Lili Crow - Wayfarer

“She wasn’t in my carriage. Ellie—”

I’m not in your carriage either. “You really need to go back out there, guest of honor and all.” She rinsed the gleaming circle of the pan. The drying-charm caught itself between her teeth but she forced it out, and the cleaned metal went on the counter with a bang. “You’re being rude.”

He stood there while she scrubbed two more pots. The pile to her left was finally getting smaller. Maybe she’d be able to catch up.

You won’t ever catch up, Ell. Don’t even try.

“Fine.” A single clipped syllable. Something soft landed on the counter, and she didn’t look at it until the sense of his Potential, a fizzing bath of frustration and hurt, faded completely. She could tell he was gone by the way her skin turned back into dead clay instead of sparkling charmlight.

It’s not so bad. He’s safe, for the moment at least. Laurissa won’t be looking for effects for a couple days.

A blacklove charm. He’d be desperate for whoever it was tuned to, probably Rita. The other possibility . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

Blinking furiously again, she washed another hunk of cooking-metal before a drop of hot water traced down her cheek. It fell into the thinning soapsuds, and she yanked the plug, turning on the water to rinse everything down. She’d need a fresh sinkful to deal with the last of the main-course pans. After this there was the sorbet, and then the great towering cake, its fondant sky-blue and deep gold in deference to the Fletcher clan’s colors, would be wheeled out of the coolroom and down the hall, to the parquet floor and small carved tables that hid under dust-stiffened draperies until a grand event came along. She could almost hear the sigh of wonder that would go up at the cake, and thought grimly that it was a good thing Laurissa had handled the negotiations with the baker herself. If the entire confection decided to melt all over the ballroom’s parquet, at least Ellie wouldn’t be blamed for it.

Oh, you know you will be anyway. She sighed, popped the sink stopper back in, and dumped more harsh dish soap under the stream of hot water before she let her gaze drift to her left, casually, as if she didn’t care.

Her heart leapt into her throat. The world grayed out, came back in a rush of color and sensation.

There, next to the pile of food-crusted plates beginning to come back from the dining room, was a shapeless black felt cloche hat, familiar and strange at the same time.

Her hat. So Avery Fletcher knew she’d been down on Southking? Had he been the one chasing her? He could get her banned, he could maybe even get her banished to a kolkhoz. You weren’t supposed to charm for money if you weren’t licensed, and you doubly weren’t supposed to do it before your Potential settled.

Was it a warning? Was he going to tell?

Great . She grabbed the edge of the counter, told her knees to stiffen up, buttercup, and swallowed hard, twice. Her throat was so dry she heard a click. And I was just a jack to him. Smooth move, Ellen. All he has to do is tell someone, anyone.

Maybe even the Strep.

She set her jaw, rolled up the hat—there was something that crackled inside it—and tucked it under her sodden waistband. She’d figure it out later, and make a plan. Her back ached, and she splashed a pile of plates into the rapidly filling sink.

I have to get more credits. Enough to escape the city. Soon. As soon as I can.

Blinking still, Ellie scrubbed.

EVERYTHING, SHE DISCOVERED, COULD ALWAYS GET worse.

“God damn it.” Laurissa’s fists, white-knuckled at her sides, almost creaked. “ Why is it not working ?”

Rita hunched near the workroom door. The new haircut actually did her some good, but her soft helpless terror just made you want to pinch her. Each time Ellie glanced to the side the urge rose, and shoving it away got harder each time.

That’ll Twist you, Ell. Just keep still.

“You!” Laurissa rounded on her. “ You . Make it work!”

So you can hit me again? Already, her head rang, and she was having trouble breathing. It wasn’t so much the light, stinging slap she’d just been granted, it was the rage pouring off the Strep in heavy colorless waves. Her Potential moved oddly, too, as if it was unable to grasp the pattern the charm wanted to flow into.

“I can’t,” Ellie heard herself say, a dull throaty whisper. “It’s too hard.”

The lie was a pale attempt, but the best she could come up with.

“Not for you ,” Laurissa sneered, forgetting how it creased the corners of her eyes and mouth. “You think you’re too good to work a little for your keep? Daddy’s little girl. Charm it, or I’ll throw you out into the street.”

That would be great. At least I’d be rid of you. For a moment Ellie actually contemplated pissing off the Strep enough to have her make good on the threat . . . but then she thought of Southking, Simmerside, the urban core. Desperate faces on lumbering buses, scrambling to charm enough to keep a roof over her head, maybe being kicked out of Juno.

Maybe worse things, like being caught by Cryboy and his jacks. She knew what could happen to an unprotected girl out there.

So she stepped forward, trying not to brush against the Strep’s cloak of crackle-angry Potential. Her head felt full and strangely light.

The base matrix—the physical thing Potential would attach to—was a pair of black patent-leather pumps, chunky-heeled and already singed from Laurissa’s last attempt. Small copper beads steamed, scattered in odd corkscrew swirls on the plinth’s surface. Even the stone was smoking a bit, and the resultant throat-scorch reek was enough to make her eyes water.

Why is everything going wrong for her? I wouldn’t mind so much if it wasn’t running downhill.

She took her time looking at the wreckage, even though Laurissa’s aggrieved sigh made the air dangerously hot and close. These were signature pieces, so they had to incorporate Laurissa’s trademark curlicues and florid overtones. Good thing Ellie’s Potential hadn’t settled, because she could convincingly fake some of those touches. They’d sell, and maybe the Strep would lay off a bit while she was counting her credits.

And maybe Ellie could steal a few of those crumpled paper notes.

Her fingers tingled. She shook them out, delicately, and nodded as if the Strep had spoken. “Yes ma’am.” Soft, conciliatory.

She just said to charm it. She didn’t say with what.

The thought was so absurd it halted her in mid-movement. Then it seemed natural and right, and she kept her face its usual mask as she stepped forward, finding the music—a harsh dissonant jangle, sort of like the Russian composer right after the Reeve, what was his name?

Figure it out later . She moved with the rhythm, stepping sideways, her battered trainers brushing the workroom floor. Laurissa’s anger fell away; all that mattered was the charm. It was a spiky one, its sharp points digging into the tenderness behind Ellie’s sore and reddened eyes, but she held it anyway.

Potential leapt to obey, crackling like Tesla’s Folly from her fingertips, spidery blue-white crawling veins. They grabbed the shoes and lifted them, tearing at the architecture of the real world, copper glowing red-hot as the beads flung themselves upward popcorn-quick, spattering and spitting with fury.

I know! Stravinsky. The name flashed across her consciousness, a meteor of Potential. A hand striking a rickety table loaded with delicate wineglasses, a crash and a tinkle, the red flare of a charm gone sideways and her own voice raised, shouting syllables she should not, could not know. . . .