafts of Potential, muttering to herself and obviously piqued over something.
Cami’s nose and cheeks were stinging; she set her schoolbag down on the stool and slid into her accustomed place with a sigh. The surprise test in High Charm Calculus had not gone well, nor had the French quiz. Her braid, heavy and damp, lay against her back, and beads swung as she turned her head. The bone pin’s point, carefully threaded through her braid that morning, scraped at her nape. “Y-yummy,” she tried, tentatively, cupping her icy hands around the hot mug. It stung, but pleasantly.
“Yesyes.” Marya stopped, put her hands on her ample hips, staring into the fireplace. “I cannot find it. The Gaunt will not be happy, but I cannot find it.”
Stevens? I don’t know if he ever looks happy. “What c-can’t you f-find?” She blew across the top of the hot cocoa, her shoulders relaxing in tiny increments. Ruby had kept up a vociferous stream of obscenities all the way home, not letting Ellie or Cami get a word in edgewise. Her French test must have been just as dire, or something else was pissing her off. Ellie was wan and tired, and she kept giving Cami little sideways looks, as if she suspected her of something.
At least Cami had been able to sneak away at lunch and go to the office to arrange the surprise. I hope she likes it. The thought of Ellie’s delight over a new blazer made Cami all but wriggle on her seat and smile.
Marya’s glance was sharp, her mouth pulled tight. Her face was not so round now, the fey in her shining through sharp and glittering, a diamond under lace. The tips of her ears twitched. “Nothing. Not for little sidhe. Eat, eat. I make them special for you.”
Fine. Another sigh, this one internal, and Cami stared at the small, delicate plate. Golden, buttery, and exquisite, the croissants were almost too pretty to eat. And she wasn’t hungry, anyway.
Still, she dutifully nibbled one. Between sips of scalding-hot cocoa, she watched Marya flutter through the kitchen, touching the copper-bottom pots, fussing with the fire, the stove bubbling as usual and the heavenly aroma of fresh bread just beginning to fill the entire kitchen. It looked like beef stew for dinner, thick and heavy and seasoned with feycress. That was Trig’s favorite, and since Nico was gone it was just Trig and Step
hens and Cami at the too-big, highly polished rosewood dining table, unless there was Business.
Which there had been every night this week.
Which meant tonight she would probably be eating here in the kitchen, at the breakfast bar.
I like that better anyway. Any Business was kind of . . . troubling. There hadn’t been any more disappearances the last few days—at least, not in the news. From what Cami could gather, the Seven had taken over from the police, even though they were only six in the city now. And Stevens had pleasantly asked if Miss Cami wouldn’t prefer Chauncey to bring her home from school?
She’d just shaken her head, her braid bumping her back, and said very carefully, N-no, R-ruby will d-dr-drive m-me. And that was that, though Stevens looked . . . dissatisfied.
As dissatisfied as a man with a thin frozen face could look, that is. A consigliere without a Family Head to inhabit him, since Nico wasn’t officially back from Hannibal.
When Nico did come back, would he have any time for her either? He’d be busy doing Family things. Things he would probably discuss with Stevens and Trig and the Family bravos and the other Seven . . . but most definitely not with Cami. She’d hear more on the news, if Ruby ever turned the radio on in her Semprena again, instead of playing Tommy Triton’s debut tape over and over again.
Cami sighed, her skin prickling all over like it had been all damn day. Maybe it was her blazer. She was warm enough to take her coat off now, and was just in the middle of struggling out of itchy Juno wool when the swinging door from the servant’s hallway opened and Tor stamped through, icy crystals caught in his messy hair and his arms full of firewood. “Hey, Miz Marya. Figured it was time.”
“Pike!” Marya stopped fidgeting and fussing, beaming through the careful examination and placing of each chunk of firewood in the big beaten-copper holder on the hearth. She dusted her hands together afterward while her shawl-fringes waved lazily and her black skirt fluttered on an invisible draft of Potential. “Cellar. Will you go into the cellar? Old Marya’s knees are not good.”
“Absolutely. Just give me the list.” He stole a look at Cami as Marya bustled to the shining tomato-red refrigerator, its gloss alive with preservation-charms and yellowing pictures held with magnets and stickcharms.
She sat up straighter, pulling the blazer’s shoulders back up defensively and shaking her head a little so the pin’s colorless beads shivered. His answering smile was shy and warm, and Cami found herself grinning, ducking her head and staring into her cup.
Marya plucked a sheet of paper covered with spider-scratches from under a stickcharm. “Wait. Wait while Marya thinks and writes, yes?”
“Take your time.” Tor straightened, brushing wood debris from his leather jacket. His nose and cheeks were bright red, and the melting ice in his hair made him into a faunlet. Except he didn’t have fangs, or claws. “Hello, princess.”
Oddly enough, she didn’t mind the name now. “H-Hello.” She peeked up from the cup’s depths. “W-want s-some hot c-c-cocoa?”
A shrug, the snow-darkened leather creaking. He looked miserably cold. “Maybe in a bit. How was school?”
She shrugged, then raised her eyebrows. He caught the question—not as quickly as Nico would have, but still. He was paying attention.
At least someone was.
He laid a work-roughened hand carefully on the countertop, moss clinging between his fingers. “Some kid got knifed in the bathroom, and one of the girls in my Chem class is pregnant. The History teacher had to shout over a bunch of jack-yobs to tell us about the Battle of the Marne and the first wave of the Reeve. Just another day.” But his expression robbed the words of any anger. “I was glad to get out.”
I’ll bet. Was that what happened in public schools? She’d heard stories, but never anything like this. She searched for something to say. “Y-you l-look n-n-n-nice.” Oh, Mithrus. Can’t even talk, and when I do, I say something useless. His jeans were soaked to the knee from snowmelt, and he was covered in wood guck. But it was the only thing she could think of that didn’t seem likely to get her in trouble.
His smile turned lopsided, but his black eyes were warm. “So do you.”
Everything inside Cami loosened a fraction, then a fraction more. The feeling was so new and unexpected she actually grinned, forgetting to duck her head to hide her expression.
Marya’s forehead was creased as she turned away from the sink, the paper in her hand covered with yet more scribbles. “List! Pike, tall and dark, down into the cellar with you. Big brughnie-shouldered boy, to lift for poor old Marya.”
“Yes ma’am.” But he was still looking at Cami. He seemed about to say something else, but just then Trig slid in from the other hall, his step light and ghost-quiet, his baggy sportcoat red and green today and deep smudges under his tired eyes.
Every night a different something, Twist or strange or other, pressed against the borders of the Vultusino house. A hard winter, indeed. As soon as dark fell the security teams were working harder than they ever had.
As if everything in New Haven could tell the Vultusino were without a Head. Some of the younger cousins were showing up at the house at odd hours, too, the boys eyeing Cami and the girls trying to be friendly. Stevens dealt with them, but she just wished Nico would come home.
When he did, what would happen? The Vultusina’s ring was safely locked up; occasions and parties were fine, but she wasn’t going to wear it to school.
The loosening inside her clenched up again. Tor disappeared on the other side of the kitchen, and Marya immediately began fussing at Trig about whatever she couldn’t find. Cami sipped at her cocoa, hoping the bright red on her cheeks wasn’t too visible. Trig barely glanced at her, just nodded at Marya’s nervousness and set about soothing the feywoman, and ten minutes later, neither of them noticed when Cami escaped, carrying her bag and her coat, the croissant and sugary milk curdling in her stomach. All the way up the stairs to the warm white bedroom, she thought of that funny lopsided smile, and the tinkling of the beads from the pin was ice chiming against glass.
So do you, he’d said.
Did he really think so?
SEVENTEEN
TWO DAYS LATER, CAMI WAS STILL THINKING ABOUT that funny smile of his. A present, from someone who didn’t have a whole lot. Someone who couldn’t really afford a bunch of presents. Someone she didn’t owe something to.
It was a new thing. Unfortunately, she wasn’t left to brood in peace.
“You don’t look so good,” Ruby whispered, reaching over to touch Cami’s forehead.
Cami ducked away, her braid swinging. “I f-feel fine.” The stutter wasn’t so bad today. The bone pin, slid through her braid, was oddly heavy, and everything seemed too colorful to be real.
She hadn’t seen Tor since. There had been another alarm in the middle of the night, Trig and his security team arriving to find that charms laced through the ancient stone walls had forced something back, again, from the Vultusino grounds. She wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t been already awake from yet another bad nightmare, sweat-soaked and gasping, hearing soft commotion elsewhere in the darkened house.
But Marya wouldn’t tell her what had happened, and Trig didn’t show up. And Stevens only asked her again if she wouldn’t prefer Chauncey to drive her to school?
No, she’d snapped, without the stutter for once, and he had nodded and retreated.
Weak winter sunlight slid through high windows; Sister Grace-Redeeming’s classroom was brimful of the quiet murmur of girls bent over paper, pencils scratching. Ruby shrugged, the gold dangles on her earrings winking. She hunched back over her Provincial History book. It was odd—the only thing looking washed-out today was her friend’s bright copper mane. Every other edge pressed against Cami’s skin even through empty air. Even the dust was painful.
Plus, Cami was itching all over. Maybe it was the wool of the blazer, or just her wanting to be gone. She didn’t even want to go back home, it was too far. Just a closet,
or maybe a forgotten corner. Any quiet dark place would have done, just so she could sit and breathe a bit.
She tried to read, but the letters were dancing on the page. The itch was somehow under her skin. A steady irritation, building, a hot prickle of temper.
If I’m angry, why does it scare me? She took a deep breath, staring at the paper in front of her.
The door opened, and a ripple passed through the classroom. Ellie, her eyebrows drawn together and a terrific bruise glaring on the left side of her face, shook her sleek blonde hair down and stamped for the head of the room. She handed a slip of pink paper to Sister Grace, who woke up long enough to nod and murmur something that sounded kind.
Ellie shrugged and hitched her schoolbag up on her shoulder. Turned, her skirt flaring, and stamped to her seat. Her knees were bruised too, and the way she held her bag said that it hurt.
Ruby was bolt-upright. “What the hell?” she mouthed, but Ellie wasn’t looking. She dropped down on Cami’s other side, fishing a pair of shades out of her blazer pocket and jamming them on.
It didn’t hide the fact that someone had socked her a good one. The Strep didn’t hit her in the face often. Maybe it was one of the boyfriends. Who knew?
I know. A terrible, nasty, guilty heat bloomed behind Cami’s breastbone. The blazer.
Maybe it wasn’t that. Don’t leap to conclusions.
She slid her book over, so Ellie could get the page number. She also silently slid her notes over. Sister Grace went back to dozing, the girls went back to scratching with their pencils—and whispering about Ellie’s arrival. The ghoulgirls were hungry for gossip, the bobs would be asking about it, and the fluffs were ready for talk-meat, as always. Gossip was juicy, and even Ruby’s glower couldn’t keep all of it away.
The irritation under Cami’s skin mounted another few notches.