Wayfarer: A Tale of Beauty and Madness (Tales of Beauty and Madness) (7 page)

The Emporium closed at four on Saturdays. Why, nobody knew. Some said it was run by fey, but then everyone who had ever known a flighty-ass Child of Danu laughed themselves sick. Fey weren’t supposed to be good at business. They had weird ideas about profit and loss, too.

Still, it would explain a hell of a lot. Ow. Oh, God, ouch.

When she could breathe again, she blinked back tears and carefully heaved herself up into a crouch. Nothing was stirring in front of the Emporium, and she hadn’t scraped her hands
too
badly. Her jeans would need more patching, and bright drops of blood welled on her knees and palms.

At least she still had her credits.

It was there, her back to a ginormous ugly-stupid orange truck, that Ellie was startled into laughter again. Ruby wouldn’t have run with her—she would have turned around to fight whatever was chasing them. Cami would have tried her best to drag Ruby along, being more of the live to fight another day persuasion. While they were arguing, it would be up to Ellie to make a plan and
solve
the damn problem.

It was ridiculous to think of her friends here, but Cami at least would have understood the sudden burst of dark hilarity.

After all, Ellie had lost her stupid hat. It had flown away during the scramble, and good luck finding it now.

G
ETTING BACK TO
P
ERRAULT WAS ANTICLIMACTIC.

“She’s been gone all day.” Rita was as colorless as ever, hunched on a wooden stool at the breakfast bar. Her scabbed knees peeped out from under the brown plaid skirt, and she’d laced her hands protectively over her middle.

The kitchen for once wasn’t a trap. Instead, it was warm and bright, full of Antonia’s humming, the cook lowering her hefty self down to peer into a cupboard.

“Saturday. Spa day.” Ellie dropped onto her usual slightly unsteady three-legged stool. Rocked back and forth a little, just to feel the familiar movement. “She goes to Bianca’s downtown.”
Gets her claws painted and her skin oiled. Just like a machine.

“
There
you are.” Antonia cast a dark-eyed glance over one broad shoulder. Today her big shapeless dress was pale much-washed blue, with huge splotches of yellow flowers like cancerous growths. She still wore a black band around her left arm in mourning for Mom, part of her wardrobe for years now. She probably didn’t dare to wear one for Dad. “Shame on you, Miss Sinder, running around in that getup. Little hoyden.”

“I didn’t know anyone used that word anymore.” Ellie grinned, running her fingers back through her hair.
I never liked that hat anyway, but I’m going to have to find something to cover this up.
The pale blonde was too distinctive. “What’s up, Miz Toni?”

Antonia had been Ellie’s last au pair, hired before they moved to New Haven. Mom and Dad had arranged for her to get a cook’s certification afterward, sending her to Candide Culinary on a full scholarship with references. Keeping her was keeping status among Laurissa’s fellow charmers, especially if the Strep wanted to throw parties during the social season—or, God forbid, put in the winning bid to host the Charmer’s or Midsummer’s Ball.

It was almost a relief to think Ellie wouldn’t have to go to a ball this year. Dad would have gotten the invitations for Ruby and Cami as well, because Ell would wheedle him into going and using both of their guest slots. If Ellie hadn’t had Potential, Mom’s death could have closed the charm community to them both.

It was never difficult for him to get extra tickets for her friends, but Family and Woodsdowne weren’t
strictly
allowed in. They could charm, sure . . . but they weren’t quite, well, they weren’t jacks or Twists, but they were
different
.

Like fey. You didn’t invite
them
home.

“Pickles,” Antonia grumbled. “Pickled this, pickled that. Well, a pregnant woman, Mithrus bless her.
You
get beef and barley soup, just the thing for growing girls. Perk you up, pale and peaked as you are.”

“Certified Twist-free meat.” Ellie’s face didn’t feel as stretched and grim now. “And
organic
barley?” Mom had used to go on organic kicks every once in a while. For just a brief second missing her parents didn’t stab her through the heart . . . then the stab arrived, right on schedule.

“Only the best, and a-marketed for cheap.” Antonia’s grin was wide and white. Her broad dark face was always sheened with a film that was neither sweat nor oil, just a faint moist glow like dew on a healthy orange. “Madam says she plans on changing staff, and during my vacation too. While there’s to be big to-doing at the house, and me not here to make all go smooth.”

For a second Ell was confused, then her brain kicked in again.
That party Laurissa’s planning.
It must have been some bit of social climbing that couldn’t wait, since the cook wouldn’t be here.

Maybe Toni’s vacation was covered in Dad’s will too, unless the Strep was planning on firing her. Laurissa sometimes complained about how
dear
Mrs. Cafjil was—it had puzzled Ellie until she’d realized the woman meant Antonia—but how the cook was
simply
the best, and worth it.

Toni was the only piece of Ellie’s old life left. Laurissa had hired a few new, gray-faced shuffling domestics. Probably at half the usual rate, too, and it looked like she was getting a fresh crop.

So Laurissa was planning a party with cheap day-temp labor. It was a little too early to really be social season, but she obviously intended to get a piece of whatever action there was. Maybe she wanted to launch this sister of hers into New Haven society, even though Rita was obviously no kind of charmer. It didn’t mean she couldn’t marry or contract into a clan, seeing as how Laurissa was Sigiled. Potential moved around in families, sometimes, and the chance that Rita might throw a baby with Potential enough to Sigil might be what Laurissa was banking on to buy an alliance with a clan somehow.

“The party . . . It’s me.” Rita hunched even further. “Tomorrow she’s taking
me
there. Bianca’s. It’s expensive.”

“Huh.”
Well, if anyone could use a makeover, honey, it’s you
. “That’ll be nice for you,” she offered, tentatively. Did Rita think she was still mad over the other night?

Being mad at Rita was a bad investment. She was just trying to survive, like Ellie was. If she found out more about the girl, maybe she could make a plan about her. What
kind
of plan, Ell didn’t know yet.

Still, having a plan was better than just waiting to be surprised. Even pre-plans, or thinking about contingencies, were better than just letting things go their own way. Without plans, Ellie would have been in even
worse
trouble with the Strep, and far more often too.

Antonia sighed, hefting herself around. Bright silver-scrubbed pots bubbled on the stove, she placed a large stoneware crock on the counter and set about measuring fine-ground salt into it.

More words burst out as Rita stiffened, half-spitting them. “She says I have to not be such a lump. That he won’t look at me.”

“Who won’t?” There was a basket of apples on the steel-shining breakfast bar; Ellie grabbed one even though Antonia would scold her for ruining her dinner.

“The boy.” Slumped now, tired as if she’d used up all her energy for the two words. “The one the party’s for. She’s making a charm.”

What?
Ellie went cold all over. Antonia’s gaze came up; was there a warning in the cook’s wide dark eyes? Hard to tell.

“Um.” Ellie bit, hardly tasting the sweet juice, the satisfying crunch, tart white flesh under a thin bloom of red and green.

Cami didn’t like apples. Oh, she never complained, but she got a funny look on her face whenever you ate one around her.

When Ellie finished chewing, she had her wits back.
She can’t mean what I think she might mean
. “Well, lots of charming goes into parties. Everyone tries to waste it as conspicuously as possible; it’s part of charm society one-upping. Who’s catering the next one?”

“Don’t know.” Rita couldn’t look more miserable if she tried. Which was amazing. It was, Ellie reflected, an achievement in and of itself to look that hangdog. Even her hair drooped, almost touching the counter. She flushed, too, as if the idea of going to a spa sickened her.

“Oh.” That seemed to finish up conversation
.

Antonia’s mouth was a thin line. She dumped water from a glass carafe into the crock and stirred it, viciously, with a wooden spoon. Sometimes it seemed like she, out of all the other adults, saw what the Strep was doing.

Other times, Ell wasn’t so sure.

The corkboard next to the door was bare and empty, no fluttering papers with a long list of chores attached. Maybe the Strep had forgotten. Ellie chewed her way through the apple, slowly. Rita’s cheeks were scarlet. She was blinking furiously, and Ellie’s chest was tight. Her throat worked dryly at the last bit of apple, and when she bit the core in half Antonia made a spitting noise.

“Avert!” She grabbed a glass bowl full of long thin green scraps of cucumber peel and thrust it over the counter. Ellie obediently deposited the broken core in its tangled nest. “Bad girl. A charmer should know better.”

“That’s no charm. It’s just superstition. No science to it at
all
.” Ellie grinned again as Antonia hissed balefully. “Hey, Rita. Do you want . . . you know, we could take a walk. In the garden. Or something.”
After I hide all these credits burning a hole in my pocket.

“N-no. Can’t go outside.” Rita shivered. The peach sweater really wasn’t that bad. If only it wasn’t so stretched and faded, it would have been a great color on her. “
She’ll
know.”

Not that there was any place to walk to, either, unless they forced a way through the overgrown rose garden. “Okay. We could do something ins—”

“No.” Rita slid off the stool, landing with a thump. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Acting
friendly
. Trying to get me into trouble. Just like a
charmer
.” And with that, she stamped away, through the swinging door and down the hall with hard thumping footsteps.

No such things as allies, here on Perrault Street.

Antonia splashed more salt into the crock. She said nothing.

Ellie sighed. “When does your vacation start?”

“Monday. I could take a couple days less, but . . .”

“No.” A hard little bullet of a word. “You don’t have to.” She tried to make it sound casual.

Antonia eyed her for a long moment. Ellie sighed, the weight of the credits in her pocket and the tension of having to hold herself so hurtfully
aware
making her heavy and blinking.

“Miss Ellen.” Softly. “Are you all right?”

Do I look all right? Does anything here look all right to you?
For a moment Ellie gaped at her. Then she shut her mouth with a snap and shook her head. “Fine.”

What else
could
she say? Like Rita said, Laurissa would know. It was only a matter of time before she got rid of Antonia, status or no, and if Ellie said anything, Mithrus Christ,
then
what would Laurissa do?

Of course, Miz Toni had her certification. She could get a job anywhere; she could even indenture for six months to pay passage on a sealed train to some other city or province if she was blacklisted in New Haven. Her escape was guaranteed. She was an
adult
.

“Very well.” A wave of the wet wooden spoon, a spatter of saltwater as if she was driving back a smoking faust. “I am not frightened of
Madam
, you know.”

Then you don’t know her. She could run you out of town, even if she can’t blacklist you completely.
“I’m okay, Miz Toni.” The lie was bitter on her tongue, and Ellie slid off her own chair before she was tempted to say anything stupid. Like,
okay, take me home with you, get me out of here
. Or even,
yeah, don’t be afraid of her, that’s really smart.

She made it out through the swinging door and up to her hidey-hole without any incident; the house was utterly silent, not even creaking. Once, she thought she heard something behind her . . . but it was nothing, and within minutes she was curled up on her sleeping bag, dead asleep. No chores meant that for once, all she had to do was wake up in time for dinner. If she was lucky, she just might find out what the Strep was planning with this party of hers.

I
T WAS STILL DAMP FROM MORNING DEW UNDERNEATH
the giant willow tree, but they sat there in the mellifluous almost-shade anyway. The concrete picnic tables were sometimes used for Parents’ Day and field days, and you weren’t quite
supposed
to be out here during lunch . . . but they did it anyway. It was a gloriously sunny day, even if the wind still held a damp chill leftover from winter’s bony clutching grasp.

Cami balanced a pencil on her slim finger, trying to find its equilibrium point. “But aren’t you guys still in mourning?”

“Mourning?” Ellie rubbed at her arm—the Strep’s talons had dug in a good one this morning right before Ruby blatted the Semprena’s horn to call Ellie out.
You useless little bitch. Just wait until you come home.

At least Ruby wasn’t mad. She’d just given Ellie a queer look, almost apologetic, and didn’t say anything about Friday’s episode of vehicular shenanigans. Right now she was lying on her back on the picnic table despite the chill, legs dangling off the edge and her arm over her eyes, magnanimously letting the two of them carry most of the conversation.

“When someone in the House dies, that part of the Family’s in mourning.” Cami’s profile was thoughtful, serene. She finally tucked the pencil behind her ear and handed Ellie half of her sandwich. It was provolone and tomato today, on crusty homemade bread. “There’s a l-lot of etiquette. You d-don’t throw p-parties for a while.”

Mourning
. It was a pinch in a numb place. News of the derailing had arrived in the morning, and the Strep’s immediate tears had evaporated when Mr. Engel—Dad’s lawyer buddy—had left the house, obviously relieved to be free of the nasty duty of breaking bad news. Laurissa had rounded on Ellie, who was still staring numbly at the front door . . . and slapped her, hard, across the face.
Stop your whining
, she’d hissed, even though Ellie hadn’t said a word.

She shook the memory away. It wouldn’t do any good. Staying numb was the best policy. “Oh. Charm clans aren’t like that. Besides, I don’t think anyone could stop
her
from throwing a couple shindigs.” Ellie paused, running through everything she’d managed to glean over the weekend one more time, then let out her conclusion. “I think she’s got plans for the Fletchers. She was asking about their clan colors and everything.”
Because I know the alliances and clans better than she ever will.

The look of outright horror that passed over Cami’s face was pretty priceless. “What kind of plans?”

“This sister of hers—”

“Rita,” Ruby supplied, helpfully. “Who isn’t going to school.”

Stuck in the house with the Strep all day. No wonder she’s a bitch.
“Yeah. Well, last weekend, Laurissa was all about how she was going to take Rita in and give her a makeover. That she needed something to wear. And Avery Fletcher’s back.”

“Which one’s he, now?” Ruby’s foot twitched, the charms on her maryjane making a soft chiming.

Well, if you dated a new boy every week, no wonder they’d start to blur together. “Brown hair, some blond. Arrogant little jerk. Used to throw sand at me, remember Havenvale had the sandpit near the track? There.”

Cami eyed her curiously. Eyebrows lifted, her sandwich half-lifted, almost forgotten. “You’re still m-mad. That was m-middle school.”

“I don’t like him, but he doesn’t deserve whatever
she’s
planning.” Ellie’s throat burned; she picked up Cami’s extra bottle of limon and cracked the charmseal with a savage twist. It took two swallows to wet everything down right. “So she’s getting Rita a makeover, and looking at participating in pre-social-season shindig throwing, involving Fletcher clan colors. Want to bet she doesn’t have
something
up her sleeve?”

A lock of glossy blue-black hair fell in Cami’s face. She brushed it away, an impatient, graceful movement that almost made Ellie’s chest burn. Why they let Ellie hang out with them was beyond her. Maybe they needed a third point to make the whole thing work, like certain gemcutter charms. Tricycle, stool, third wheel.

The other word for it was
pity
. There was another term, too.
Charity case
.

She closed her eyes for a second. Now that the first sharp edge of hunger was blunted she could concentrate on really tasting the food instead of just choking it down. Marya—the Vultusino’s house fey—always made the
best
bread. Even better than Antonia’s chewy delightful rye.

Toni was officially on vacation now.

Laurissa was still making noises about how
expensive
it was to run a household, even though she was raking in credits hand over fist from Ellie’s charming. She probably just longed for the Age of Iron days of serfdom or something. Maybe Ellie should be glad she hadn’t been demoted to scrubbing toilets instead of cleaning out the workroom. The day maids were mostly invisible, gone before Ellie got home, and the landscaping company responsible for the front and the hedges on either side of the driveway was staffed mostly by jacks who did their work midday, when nobody in the neighborhood was likely to be home to see them.

Nobody who mattered, anyway. Perrault Street might as well be a tomb while everyone was at work. Some charmers lived there, true, but they would be down in their workrooms, busy earning the keep that made them able to live behind their walls, with faceless servants doing cleanup.

“She wants to set that Fletcher kid up with her
sister
? Wow.” Ruby found this hilarious, and her bright rill of laughter startled something in the willow tree. It rustled, and Cami’s head tilted inquiringly. “How old’s Rita, again?”

Almost my age.
“Fifteen. Kind of weird. Can you imagine the Strep having a
mother
?”

Ruby snorted, still with one arm over her eyes. “Boggles the mind. You’d think the womb that spawned her would have curdled like fey-milk.”

Cami’s shocked giggle set both of them off, and the willow overhead rustled a little more. The leaf shadows were a spray of coolness, adding to the drenched wind full of waking earth and the breath of exhaust from the city surrounding them. There was a hint of iron-tasting mineral water from the bay, trailing a cold finger down Ellie’s back. Her knees, bare under the hem of her tartan skirt, cracked with scabs as she swung her feet, making a companionable jingle to match Ruby’s.

For a few minutes, everything was okay again. Cami always had too much food packed into her black lacquer bento box nowadays, and she had a way of just handing it to Ellie that made it so they were sharing instead of Ellie begging for a crumb or two. It had pretty much always been like that, since the first moment Ruby, fists and feet flying, had taken on all comers looking to tease the new girl from overWaste—and Cami had been there, quiet and shy, to hug Ellie while she tried not to cry like a little kid.

Night and day, the two of them, and where did that leave
her
?

The laughter ended on a series of hiccups for Cami, and that made Ruby curl up to sit, bending over and shaking her redgold mane as she struggled for air. Ellie’s stomach hurt, but in a good way.

All too soon, the warning tones of the charmbell tinkled over the lacrosse field and interrupted their hitching gasps of leftover merriment.

Cami, of course, had the last word. “If Fletcher’s smart, maybe he’ll see what the Strep really is,” she said softly, handing Ellie the last carefully cut carrot stick from the tiny charmsealed plastic pouch. “Who knows? It’s Rita I feel s-sad for.”

Not me.
But Ellie kept her mouth shut. There was no use in pointing out that they all had to swim on their own.