Lili St Crow - Nameless

“Okay.” It probably wasn’t the most helpful thing to say. “You . . . the mirror. You broke it.” You stabbed our mother in the mirror. She couldn’t bring herself to say it. If the Queen hadn’t switched favorite-husbands, Cami might never have been born . And there was no way to know how their fathers came Below, what they had run from, who they had been.

“It was the only thing I could think of. Look, princess—”

“It’s Cami .” It burst out, surprising her. As if she really owned the name. She crossed her arms, defensively. Healing scrapes were rough under her fingertips, and the scars were easily visible. It probably didn’t matter—his were at least as bad as hers. Still, she felt the old prickle. “Don’t call me princess, okay? It’s insulting.”

A ghost of a grin flashing under the healing bruises and scrapes. “No stutter.”

So you noticed. Big deal . “So what are we gonna do? You, and me.”

He nodded, like she’d just said something profound. “You’re safe here. I’ve got to go. That’s also why I came. I’ve got to . . . I killed a Queen. They won’t let me live.”

“There are others?” She went cold all over. God, couldn’t this just be over?

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? She had to come from somewhere.”

“ We had to come from s-s-somewhere.” Dammit.

“I just got a feeling. Plus, with your boyfriend around, it’s not too safe here.”

“Boyfriend?” He means Nico . “He’s not . . . it’s complicated. I don’t even know if he’s going to want me around. Ruby’s grandmother, she said she could send me to another city. Maybe.” Ruby won’t talk about it, but if I can get out to Woodsdowne, well, we’ll see, won’t we? If Cami could walk halfway across the city with the White Queen’s hounds searching for her, what else could she do?

What else would she want ? Now that she was alive. It was a puzzle, and one she didn’t know how to even begin piecing together.

“We c-could go together,” she offered, tentatively. “You. And me.”

Tor grimaced slightly. “He’ll want you around, princ—ah, Cami. Trust me on that.” He took a step back, glanced at the door. “I should go.”

Don’t . If he left, would she ever find him again? Her scars ran with pain, and she saw his answering flinch.

He knew what it felt like, because his scars were hers too. “Tor—”

“I don’t belong here, Cami. Not like you do. I wish . . . ” But whatever he wished was left unsaid. He shook his hair down, the glower closing over his face like a mask. Who else would see the fear behind it?

Maybe nobody but her now.

“You b-belong.” Her tongue tried to knot up, but Cami swallowed hard, and all of a sudden the words tumbled out. “You have me . We’re the same.” We have the same scars.

Is it enough? It is.

It has to be.

The silence between them was a thin ringing, but it was no longer stretched over a black abyss. Instead, it was a fragile, delicate thing, like a thin crystal wineglass tapping her teeth. Gentle, and careful, and something inside that quiet stretched between them. A hair-thin line, unbreakable and humming with force.

Blood always tells.

“Family.” Very slowly and clearly, so he couldn’t possibly misunderstand. “Us. You have m-me .”

Torin’s scowl turned into a fleeting grin, and he winked, one blue, blue eye twitching closed for a half-second. “Likewise. Take care of yourself.” And with that, he was gone out the door, his hair flicked back with an impatient toss of his head.

When Ruby came back, a pair of trainers dangling from their laces in one crimson-fingernailed hand, she sniffed deeply and gave Cami an odd look. But she didn’t say anything, and Cami didn’t volunteer.

It was, she reminded herself, a Personal Choice to speak, or not.

The distance inside her, where there used to be a huge black fear, was now just . . . silent.

Empty. A hiding place.

So some things had to stay secret. Even now.

The last of the ice had washed away on a flood of spring rain, and the trees were budding green. Every window on the house was painted gold with late-afternoon sunlight, and the limo pulled to a smooth stop. Trig and two of his scrubbed-clean new security boys were in a black car right behind them, a small fish swimming after the sleek black shark Chauncey piloted.

“Home, Miss Cami,” he said, through the pane of lowered bulletproof glass. “And glad you’re here, if I may say so.”

Me too . She ducked her head, the habit of hiding a blush hard to shake. “Thanks.”

It was Stevens, gaunt as ever, his hair threaded with rivers instead of trickles of gray now, who came down the stairs one by one and opened her door.

“Miss Cami,” he said, and his hand was dry and warm, hard as a stick. “Welcome home.”

She swallowed, hard. Was this home? Or were the dripping tunnels—flooded now, but cleansed by the Family, Trig had informed Ruby in a low tone when he thought Cami couldn’t hear—really home? Would she be shipped off to a boarding school now, sent through the Waste on a sealed train, or—

“ Naughty! ” Marya shrilled, and Cami was enfolded in a bruising-hard hug, right there on the steps. The feywoman’s cameo dug into her collarbone, and Cami realized with a start that she was taller now. “ Naughty little thing! Worrying us to death , naughty little wandering thing, bad little sidhe ! And so thin!”

“M-Marya!” It wasn’t the stutter. Instead, it was half a sob, caught in her throat. The dam broke, and she was shaking as the feywoman bustled her into the house past a solemn assemblage of servants all gathered, scrubbed and shining, some of them looking uncomfortable, others looking relieved. The foyer was full, and the stairs too. The maids curtsied, some of them blushing and giggling, and Marya kept scolding Cami, calling her “naughty little sidhe ” in between hugs so hard they threatened to steal what little breath she had left. She also produced a blinding-white handkerchief and wiped Cami’s nose as if she was seven and messy again.

Marya all but hauled her up the stairs, since Cami’s legs weren’t quite functioning right. “I have a good dinner for you. All your favorites, and apple tart too.”

It was hard work to suppress a shiver. “That sounds good,” she said, carefully, and blinked away the tears.

The door to the white room had been repaired. So had the hole in the wall where Trig had hit. The broken mirror was gone. Her clothes hung in the closet, and it smelled of fresh lumber and a little bit of paint under the dust-scorch crackle of cleaning charms in an unoccupied room. The window seat was wide and white, and earlier rain still glimmered on the window, throwing little jewels of rainbow reflection onto the carpet.

Nico, straight and dark, sat on her bed. He stared at the wall, as if he just happened to be in here, no big deal, oh well. Absolutely rigid, and the tension boiling off him was a physical weight, colorless but heavy.

MARYA’S ARMS FELL AWAY. “I GO TO FINISH DINNER,” she announced, rescuing the sodden handkerchief from Cami’s limp fingers. “ You , naughty little sidhe , do not run away again. Old Marya will come find you!”

I wish you had. “Okay, Marya. I p-promise.”

Maybe the stutter wasn’t quite gone. Or maybe her heart was just working so hard it shook the words up on their way out.

The feywoman retreated, muttering. Cami stood on nerveless legs. She counted to ten. Then counted again.