Rita hadn’t been much in evidence the last couple days. When she did show up, she was dead pale, her new haircut—a layered affair that meshed uneasily with her round cheeks—stuck up anyhow, and she reeked of a colorless fume that Ellie knew all too well.
Desperation. Plus a healthy dose of terror.
Better her than me, she told herself. We’ve all got to swim on our own.
It was no use. Her brain just wouldn’t leave it alone. And that was only the first thing it wouldn’t stop pawing lightly at.
Avery.
She’d come to her senses, she supposed. Ruby complained loudly about heading out the side door instead of the front when the school day was over, but Cami had quietly supported Ellie’s desire not to see the guy again. If she s-says it’s what she wants, Ruby, then that’s what we’ll do.
She’d told him day after tomorrow and hadn’t shown up in front of the school. Maybe he’d been there, maybe he hadn’t. Ellie didn’t see any point in finding out. She’d done all she could for him; it was stupid to keep hanging around when he was part of the Strep’s plans. The risk was just too high.
Who knew? Maybe he would even find Rita dateable. Stranger things had happened. At least he wouldn’t get a gift with a blacklove charm on it. It was all she could do for him.
It wasn’t enough.
She told the funny feeling in her chest to go away, rinsing the now-gleaming pot and snapping the drying-charm like a wet sheet in the hands of an enthusiastic laundress. Her other hand shot out, and someone gave her the next pan, a wide, flat affair with burnt bits of rice fused to the metal. Great. “Thanks. I’ll have this done in—”
“What are you doing back here?” Avery Fletcher stood next to her, the sleeves of his navy-blue button-down rolled up to expose his forearms, his hair an artistic mess and a vertical line between his eyebrows. Freshly pressed chinos and polished loafers. The edge of his Potential sparked against Ellie’s, a brief scintillation. He was obviously a guest, and some of the catering staff were giving him nervous looks.
He was older than her, from a charm-clan, and going to take the summer off before he apprenticed or went to charm-college. With his clan connections and Potential, he could do what he wanted. What was he doing sniffing around her? He was going to be a star in the charming community, and Ell . . . well, she was a sinking ship.
“Working.” She dumped the pan in the sink. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for the girl who’s been ignoring me.”
“What, there’s only one?” It’s safest for both of us that way. “Learn to take a hint, Fletcher.”
“It’s a charmer’s party. Why aren’t you out there?”
Why do you think? For a second, she couldn’t remember the charm to loosen stuck-on food, and a chill ran down her back. “You get your present?” Because now, she knew it had been for him, and the knowledge turned her cold all over.
“Yeah. It’s . . . tacky. My mom took it.” His nose wrinkled briefly. “Look, Ellie . . .”
It’s better than it was, kid. Waaaay better than it was. That charm would have turned you upside down and she would have had a field day with you. “If I get caught talking to you there’s going to be trouble. I don’t want you here.”
“I’ll take care of whatever—”
A real knight in shining, this guy. “You can’t. Just go out and enjoy yourself at the goddamn party. It’s in your honor. Congratulations.”
“Is that really your . . . is that really Laurissa’s sister? I never heard she had one.”
“So she says. She’s from overWaste; both of them are. Not my business.” Ellie took a deep breath. The water was getting cloudy again. Her hands were going to be raisin-wrinkled for a good while. Outside in the rose garden, someone started laughing hysterically, a high young voice. “She was on your train. Didn’t you see her?”
“She wasn’t in my carriage. Ellie—”
I’m not in your carriage either. “You really need to go back out there, guest of honor and all.” She rinsed the gleaming circle of the pan. The drying-charm caught itself between her teeth but she forced it out, and the cleaned metal went on the counter with a bang. “You’re being rude.”
He stood there while she scrubbed two more pots. The pile to her left was finally getting smaller. Maybe she’d be able to catch up.
You won’t ever catch up, Ell. Don’t even try.
“Fine.” A single clipped syllable. Something soft landed on the counter, and she didn’t look at it until the sense of his Potential, a fizzing bath of frustration and hurt, faded completely. She could tell he was gone by the way her skin turned back into dead clay instead of sparkling charmlight.
It’s not so bad. He’s safe, for the moment at least. Laurissa won’t be looking for effects for a couple days.
A blacklove charm. He’d be desperate for whoever it was tuned to, probably Rita. The other possibility . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking about.
Blinking furiously again, she washed another hunk of cooking-metal before a drop of hot water traced down her cheek. It fell into the thinning soapsuds, and she yanked the plug, turning on the water to rinse everything down. She’d need a fresh sinkful to deal with the last of the main-course pans. After this there was the sorbet, and then the great towering cake, its fondant sky-blue and deep gold in deference to the Fletcher clan’s colors, would be wheeled out of the coolroom and down the hall, to the parquet floor and small carved tables that hid under dust-stiffened draperies until a grand event came along. She could almost hear the sigh of wonder that would go up at the cake, and thought grimly that it was a good thing Laurissa had handled the negotiations with the baker herself. If the entire confection decided to melt all over the ballroom’s parquet, at least Ellie wouldn’t be blamed for it.
Oh, you know you will be anyway. She sighed, popped the sink stopper back in, and dumped more harsh dish soap under the stream of hot water before she let her gaze drift to her left, casually, as if she didn’t care.
Her heart leapt into her throat. The world grayed out, came back in a rush of color and sensation.
There, next to the pile of food-crusted plates beginning to come back from the dining room, was a shapeless black felt cloche hat, familiar and strange at the same time.
Her hat. So Avery Fletcher knew she’d been down on Southking? Had he been the one chasing her? He could get her banned, he could maybe even get her banished to a kolkhoz. You weren’t supposed to charm for money if you weren’t licensed, and you doubly weren’t supposed to do it before your Potential settled.
Was it a warning? Was he going to tell?
Great. She grabbed the edge of the counter, told her knees to stiffen up, buttercup, and swallowed hard, twice. Her throat was so dry she heard a click. And I was just a jack to him. Smooth move, Ellen. All he has to do is tell someone, anyone.
Maybe even the Strep.
She set her jaw, rolled up the hat—there was something that crackled inside it—and tucked it under her sodden waistband. She’d figure it out later, and make a plan. Her back ached, and she splashed a pile of plates into the rapidly filling sink.
I have to get more credits. Enough to escape the city. Soon. As soon as I can.
Blinking still, Ellie scrubbed.
FIFTEEN
EVERYTHING, SHE DISCOVERED, COULD ALWAYS GET worse.
“God damn it.” Laurissa’s fists, white-knuckled at her sides, almost creaked. “Why is it not working?”
Rita hunched near the workroom door. The new haircut actually did her some good, but her soft helpless terror just made you want to pinch her. Each time Ellie glanced to the side the urge rose, and shoving it away got harder each time.
That’ll Twist you, Ell. Just keep still.
“You!” Laurissa rounded on her. “You. Make it work!”
So you can hit me again? Already, her head rang, and she was having trouble breathing. It wasn’t so much the light, stinging slap she’d just been granted, it was the rage
pouring off the Strep in heavy colorless waves. Her Potential moved oddly, too, as if it was unable to grasp the pattern the charm wanted to flow into.
“I can’t,” Ellie heard herself say, a dull throaty whisper. “It’s too hard.”
The lie was a pale attempt, but the best she could come up with.
“Not for you,” Laurissa sneered, forgetting how it creased the corners of her eyes and mouth. “You think you’re too good to work a little for your keep? Daddy’s little girl. Charm it, or I’ll throw you out into the street.”
That would be great. At least I’d be rid of you. For a moment Ellie actually contemplated pissing off the Strep enough to have her make good on the threat . . . but then she thought of Southking, Simmerside, the urban core. Desperate faces on lumbering buses, scrambling to charm enough to keep a roof over her head, maybe being kicked out of Juno.
Maybe worse things, like being caught by Cryboy and his jacks. She knew what could happen to an unprotected girl out there.
So she stepped forward, trying not to brush against the Strep’s cloak of crackle-angry Potential. Her head felt full and strangely light.
The base matrix—the physical thing Potential would attach to—was a pair of black patent-leather pumps, chunky-heeled and already singed from Laurissa’s last attempt. Small copper beads steamed, scattered in odd corkscrew swirls on the plinth’s surface. Even the stone was smoking a bit, and the resultant throat-scorch reek was enough to make her eyes water.
Why is everything going wrong for her? I wouldn’t mind so much if it wasn’t running downhill.
She took her time looking at the wreckage, even though Laurissa’s aggrieved sigh made the air dangerously hot and close. These were signature pieces, so they had to incorporate Laurissa’s trademark curlicues and florid overtones. Good thing Ellie’s Potential hadn’t settled, because she could convincingly fake some of those touches. They’d sell, and maybe the Strep would lay off a bit while she was counting her credits.
And maybe Ellie could steal a few of those crumpled paper notes.
Her fingers tingled. She shook them out, delicately, and nodded as if the Strep had spoken. “Yes ma’am.” Soft, conciliatory.
She just said to charm it. She didn’t say with what.
The thought was so absurd it halted her in mid-movement. Then it seemed natural and right, and she kept her face its usual mask as she stepped forward, finding the music—a harsh dissonant jangle, sort of like the Russian composer right after the Reeve, what was his name?
Figure it out later. She moved with the rhythm, stepping sideways, her battered trainers brushing the workroom floor. Laurissa’s anger fell away; all that mattered was the charm. It was a spiky one, its sharp points digging into the tenderness behind Ellie’s sore and reddened eyes, but she held it anyway.
Potential leapt to obey, crackling like Tesla’s Folly from her fingertips, spidery blue-white crawling veins. They grabbed the shoes and lifted them, tearing at the architecture of the real world, copper glowing red-hot as the beads flung themselves upward popcorn-quick, spattering and spitting with fury.
I know! Stravinsky. The name flashed across her consciousness, a meteor of Potential. A hand striking a rickety table loaded with delicate wineglasses, a crash and a tinkle, the red flare of a charm gone sideways and her own voice raised, shouting syllables she should not, could not know. . . .
Darkness, spangled with lightning like the Waste, crackling and receding. The sense of force bleeding away, and a fierce joy, like running flat-out when you didn’t have to, just like a kid. Flinging yourself along, just because the buzzing of happiness demanded you go as fast as you could.
Blackness, then, soft and restful. She came back to herself piecemeal. Cold stone against her cheek, faintly gritty.
What just happened?
Rita sobbed in a breath. “Maybe she Sigiled.” It was a terrified whisper. “Mommy—”
“Shut up, brat.” No trouble identifying this voice. It was Laurissa, heels clicking—she must have put her shoes back on. Why?
Am I hurt? Ellie took stock. Did she hit me? Maybe? I don’t know. The inside of her skull was scraped clean. Empty. A great ringing silence, as if she was six again and had attempted a charm too big for her age. Her mother would be white with fear if—
My brave girl. This voice came into her head without bothering to pass through her ears. A stinging on her hand. The sapphire—was it lighting up? She couldn’t afford to have Laurissa notice it.
Mom? Had she heard Rita say it, or was Ellie just dreaming of her own mother, of cool fingers against a fevered forehead, the warm perfume and soothing touch that was the best safety in the world, the softness and the power of knowing there was nothing that couldn’t be fixed, nothing, once the voice that moved the world sounded all around her?
“Well.” The Strep, sounding thoughtful, but thankfully not burning-furious. “Isn’t this surprising. They’re very light. A little clumsy in the turnaside charm, but that’s to be expected in a first.”
“M-m-m—” Rita, stuttering.
“Shut up.” Casually cruel. “Get your things out of her room.”
The silence turned cold. Almost scaly, a dry quiet full of whispering rasp.
“B-but y-y-you s-s-said—” Rita, gamely struggling. Ellie could have told her the Strep wasn’t going to look kindly on any questioning. Not in her current mood.
I think I’m all here. She tested—fingers, toes, everything seemed still attached. It felt normal. A cool bath of dread slid down her back, raising gooseflesh and leaching through her like the cold of the stone floor. Wait. Did I Twist? Oh, please, Mithrus, tell me I haven’t Twisted!
A sharp sound—openhanded slap, cracking against a face. Rita’s half-swallowed sob. Ellie curled around herself, her limbs sluggish. If Laurissa was coming down on Rita, well, three guesses who was next, and the first two didn’t count, right?
The hinges on the workroom door squealed slightly as it was wrenched open, and the patter of soft fleeing footsteps meant Ellie was alone in here. Alone, on the floor, and with her head still muzzy.
Great. Wake up. Come on, wake up!
A nudge in her ribs. A sharp point, the toe of a shoe digging in. “Well, well, little Ellen. Look at you.”
I really wish you wouldn’t. She could only produce a groan. What was wrong with her? If she’d Twisted, shouldn’t Laurissa be screaming and running away?
I’d pay to see that. I really would. And I need all the credits I’ve got. Only four hundred twelve, because she’s been staying home on Saturdays. No more spa days.
Where does all the money go? She takes in tons of it. Where is it?
She tried to hang onto that thought, it seemed important. There wasn’t any time, though, and she needed to be awake and alert for whatever Laurissa would do next.
“Upsy-daisy.” An edged, girlish giggle, and there were hands on her. The Strep’s hands, narrow and hard, lacquered talons scraping. “There’s a good girl.”
Ellie found herself on her feet, swaying, blinking, and staring at a world alive with too much light. The workroom walls crawled with charm-symbols, thin threads of Potential wedded to the very stone—but it wasn’t the usual buffers and shielding meant to make sure a charmer didn’t blow a house up while dealing with difficult, dangerous Potential-channeling. Not so much the channeling as the idea that it might interact with another bit of Potential and set off a quake through the snarled fabric of reality.
No, this was as if she was seeing the charm-energies inherent in the physical objects themselves. The flux of energy that made matter once it slowed down enough, a dense thicket of light and air and force.
Her head throbbed a little, and Ellie blinked. The plinth was empty but she could see the ripples, a rock thrown into a Potential-pond, spreading out from whatever had happened there. Did I do that? Wow. What happened?
Crunch. A sharp pain, as if her entire hand was squeezed, her mother’s ring singing a seashell song that was almos
t, almost audible . . . and Ellie thumped back into her own body so hard she was surprised the entire world didn’t rock underneath her. She tore away from Laurissa and stood trembling in the middle of the workroom, the light fading as charmsight receded.
It had to be Sight, but that was impossible, her Potential hadn’t settled yet! And she’d never read about people seeing charmlight in walls before. Oh sure, Potential could be charmed into buffers and defenses, but seeing the structure—it was impossible.
What’s going on?
She stared at Laurissa, Laurissa stared back, and a sudden hard, delighted smile transformed the Strep’s face. It was the kind of smile that turned the mouth into a V and the eyes into narrowed slits, the enemy peering out from castle embrasures at dawn. The Strep’s belly had grown bigger, if that was possible, or were Ellie’s eyes just fooling her again?
“This is so nice,” the Strep purred, finally. The smile widened, and Ellie had the sudden vivid image of the top of the Strep’s head flipping open, cracked by the sheer scary satisfaction the woman radiated. “We’re going to make a lot of money, Ellen dear.”
SIXTEEN
A COUPLE WEEKS LATER, SHE BLINKED HER DRY BURNING eyes and tried to settle.
“Blessed Mithrus, watch over us, We are the lambs—” A swelling chorus of girl-voices, the ancient organ wheezing and thundering along as Sister Alice Angels-Abiding, one of the music teachers, hammered at the yellowed keys with her equally yellowed, knotted fingers. Mother Heloise was at her place in the small pulpit, her broad face a smudge of paleness atop the black sail of her habit. Her hands were folded pacifically, and she beamed across the heads of her students as if her holy spouse was going to come floating down the central aisle at any moment.
Ruby, as usual, sang with great gusto but little skill. Cami’s throaty alto—surprisingly deep and sweet—could barely be heard, but she had always enjoyed singing. Singing d-d-doesn’t s-s-stut . . . There she used to stop and smile a little, pained and shy.