Lili Crow - Wayfarer

She is going to be sooo pissed at me for calling her a bitch.

Laurissa’s shoulders sagged. For a few moments she seemed to shrink inside her clothes, and Ellie’s throat was desert-dry again. The posture reminded her of the minotaur’s slumping shamble and its fuming blur as drops of angry maroon ectoplasmic fluid rose in shuddering scarves.

The jolt of copper terror kept her upright, and she blinked as Laurissa snapped her fingers, a vicious dry click. “Ellen, sweetheart? Come and take a look at this.” Dulcet false honey, one of the worst tones she could use. The soon I’m going to hurt someone voice that other adults would always mistake for kindness. “It’s a little thing, but difficult. Good practice for you.”

I’ll just bet. Ellie edged forward. Her old trainers were a little too small, pinching her toes, but there was no way of getting new ones. Her jeans were also a little too short, but she’d stolen them a bit oversized and could just undo the hem with a threadcharm. “Yes ma’am. What should I do?” As if I don’t know. At least if I was charm-whoring down on Southking I’d get a credit or two for this.

“Oh, maybe you can see what needs to be done.” She waved her long fingers, the Chinin Red lacquer flashing dangerously under ceiling-moored, insulated electric bulbs. The light in here wasn’t the usual gold of incandescents; it was a pale drench passing through buffers wedded to glass so a stray bit of Potential wouldn’t explode things and rain danger on anyone below.

For a second Ellie had a mad thought of shattering the bulbs while the Strep was working. It might even be worth it, if she could find a chink in the buffers.

“I don’t know.” Hedging was probably safest. “It looks pretty complex to me. . . .”

“Oh, come now.” Impatient, a toe tapping. “Top of your class, aren’t you? My little Margie could learn plenty from you. Couldn’t you, darling? Don’t slouch. Come here and let Ellie show you how to charm .” The vengeful glee under the words was vicious even for Laurissa, but she probably had all sorts of ways to make her sister feel insignificant.

It was one of her talents.

Margie . What a hideous nickname. It was old and dowdy, and it probably stung Rita like hell. So much for her knowing some way to defuse the Strep.

The girl crept up, mouselike, hanging back almost as much as Ellie did.

Ell let herself take another long look at the boots, even though the charmset Laurissa was attempting was stupid-simple. There was, as Mom always said, no reason not to do even the smallest things right .

It was a pinch in a numb place she couldn’t afford, thinking of Mom.

The leather was already sensitized by Laurissa’s attempts. The charm wanted to go on right, there was already a space for it behind Ellie’s eyes, in that funny place where she could almost-not-quite physically see the pattern Potential wanted to take. It was pretty absurd—Potential ached to obey, longed to be used. Why other people didn’t just let it coalesce was beyond her. She would have thought the ring made it easier, except she’d always been able to sort-of-see that unspace. Maybe it was what they called charmsight, though it couldn’t be so straightforward.

Could it?

Her fingers tingled, bitten-down nails fluorescing with golden threads. The threads flowed together in complex knots that were also symbols, leaping off her flesh as Ellie smoothed down the air a half-inch away from the leather—quick graceful movements. She had to stand on her toes to go around the plinth, moving lightly as if she was back at the Vole Academy. Cami had attended in the evenings, but Ellie and Ruby had been in class together during long, syrup-slow afterschool afternoons.

For such an athletic girl, Ruby was astonishingly klutzy at the ballet barre. Just one of those things.

Charming really was like dancing. You found the rhythm, the place where the music wanted you to go, and you went with it. One-two-three, one-two-three, this one was just like a waltz.

What the boots wanted was surefoot charm with water resistance and refraction built in. The lookgrabbing charm was an afterthought, but it wouldn’t mind tagging along.

Nice and easy, Ell.

Carefully scattered pebbles of colorless glass under the boots twitched. Gold-glowing symbols, hair-fine and delicate, crawled through the leather, inside and out—Ellie dipped a finger inside the well of each boot to make sure it would take. They spread out, a puddle on the plinth’s surface, and the broken glass became tiny jewels.

There was a flash, a soundless thunder, and the music halted. Ellie took her hands away, flicking her fingers as stray golden sparks crackled. The ring was dark, only a shimmer in its depths as the stone hummed a low note of satisfaction.

The boots were taller now, an elegant sweet curve that would mold to the calf, cut away sharply behind the knee. The toes were squarer, and even the heels were subtly altered, lower and also curved, balancing them beautifully. The broken glass, glinting, had smoothed itself up the charm lines as if heated and spun out in delicate fibers. The threads formed symbols and tiny scenes—a spiderweb spinning itself, a filigree horse leaping, a Mithraic sunburst, flowing and melding as the charm caught the interest of its viewers.

Her heart was a rabbit, frantic inside a cage of ribs. Oh, no.

It was a beautiful piece of work. Her shoulders came up defensively, waiting for a scream of rage and a stunning blow—probably to the back of her head, but maybe a kick, who knew? The Strep was good at striking where you least expected. A goddamn genius.

There was a tinkling crash.

Marguerite, whey-faced, stood next to a wooden rack full of sylph-ether bottles. One lay broken on the floor, curls of silvery vapor rising, seeking eddy and flow in the sea of Potential around them. Tiny silver flames winked into being, whispering their chiming little cries.

“ Idiot! ” Laurissa flared, and Rita shrank back, her big dark eyes filling with tears. The tiny flames cast an odd white directionless light, and they strengthened, scenting anger.

No. Not anger. Pure rage.

The moment stretched out, and Ellie was suddenly dead certain the sylphire would latch onto Laurissa and start working in, feeding on the sudden shock of finding your own flesh alive with crunching, nipping flame. Smoke rising as if Laurissa was a faust, a dæmon’s inhabitation filling her with burning.

How did she die? Well, Officer, there was sylph-ether, and she got careless, and—

The Sigiled charmer snapped a spike-edged catchword and the flames winked out, crying like tiny crystalline children. She spent the next fifteen minutes ranting— stupid little bitch, clumsy brat, I should have left you on the street to starve —at poor Rita, who huddled colorless and shaking, her round cheeks wet and her chubby fingers rubbing at her arm where Laurissa’s talons had dug in. The Strep forgot all about Ellie, who crept back to the wall near the door and forced herself to watch every moment, silently willing Rita to look at her instead of at the Strep’s crimson, contorted face.

The new girl never did, but not taking her gaze away was the least Ellie could do. Because there was no way that bottle, charmed into the rack, could have fallen out by itself.

Maybe, just maybe, Rita might turn out to be okay.

IT USED TO BE THAT ELLIE COULD CREEP AROUND AT night far more regularly, especially when Dad wasn’t home. The Strep’s boyfriends used to keep her occupied, and sometimes she was even relatively calm after one of them had spent the night. Judging by the sounds filtering out of whatever bedroom she used—never the master suite, Dad was absent and love-blind, but not stupid —no wonder she was worn out on those occasions.