The kind of help I’d get from Nico Vultusino is not the kind of help I need. But if anyone could get him to take an interest in Ellie’s problems, it was Cami. And if there was one thing even a Sigiled charmer like the Strep might fear, it was the Family.
Cami just didn’t understand that Ellie had her sights set on permanent escape, not a temporary fix. A permanent fix would mean that she wasn’t anyone’s charity case anymore. Not to mention meaning she could sleep without nightmares and have whole days without bruises and the perpetual feeling of the world slipping away under her feet.
“It’s my dad’s house.” Ellie swung her bag, the knotted strap slippery in her sweating palm. “I should just leave her there? And if I don’t live there, will the trust pay for school?”
“The Family—” Cami began, and the open earnestness on her face was almost enough to make Ellie forget what a bunch of cold ruthless bastards said Family was. There would be help there, sure—but every bit of help you got from Nico Vultusino was likely to be accounted for, with high interest, sooner or later. Cami wasn’t like that, but then, she’d been adopted in.
Ruby had heard enough. “Just let me at her,” she fumed. “Two minutes in a locked room, Ell. Two minutes. You can give me an alibi.”
“Yeah. Right.” You’re tough, Rube. But she’s something else. The thought of her friend facing down the Strep was enough to send a chill down Ellie’s spine, even if Ruby had been the terror of Havenvale Middle School when Ellie had arrived. Anyone who messed with Cami got the short end of Ruby’s considerable temper—and Cami had from the start somehow made that protection extend to Ellie as well. “The court case would be sensational. Woodsdowne Girl Eats Charmer, Gets Bellyache, Film at Eleven.”
Cami’s winged eyebrows had drawn together. “Tuition isn’t a p-problem,” she said, softly. “We can p-protect you, Ellie. You kn-know that.”
You can’t protect me from her. Nothing can. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life owing favors to Family, either. Ellie shrugged. “It’s not that bad.” Her stomach cramped slightly, and she knew she was lying. “It’s just a few years until I’m of age, maybe I’ll even Sigil or apprentice with someone before then.” Then I’ll be hell and gone. Maybe I could even do an exchange—getting out of the city would get me away from Laurissa. That would be nice.
Even charity cases had dreams.
“Years with the Strep?” Ruby’s snort could have won a sarcasm prize. “You should collect hazard pay.”
“She knows how to play the legal game.” Ellie didn’t have to work to sound bitter. “She could sue the Family, even. Make things difficult for them. Even your Gran, Rube. She does all her double-dealing with syrup on top, and stupid grown-ups are fooled. There’s nothing I can do.” Except put the Plan into action. Which I could.
“Good luck suing the Vultusinos.” Ruby snorted again. “And seriously, Gran would eat her for lunch.”
“And get ptomaine poisoning. We’d better get going.” Ellie glanced over her shoulder. “It’s clearing up. If I’m late . . .” She didn’t have to finish.
Cami still looked troubled, but she said nothing as she slid off the Semprena’s hood. She just looked at Ellie, that line still between her eyebrows, and it wasn’t fair. She was beautiful, and so was Ruby.
Ellie was just . . . a mouse. A creeping little mouse. She hitched her bag onto her shoulder and twisted the silver-and-sapphire ring—the only thing left from Mom, the Strep had seen to that—around her finger. The charming in the stone sparked a little, and its voice was a seashell murmur at the very bottom of her consciousness.
Be brave. Be strong.
The problem wasn’t being brave, Ellie thought as Ruby kept muttering just two minutes, alone in a locked room. Cami folded herself up in what passed for the Semprena’s backseat, Ellie took her place in the passenger seat just like always, and when Rube twisted the key and the engine roused with a purr, deep hollow rock blared from the speakers, shaking anything anyone else had wanted to say into jelly. It was the South Bay Sigils singing about somebody’s baby getting a Twist, and Ellie shuddered.
No, brave was easy. You just put your head down and did it.
The problem, she realized as she slammed the door and grabbed for the seat belt—Ruby had already dropped the car into gear, and it was time to brace for the ride home—was surviving.
That’s what’s going to be hard.
TWO
THE DINING ROOM WAS DARKER NOW, BECAUSE THE Strep didn’t like the tinkling crystals of the chandeliers here or in the foyer. They gave her a headache, she said, and complained that the high-ceilinged rooms were drafty and dreary. Still, she always wanted to eat in here when the skeleton staff of household help had the evening off, and it was Ellie’s job to serve.
That particular chore had been instituted after Dad’s death, just like a whole raft of other things. It was like the changes in government during the Reeve and through the Deprescence, when the world struggled to deal with the eruption of Potential and the creatures that had lived only in stories suddenly showed up real and whole. The Age of Iron, when mere-humans thought they were the masters of the planet, had ended while everyone was busy with the Great War.
Usually Ell found a little solace in thinking about history as a pattern, playing itself out in the tiny wheels of human lives echoing with the bigger wheels of cities, countries, eras, centuries. It was a way to tell yourself that sooner or later even the worst things would end.
Then there were days like today. The quiet snick of the servants’ backdoor closing behind Antonia the cook’s slow, majestic bulk was a prison cell locking. Ellie braced herself, slipped through the short hall, stepped softly through the arch into the dining room. The gloss of the long table could have been a mirror, and the Strep’s reflection was distorted as the charmpolish reacted to a sudden drift of Potential. It always moved oddly around Laurissa; maybe it was her Sigil that did it.
Ellie set the plate down carefully, remembering to turn it so the fan of asparagus spears was pointed away from the Strep. That had been worth a stinging slap once, though Laurissa was usually pretty careful not to hit the face hard enough to bruise.
Don’t think about that. “Here, ma’am.” Soft and respectful.
“Oh, don’t cringe.” Laurissa was in one of her irritable moods, but she hadn’t exploded when Ellie came home. Her dark eyes weren’t hot with anger. If anything, she looked distracted, her blood-lacquered nails tapping the glossy tabletop. “Despite what your precious headmistress thinks, I’m not a monster.”
“No ma’am.” Mithrus Christ. Sweat collected in the curve of Ellie’s lower back. She hadn’t changed out of her uniform yet—since she’d missed most of High Charm Calc, crouching over the keyboard for Babbage study-chat with Ruby and Cami had taken forever; she had to catch up and there was French to struggle with, too.
There was an odd light in Laurissa’s gaze, like a sheen of oil on a dark puddle. “It’s just us now. Such a tragedy. Just us girls, together.”
Yeah, with Dad gone it’s just us, and your boyfriends when you want them over. And that baby on the way. Which may or may not be Dad’s. Mithrus. “Yes.” The sweat was in the hollows of her armpits now too. Oh, God, where is this going?
“That’s a good girl. Go get your plate. There’s a train due tonight.”
What? “A train.” Ellie repeated it as soft and noncommittal as she could, taking a step back. So she was obeying, but she wasn’t questioning.
The Strep hated to be questioned.
Her stepmother’s other hand rested on the slight curve of her belly. Her talons, glossy Chinin Red, scraped against the fabric of her shirt as she caressed the small mound, probably unconsciously. She’d only begun to show after the train crash, after the news of Dad’s . . . death. That was thought-provoking too, wasn’t it.
“My sister is coming. Another little girl in the house for you to play with.” The Strep examined her plate critically. “I do hope you won’t le
t it affect your studies. Or your chores.”
Sister? What the hell? “No ma’am.” She escaped through the archway. Her own plate was charmed to keep it warm—Antonia always did that, though she left the Strep’s alone. Ellie had given up wondering if it was Miz Toni’s comment on the woman, or just that the Strep was afraid of poison charm.
Maybe it was just that Toni felt sorry for Ellie. That was possible too. Laurissa had cut the staff several times, and the first to go were the ones who dared to give Ellie any pitying looks. Laurissa couldn’t get rid of Toni, even though she’d been Ellie’s nanny a long time ago. At least, she couldn’t get rid of a cook of Antonia’s caliber easily, not if she wanted to keep a certain status.
The Strep was all about that certain status. It was, Ellie had decided, why she’d gone for Dad. Inter-province lawyers weren’t celebrities, but they were worth a lot of money. Not a lot of people could handle delicate negotiations one day and trips through the Waste on a sealed train the next.
Ellie stood for a minute in the kitchen’s safe dimness. Every surface quietly gleaming, the two stoves and the stainless-steel fridges clean and shut like tight-pursed mouths, the squares of pristine cream linoleum flooring charm-scrubbed. Before the Strep, she and her parents had come into the kitchen to eat more often than not, laughing with Toni and playing games, Ellie lisping childhood charms and her father’s smile a warm bath of approval.
Of course, the Strep wasn’t even the worst thing that had gone wrong. It had all started with Ellie’s real mother, dead in a matter of days. Six years ago, but she remembered it like yesterday, each of those days crystal clear and painful-sharp. The anonymous wasting illness that had consumed her mother was like a Twist, settling in and destroying everything, leaving Ellie’s life unrecognizable. And her father, half dead with grief, easy prey for a charming woman he met overWaste, a blonde bombshell who fluttered around and catered to him before the wedding. She’d even fussed over Ellie, teaching her about makeup and tiny little charms.
Afterward, the siege had begun. Poor Dad hadn’t even realized he was in the middle of a war, probably because the enemy only came out of her foxholes when he was gone on one of his inter-province trips. Like the first time, a sudden stinging slap and Laurissa’s hissing venom. Little rich girl, thinking you’re so special. Well, you’re not.
When Dad came back, Laurissa was suddenly all sugar and cream again, and Ellie’s silent confusion had sealed the deal, so to speak. She had sensed, clearly and sharply, that it would be her word against Laurissa’s, and Dad was busy and absent. Even if Ell spoke up, well, she’d still be left alone with the Strep.
A lot.
She’d gone over and over it since then, trying to find the way she could have done things differently. There was just all sorts of food for thought now that things had changed so much.
Too bad she never had any time to chew it.
She picked up her plate and trudged back for the dining room. She only got a few minutes to herself during the day, enough to take a deep breath and remember what it used to be like. Sometimes the stolen time helped.
Sometimes, like today, those few filched seconds just made it worse when she stepped into the dining room again and smelled that burning-cedar anger.
Laurissa looked up from the head of the table. Its gloss distorted her reflection again, and the edge of the Strep’s Potential was a smoky ripple, not vibrant like Ruby’s or colorless heat-haze like Cami’s or shimmersoft like Ellie’s own. Lately, the Strep’s charm-mantle had been even odder. Almost fraying at the edges, but only when she was at home. Out in public she was the same as she’d ever been—a painted screen nobody but Ellie saw the danger behind.
“Do sit, dear.” Laurissa picked up her wineglass, took a mannerly sip, and set the crystal down with a click. “We must discuss a few things.”
Great. Each mouthful would turn to sand while she tried to figure out what the Strep wanted next, but God forbid she didn’t eat. Ellie settled gingerly in her chair, laid her napkin precisely in her lap, and braced herself for whatever was next.
The sleek black-gleaming train heaved and snored, pushing its shovelnose chased with dull-red glowing countercharms along with a breathless sigh. Billowing steam and cinders laden with Potential-sparks gushed, as if it rode a cushion of smoke instead of true-iron rails.
Passing through the Waste was dangerous. Out beyond the cities or the electric razorwire and sinkstone borders of the kolkhozes, Twists ran wild, the fey moved through in their own meandering ways, and stray-sloshing Potential messed everything up. Even the foliage and wildlife in the Waste got Twisted in places, without charmers to drain off the excess Potential and make it manageable.
So to go through, you had to pay for passage on a sealed train—and an indemnity in case you were contaminated en route. Diplomats and inter-province lawyers, not to mention some corporate bigwigs, had travel insurance, but it didn’t cover accidental Twists—and sometimes, even true-iron didn’t hold back the shifting, and a train derailed.
If it did, your best hope was to die in the accident, because whatever lived out in the Waste would finish the job. Or you’d Twist, and that would be the end of it. Or, one of the hunters from the cities would find you, and you’d be killed on sight.
The risk of bringing contamination into the cities was just too high. Only fey could move between Waste and city, or Waste and kolkhoz. The huge communal farms were where criminals were sent, true, but they were better than the alternative.
Anything was better than the Waste. So everyone said.
Sometimes, Ellie wondered.
She breathed out, then in with shallow little sips. Her stomach still hurt. The after-dinner calm had been punctured only by the Strep’s angry scream when Ellie slip-charmed yet another pair of high-heeled boots; the application of Potential had been complex but performed perfectly. It was a charm Laurissa had been working on for days—and not having any luck with. They were waiting for Laurissa to add her Sigil . . . and to sell. They’d fetch a high price.
I shouldn’t have done it right. She’s just going to sell them. If she didn’t bend too much, it wouldn’t hurt. The Strep’s scream had punched her, Potential like a mailed fist right in the solar plexus, and she’d spilled to the stone floor of the workshop, unable to breathe. The thought that maybe she’d suffocate and save Laurissa the trouble had made a shallow choked sound come out—one her stepmother had to have thought was a whimper instead of a traitorous laugh, because she didn’t hit Ellie again.
At least the Strep was going to be more careful about hitting her where it would show, now. Mother Hel had accomplished that much.
Hooray.
Her pale hair lifted on a breath of cinder-laden wind, and Ellie hunched her shoulders. If she held herself just right, she could breathe well enough.
“Seeeeeeal intaaaaaact!” the platform master yelled, grabbing and spinning the spoked breakwheel with callused hands. Ellie watched the shifting, cascading Potential wed to true-iron, and the train settled with a massive mechanical sagging sound. “Breaaaaaaak now!”
She could sense, almost-See, the breakwheel’s heavy-duty charming interacting with the train’s seal, folding it away in layers and feeding it back into the wheels and rails crackling with pressure and live Potential. Those who worked in the railyards had to have Affinity for true-iron—at least it was some insurance against Twisting.
Sometimes Ellie wondered when her own Affinity would begin to show. It would be a sign that her Potential was settling, and that would be a happy day. One step closer to freedom, or at least a better cage.
“Come on,” the Strep muttered. Her scarf fluttered, cinders catching in her long frosted mane. She didn’t bother with a crackcharm to shed them, and they didn’t stick to Ellie’s school uniform.
Juno wool repelled a lot of things.
The hatches opened, compressed air blowing and the train taking in fresh instead of mostly recycled.
“The Ten-Fourteen, N
ew Aaaaaavalon to New Haaaaaaven, now docked!” the platform master, his greased hair with its crust of cinder-crown bobbing, yelled in a singsong. “Liiiiiine up, ladies and gen’lmen! Continuing service to Pocario, Old Astardeane, and Loden Province!” The words reverberated, a simple charm to make them ring over the train’s grumble and the noise of those gathered on the platform turning them oddly flat and soulless.
Going through the Waste was only barely scarier than staying here. She added it up inside her head again, and came up with the same answer. Two hundred and eighty credits. Not even a quarter of what she needed to pay for passage and indemnity. Good luck finishing school or getting apprenticed in another city, too, where she didn’t know anyone and had no money for rent or food. She’d be better off getting an apartment in one of the nasty parts of New Haven, except the trust wouldn’t pay for her to attend Juno if she wasn’t living in the family home. The Strep had mentioned as much this evening, casually, her candy-sweet tone dripping with venom other adults couldn’t hear.
The Strep had been awfully forthcoming about some things, but less forthcoming about the terms of her guardianship. If Mother Heloise hadn’t looked at the will—or was the Mother bluffing?
I don’t care. At least Juno’s a good education. All she had to do was get through the next couple years. Year and a half. Year and eight months. Whatever. Ebermerle had dormitories, and the prospect of getting out and away from Perrault Street was enough to give her a small warm feeling of optimism.
Just a tiny one, but you took what you could get.
The Strep glanced sidelong at her, and Ellie’s face ached with the effort to keep itself neutral. The woman had a goddamn genius for finding any trace of rebellion in a teenage girl’s expression.
Maybe I could be a diplomat. Dad always said they could keep a straight face under torture.
Oh but the thought of her father hurt. Seeing him cave in around the hole of Mom’s death, and then Laurissa suddenly there like a fey’s bittercake present, sweet candy frosting hiding nasty underneath . . . God.