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

by Lili St. Crow

  They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time. The milkshake machine began to whirr, and its racket filled up all the empty space just like the breathing of a sealed train.

  When it stopped, Avery was smiling. “I used to really torment you, especially at lunch.”

  That’s one word for it. Harassment’s another. She settled for saying something non-combative. “Yeah.”

  “I liked you.”

  “You did not.” Hotly, as if he’d called her a name again.

  “You really don’t know about guys, do you? Of course I liked you. But you wouldn’t look at me unless I was teasing you.” He picked up a menu, started rolling it into a cone. His fingers were supple, with square nails—charmer’s hands. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Figured it out yet?”

  “Not really. You’re complex.” His grin came out, sun peeking from behind a cloud. “But I’m gonna keep trying. If you’ll let me.”

  “Why?”

  “Jeez, if I have to explain that to you—”

  “Maybe I’m stupe-Twisted. Or maybe I just want to hear you say it.” Her mouth was working independently of the rest of her, and for a second she was sure he was going to slide out of the booth and leave.

  Instead, he just laughed. It was, she decided, a nice sound. Honest. Kind, sort of like Cami’s laughter. As if she was included, instead of being laughed at. When had that changed? Away at prep school?

  “You’re a lot smarter than you want anyone to think, Ell. I like that about you.”

  “Keep talking.” The girl who was in charge of her mouth now sounded almost cocky. She sounded like she could handle anything. “Especially if there’s anything else you like.”

  She sounded like the sort of girl who could hang out with Avery Fletcher, or maybe even scratch up enough credits to escape the Strep for good.

  “There’s a lot of things I like.” He leaned back against the booth, relaxing, and Ellie’s shoulders dropped a little. “I’m going to keep some of them to myself for a rainy day, though. Hey, so your stepmom won the bid for my welcome back party. Nice of her.”

  “Yeah, well.” How could she put it? “Just . . . be careful. She’s not . . .” Caution warred with the urge to warn him. If Laurissa had a plan, odds were it was something Avery would want no part of.

  The Strep had adults fooled. Except maybe Mother Hel, but she seemed content to leave everything alone now. Even Cami and Ruby had no idea how bad it was, how bad it could get. They were lucky, even Cami with her mostly vanished stutter and fully vanished scars. The lucky golden ones always made it through.

  Where did that leave her? Beaten down, threadbare, busted, and trying to plan an escape. Fletcher was probably safe, he was one of the goldens. He had a whole family, a whole charm-clan, to back him up if he got in serious trouble.

  He waited, but when she couldn’t find the rest of the words he just nodded. “Okay. I hear you. You want a burger?”

  Do you really hear me? She studied his face, wondering if there was something below the surface. Wondering if he was playing some sort of game, or . . . what? Was there anything else he could be doing?

  Who knows? Be careful.

  She looked away, out the window, as if checking the parking lot. Giving herself a chance to collect her thoughts. When she looked back, he hadn’t moved. “We can share,” she offered, finally. “If you want to.”

  “Deal.” His smile widened, and something inside Ellie’s chest loosened a fraction, then a little more. “Next time I’ll take you somewhere nicer.”

  I’m not sure there’s going to be a next time. He was her ride home, so she agreed with him anyway. “Okay.” Ellie finally relaxed, settling back against tacky navy-blue vinyl. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth without knowing what was going to come out next, and the words shaped themselves on her tongue like an auditory charm. “So tell me about boarding school.”

  THIRTEEN

  SHE WAS LATE, OF COURSE. BUT THE STONE HOUSE WAS empty. Avery dropped her off around the corner, and Ellie thought that maybe he might have tried to kiss her cheek or something. But in the end, he just grabbed her hand and squeezed for a second before letting go, his cheeks turning scarlet. When do you want to see me again?

  Day after tomorrow, she’d managed to say, and scrambled out of the car before he could change his mind.

  Now she leaned against the front door, smelling stone and floor wax and the burnt-cedar residue of Laurissa’s constant anger, and tried to breathe.

  Think logically. Is she out looking for me?

  No, chances were the Strep was out shopping, or sweet-talking a client, or getting her work—Ellie’s work—shown in a boutique. Ellie’s footsteps echoed as she made her way to the kitchen, checking the chalkboard by the garden door.

  Sure enough, there was a list of chores. With Antonia gone, Ellie was responsible for dinner, too. Was Rita hanging around somewhere?

  It didn’t matter. There was enough on the board to keep her busy until the Strep came back. Waxing the kitchen floor, reorganizing the charm indices in the library, entering the month’s income into the Strep’s ledgers, dusting the Strep’s vanity—now there was a double entendre of a task, Ellie thought, and her lonely little giggle fell into the kitchen hush with a thud—and arranging a menu. What kind of menu, and for what? The party, the rest of the week without Antonia, what? Probably both, but if she guessed wrong . . .

  The party.

  Nagging doubt just wouldn’t go away. Working on a charm for Avery, Rita said. And Antonia’s look of warning. Miz Toni had a little Potential, just enough to keep a pot from bubbling over. Or had Toni simply been frowning because of something else?

  It could, Ellie supposed, be a perfectly innocent gift. Even a traditional one, from a Sigiled charmer to a clan she wanted warm relations or even alliance with. The Fletchers were a middle-sized charm-clan, but very respectable, and they took in only the best from outside their kin. They had always steered clear of Laurissa, or maybe it was just because their areas of specialty were less fashion and more medical—they had a lot of charmstitchers for humans and veterinary stitchers for pets and livestock; their Arcadia Clinic near the core was a charitable concern tending to the nonhuman, the jacks, and, some whispered, to Twists as well.

  On the other hand, the Fletchers were allied with the Graingers, and Hebe Grainger and Laurissa had a not-quite-friendly couturier rivalry going on. Hebe had stolen a couple of Laurissa’s clients during last year’s Spring Week, and Laurissa had retaliated by spreading a dirty rumor about some of Grainger’s fabrics. Ellie could have told her that wasn’t a good idea, because the Graingers had married or apprenticed into all the big fashion charm-clans, including the two who had connections overWaste. But the Strep wouldn’t have listened, so why bother?

  Anyway, if the Strep planned to present Rita at the party and launch her into New Haven society even if the girl wasn’t a charmer, well, that was a message too. She’d be advertising her intention to start building her own clan, or looking to buy inclusion into one that maybe had a mudge—a kin-member with no Potential—to spare, to make an alliance with. A mother-in-law was technically clan-kin, and could leverage that for closer connections because she’d be invited to plenty of clan occasions.

  It could be perfectly innocent.

  Yeah, right. The Strep’s real good at innocent.

  If it wasn’t, if Laurissa had some plan aimed at one of the Fletchers, or at someone else, she’d use the occasion of Avery’s return to get to . . .

  Ellie found herself going down the stairs, and miserably knew beyond a doubt that she was heading for the workroom. Her maryjanes clicked against the worn wooden treads, the luckcharms—no good against Laurissa, of course—making a sweet muted music. Her skirt made a soft sound as well; it was so quiet here. Deserted.

  It’s probably nothing. Even if it is something, you shouldn’t get in the way. If she finds out you even thought of getting in the way, everyth
ing she’s done up until now will seem like cupcakes and candy. Keep your head down, save your credits, this doesn’t concern you.

  She would just check the workroom, she decided. There was no harm in looking, right? It meant she’d be prepared for whatever came down. Preparation was good for planning, right?

  The door was locked, but Ellie had a key—one of her little secrets, just in case. Every old house had forgotten keys, and Ellie had quietly stolen this one ages ago off Dad’s ring. He hadn’t noticed—he wasn’t a charmer—and who knows if the Strep had even known he had one?

  Still, before she twisted the key, she stood for a few moments, resting her forehead against the chill of the massive door, still struggling to breathe. Two bony fists were squeezing her lungs, and her heartbeat was a thin high gallop, thudding in her ears and wrists and ankles. Now would be a good time to go take a shower, while she could be reasonably sure the Strep wasn’t going to interrupt. Anytime you were in the bathroom, you were vulnerable.

  Why was she doing this?

  Well, however much Avery used to annoy her, he wasn’t being annoying now. He was maybe trying to make amends. Which was a nice thing, and he was decent enough. He didn’t deserve whatever Laurissa had planned.

  Why am I so sure she’s after him?

  Arguing with herself wasn’t going to do any good. She twisted the key and pushed the door open, alert for any telltales or trapcharms. There were none. She slid into the workroom, every inch of her skin alive for the sound of the Strep’s return, or a footstep, or God alone knew what.

  She glanced around, then let herself look at the plinth, where any charm in progress would be lurking. Her skin grew cold as she stared, her gray eyes widening, and for a moment she looked much younger than sixteen-and-three-quarters. The color drained from her cheeks, and she actually swayed.

  The Strep was aiming for someone, that was for sure. Looking under the screen of charmglow, sensing the tangled Potential and its humming ruthlessness, filled her with unsteady nausea.

  See, right there, the loop and that line of glyphs? They were in Sigmundson’s Charm Indices, but not the paperback they let kids have in middle school. No, these were from the unexpurgated ones in the back stacks of the public libraries, the shelves you had to sneak your way into, or an adult with settled Potential had to sign in and out, plus vouch, swear, and release all legal claim against the library if they caught a Twist from bad charm.

  When her eyes stopped watering she found out the physical base was an incredibly tacky Rhalfex watch, brand-new and gaudy. A welcome-back gift, with a sting in the tail—Laurissa was planning on hiding the nasty charm under a screen of showy glitter. All it had to do was touch the victim’s skin, and that would be that.

  Making it harmless was a fool’s job. Anything she did, Laurissa could potentially spot. Except Ellie’s Potential hadn’t settled yet, so she had a chance of remaining anonymous. If she slipped another layer in below the blacklove charm . . . but why would she do that? If she got close enough, it could Twist her.

  Leave it alone, Ell. She swayed again. Leave it alone. Go upstairs and leave it. Just walk away.

  Ten minutes later, she backed carefully out of the workroom, holding her breath. The door closed silently and she locked it, then backed across the hall as if the room held a—

  —a minotaur—

  —a monster which wasn’t particularly amenable to containment, something strong enough to bust down even a reinforced workroom door. She whooped in a breath, shaking the remains of Potential off her fingers in a cascade of golden sparks. Her knees shook, but she slid along the wall toward the stairs, the chocolate milkshake and hot greasy waffle fries inside her stomach revolving and threatening to escape.

  If she threw up here there would be hell to pay.

  She made it up the stairs in a rush and into the main floor’s servant’s bathroom, a dingy room with ancient peeling wallpaper and an even more ancient porcelain commode, before losing everything she’d eaten in the past week into the wide, discolored bowl.

  There were some things you really shouldn’t attempt before your Potential had settled, and she suspected she’d just found a big one.

  What else could I do? Miserably, kneeling in front of the toilet and shaking as if she had charmweed fever. If I end up Twisting, well, okay, but what could I do? That would have made him . . . God, I thought only black charmers did that sort of thing!

  What if Laurissa was dabbling in the black? That would make everything exponentially more dangerous, and Ellie still didn’t have enough credits to pay passage, let alone rent, somewhere else. And forget about food.

  Ugh. Yeah, I’ll forget about food all you like. Eww.

  The trembling came in great waves. Each wave was a little less intense than the last, and finally she was able to stand up, flush the mess away without looking at it, and wash her face in the autumn-leaf-colored sink.

  She glanced up, and the bruised circles under her eyes were almost as shocking as the dead pallor in her cheeks. Her hair looked odd, too—a little paler than usual, despite the fact that she hadn’t washed it.

  Her lips moved slightly, aimlessly.

  What else could I have done?

  There might have been an answer, but just then she heard a faint scuffing sound and whirled. There was nobody out in the dim servant’s hallway, and Ellie trudged upstairs to put her bookbag in her hidey-hole and change her clothes, her head down and her steps faltering whenever another wave of shaking came back.

  There was a lot of work to get done, and who knew how long the Strep would be gone?

  FOURTEEN

  FROM WHAT ELLIE COULD HEAR, THE PARTY WAS A roaring success. Laughter and murmurs of conversation floated through the walls, the bustle of the servers hadn’t given rise to any huge disasters yet, and she could see some of the charm-clan kids playing in the newly trimmed rose garden outside the kitchen window, shrieking as they lobbed balls of colored charmlight at each other and knocked against foliage clipped by jack day laborers Laurissa had hurriedly hired. The pool was behind a fold of temporary chain-link fencing hissing red with a warning-charm, a green-algae eye staring blindly up at chilly blue spring sky. There was an edge to the wind that promised rain later.

  She plunged the pot into soapy water and started scrubbing fiercely. There was a lot to get done, and the kitchen was a babble of activity as the catering staff, licensed and charm-bonded, came and went. A chafing dish had almost exploded, the Strep hadn’t ordered enough canapés, the chicken was too dry, one of the servers had already broken down in tears after being groped by an old goat of a guest from the Hathaway charm-clan, and the back door kept squeaking as it opened and closed, each time narrowly avoiding colliding with someone hurrying past.

  That dry rattling squeak would have been enough to drive her insane. If she hadn’t been so goddamn busy.

  If Dad was still alive, Ellie would be out in the middle of the party, sneaking a honeywine cooler or two and staying out of the Strep’s way. Maybe Cami would be here, and the two of them could play tipbobble or charm-tennis.

  Her eyes filled, but she scrubbed even more viciously. Even a loosening-charm could only help get some of the stuck-on gunk off; this stuff was almost bonded to the bottom. If Dad hadn’t left for those inter-province negotiations—

  He had to keep working, you idiot, you know a place like this doesn’t pay for itself. Hadn’t the Strep reminded her over and over again just how much it cost to feed Ellie even scraps? You should be grateful, she would sneer. Look at you. What are you good for?

  What indeed. She was elbow-deep in soapsuds, scrubbing caked-on remnants of whatever sauce the asparagus had been drenched with, her pale hair scraped back into a ponytail and her T-shirt splattered with dishwater. Her school skirt—she’d grabbed it this morning to wear without thinking, and heartily regretted it—was soaked near the waistband where she leaned against the counter. Barefoot, her lips moving as she muttered a loosening-charm to get the worst of th
e gunk off the bottom of the pan, she supposed she probably looked like one of the catering staff.

  Maybe I could work as a dishwasher. A stupid thought. She couldn’t get licensed until she turned eighteen, and good luck charm-bonding if the Strep badmouthed her after she left. It was another no-win situation, and as she banged the pot down in the rinse sink and flipped the hot water dial, she cursed under her breath and thought about how the world was a trap just waiting for someone, anyone, to plunge through the ice.

  “Ma’am?” The head caterer, a short pluglike man with a smooth, domed, utterly bald head, looked a little nervous. “They’re, well, there’s a lot of alcohol out there.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, gauging what he really meant. Charmers and loosened inhibitions were enough to make anyone nervous. “Do you have any more suppressors?”

  “We do, but . . .” His eyes, protruding like poached eggs behind his thick spectacles, blinked moistly. “We don’t really have the authority . . .”

  “The release is on file, and I’m resident at this address.” Ellie took a deep breath and a much firmer hold on her temper. “Take out another five suppressors. Turn ’em on. No reason for your staff to have to worry about that, too.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Relieved, he scuttled away. Black turtleneck, black jeans, he looked just like a hideously pretentious Southking busker, one that did pre-Reeve spoken-word instead of music. And who didn’t understand why the pickings were so meager.

  Ellie bit back a laugh and returned to scrubbing. A flick of a drying-charm, water shedding from metal, a kid’s trick, she set the copper pot on the counter and it was whisked away immediately to be pressed into service for some other hapless chunk of food to be choked down by Laurissa’s guests. She grabbed another one from the pile to her left and plunged it into the sink, sighing the single word that would make the loosening-charm come alive and help peel off whatever was stuck to it. Looked like lemon sauce and little bits of the too-dry chicken, smothered to make it more palatable. If Antonia would’ve been here everything would have gone like clockwork.