Lili Crow - Wayfarer

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.

IT 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.