Lili Crow - Wayfarer

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, everything 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?

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.