Wayfarer: A Tale of Beauty and Madness (Tales of Beauty and Madness) Read online

  A flash of something like anger crossed his face. “It’s the end of Junius, Ellie. You’ve been here a while.”

  Junius? But . . . oh, crap, I missed finals, and—had she really believed she was going back to Juno?

  No. They couldn’t drag me back. That was the trouble about being a teenager, though. They could drag you back.

  “Seriously?” She searched his expression, her neck aching as she stared up. “Avery . . .”

  “If you don’t like me, Ellen, just tell me so and I’ll quit bugging you, okay? I had the hugest crush on you at Havenvale but you never gave me a chance. And the funniest goddamn thing happened to me when I came home and saw you on the platform. I started thinking about you again, couldn’t get you out of my head. I still can’t, but I’ll leave you alone if I’m not wanted here. Okay?”

  Is he serious? What’s in it for him? Everything she had ever wanted to say to him rose up inside her, hit a rock, and boiled. Charmsparks popped around her, and the feeling of his attention, as if her skin was alive again, poured over her in a wave. “It’s not that,” she managed around the obstruction in her throat. Now she felt guilty for thinking he was like the Strep, always looking for an advantage. “Really, Ave, it’s not that. I like you. A lot.” You have no idea how much. “I just . . . I have problems.”

  “So we solve them.”

  We? You don’t know Laurissa. “That’s awful sweet of you, but—”

  “Are you coming to the Ball, princess?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. No. It’s not worth her finding me there, and what do you want from me anyway? Not a chance, dammit. “Okay. If you promise not to tell anyone where you found me.” Wait, what did I just say?

  “Done, charmer’s word. I’ll be silent.” The branch creaked sharply and he scrambled back with monkeylike agility. “Three days, Sinder. Don’t forget!”

  “Wait!” she called after him. “I don’t have anything to wear!” What are you doing here anyway? Why didn’t you just come to the front door?

  He was already gone, and unless she climbed into the compost heap, she wouldn’t be able to yell after him.

  Oh, Mithrus Christ. What now?

  Now, she told herself, staring at the wilting, slaughtered dandelions, she should probably talk to Auntie.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “. . . SO IT’S IN THREE DAYS. AND I SHOULD MAYBE GO.” She tried not to bite her lower lip.

  Auntie had gone still, the pot on the stove bubbling. The old woman’s hair had grown thicker, longer, and more tangled, if that were possible, and the twigs and leaves caught in its wild mess struggled to poke free.

  If I go, maybe he won’t tell. Or maybe . . . I don’t know. She did know, that was the trouble. She wanted to go, to see him. “I don’t have anything to wear, but I can fix that. I might go to Southking and get a bolt of something, make a dress. I can charm . . . Laurissa’s a couturière, so I know how to do cloth and shoes. What do you think?”

  Her words petered out. A pounding in her chest echoed in her wrists and ankles, and why was she sweating? Auntie wasn’t like Laurissa.

  “A fête?” The old woman sounded puzzled. “But Columba will return, yes?”

  “Of course.” Like I have anywhere else to go. “I wouldn’t leave you, Auntie. I just don’t want to bring her here.”

  “Wickedness will not follow Columba to Auntie’s door.” The old woman muttered, her head sinking forward as she stirred with a wooden spoon. Fragrant steam rose—it was spaghetti, though the tomatoes in the garden were all still green. “But a promise, a promise to return.”

  The scarecrow made a sharp crackling noise, and Ellie almost flinched. It was just a pile of stuffing, though. Even if its painted mouth was a grimace, even if the smears of blue paint that were its eyes almost seemed to follow her as she pushed her chair back and moved restlessly into the kitchen.

  “I promise I’ll come back. You need help in the garden.” She stared at the smaller cheese press on the counter, where a block of creamy, crumbly white was being pressed. The cinnamon kitchen was too bright; her eyes stung a little. “I can work, I want to stay and work with you. If you’ll have me.” Don’t get greedy, Ell. “Maybe I can do some marketing too, now that I’ve been here a while. Anything.”

  The spoon splashed in rich red tomato sauce. “Oh, Auntie markets in her own fashion. I shall find you cloth, and conveyance, little Columba. And when the dancing is done, you shall return.”

  “Well, yeah.” Her heart ceased its wild pounding. It was a good thing, or she might have been sick. Her fingers, digging into the countertop, relaxed little by little. “I’m scared. I really . . . really just . . .”

  Before she could help herself, she’d taken the few steps to cover the space between them and thrown her arms around the old woman. Auntie stiffened—some charmers didn’t like to be touched—and as Ellie squeezed gently she got a sudden strong whiff of rotting copper. Sour sweat and dirt, and that nasty scabby breath.

  Well, no old lady smelled sweet, right? She worked all day, just like Ellie did.

  “You’re amazing,” Ellie finished. Because I know you don’t like to be thanked. “Really amazing. I wish I was your apprentice, you’re the best charmer I’ve ever known. You saved my life, and you’re just so . . . amazing.” Lame, Ell. Really lame.

  “Auntie is merely Auntie,” was the grumbling reply, but the brown, creased face broke into its wide white V-shaped smile, and this close Ellie could see a fine sprinkling of iron-grey and black hairs among the white thistledown.

  Maybe she wasn’t that old. Her skin was fine parchment, and this close it looked fresher, somehow. The wrinkles weren’t that deep.

  “You look good.” Her grin didn’t feel like a mask, again. Maybe soon she’d be able to smile naturally. “Having some help around is really good for you.”

  “Yes yes. An apprentice, a young apprentice for an old woman. Yes, little Columba, little apprentice.” A faint frown crinkled the old woman’s face.

  Her heart almost stopped. “Do you mean—”

  “Auntie needs apprentice, but only if Columba returns.” Auntie shooed her away and went back to stirring, and Ellie picked her jaw up off the floor, whirled, and ran down the hall past the three other doors that never opened. One of them had to be Auntie’s bedroom, but which?

  It didn’t matter. The stairs were old friends now, she knew all their creaking voices, and the grey room welcomed her with soft light.

  Her shabby schoolbag, thrown in a corner of the tiny closet, was actually dusty. End of Junius already; she’d been here a lot longer than she thought. Her High Charm Calc notebook was stuffed inside, and she tore out a few pages and grabbed a pen.

  Her breathless arrival back in the tiny dining room almost made black spots dance in front of her eyes. “I’m going to design a dress,” she announced. “And shoes, I need to charm some shoes. I’ll have to have a couple charms ready for throwing and showing, and . . .” What if Laurissa’s there?

  Well, what if she was? The thought was terrifying and intriguing in roughly equal measure.

  Who am I kidding? Terrifying wins out. Still, she’d fought Laurissa to a draw, hadn’t she? And escaped. In front of the whole charming community, what could the Strep do? All her nastiness was done in secret, at home.

  The strength ran out of her arms and legs, and she sat down hard. The chair groaned sharply, and the scarecrow rustled. Auntie peered at her, so Ellie essayed a weak smile. “I’m fine. I just thought of something, that’s all. What if she’s there?”

  “Thinking too much. Little Columba is strong now.” The old woman made a sarcastic little noise. “Come, the long strings are ready.”

  Which meant supper was right around the corner, and it was time to collect the hanging fingers of egg noodles from the drying racks. There really wasn’t much better than homemade pasta, especially with the pale unsalted butter left on the translucent stone front step every morning. Auntie now ate a lot of butter to go with her bre
ad and honey, but you wouldn’t think it to look at her.

  “I’m on it.” But it took Ellie two tries to stand up. “I’m going to have to go marketing.”

  “Leave it to Auntie, little one.” She sounded odd, a little strained . . . but it could have been because she was lifting the heavy pot of simmering tomatoes. “Leave everything to Auntie. A dress will be had, and shoes, and pretty pretty things for Auntie’s apprentice. Who will return to old Auntie, yes.”

  Her heart made that funny lifting thump again. It was as if leaving Perrault Street had been the last gauntlet to run through before things finally started to be good again. “I can make the shoes—”

  Now the old woman’s face turned grave, but there was a twinkle in her dark eyes. “No, Columba. For the ball, Auntie will bring her apprentice shoes.”

  The next morning dawned overcast and warm, and the cottage was empty. The kitchen was spotless but dark, and the scarecrow had fallen sideways out of its place. It took some doing to heft it back up—it was a lot heavier than it looked and weirdly warm too, as if full of heated sand. It crackled as she settled it back down, and she rearranged his hat, more gently than she probably had to. Nothing’s ever going to make you look better, friend. But at least you’re right-side-up now.

  His grimace suggested he didn’t agree. This close she could see his hair was corn silk among the straw poking out from under the antique hat, dry and raveled but still golden.

  Ellie yawned, scratching at her ribs. “Auntie?”

  The antique icebox, under a heavy layer of seal-and-cool charming, hummed quietly to itself. The back door was slightly open, so Ellie stepped out barefoot, teetering on the threshold. “Auntie?” Her tentative call fell into a breathless hush. “Are you out here?”

  The garden held itself still under a cloudy sky. There was a faint sweetish smell, like the breath of choco-beechgum that followed Ruby around. The weather had changed overnight, and maybe late-summer storms would start sweeping in from the bay. Salt breeze and thunder, and warm rain on the thirsty earth. Now that the rain barrel was clean, it would be a good thing. Auntie said bathing in rainwater would give a girl good skin, but Ellie shuddered at the notion. She’d scrubbed at least three inches of algae out of the oak cask, stinking green goop that Auntie wanted in charmed sacks. If you dried it out, maybe it was worth something, but still.

  She rubbed at the tender spot on her chest. She hadn’t quite dreamed, precisely, but she’d woken up tired, as if she’d thrashed around a lot. Probably the change in the weather.

  Ellie rocked back and forth on the threshold, uncertainly. It’s not like her to leave. A horrible thought took shape—what if she’d gone out into the garden last night and something had happened? She was an old lady, and . . .

  It was enough to get her out the door and onto the back path, the paving stones warm, glossy licorice-black holding the sun’s veiled heat. She checked the herb beds and the vegetable garden, even venturing close to the domed, cheese-yellow beehives and their drowsy mumbling.

  She circled the house, hopping over the crushed-shell walk—that sugar-white stuff was sharp—and found a broken-down place in the gleaming white fencing, but no vivid splash of Auntie’s housedress. Finally, wet to the ankles—the grass was long and dew-heavy—she came around the far edge of the house and made it to the back steps again, where she sank down and hugged her knees.

  Well, I’ve been wandering around a charmer’s garden in my underwear. She shivered, picking little bits of grass from her tanned calves. No wonder we end up eccentric.

  Auntie was really no weirder than Laurissa, or even the Fletchers—Avery’s mom had a bad allergy to seafood and avoided even fish-shaped Beltane candies, and it was common knowledge Mr. Fletcher hated rust because of his Affinity. The head of the Tharssman clan, old Benito himself, always whistled while charming, high piercing notes or nostalgic tunes popular on the kolkhoz he was rumored to have grown up on. The Hathaways had taboos against lemons and leeks, of all things.Scratch a charmer, find a weirdo. Potential gave you funny hypersensitivities, even if it didn’t turn you into a jack or Twist you.

  She found herself rubbing at her chest again, high up on the left side, an inch or two down from her collarbone. There was a slick dampness, and she blinked at her fingers.

  Bright red. “Oh, Mithrus Christ,” she said. Maybe something had gotten stuck in her camisole and poked, since she’d spent all that time in the bushes looking for Auntie. “Great.”

  Inside, the cottage was just as neat, just as clean, just as dark and empty. And the stupid scarecrow had thumped down on the floor again, its limbs spilling anyhow. For a second, a trick of the dimness made it look like it was moving, but as soon as she snapped the switch and the overhead fixture flicked into life it was just an inanimate lump of stuffed denim and velvet again.

  “Anyone else would keep a scarecrow out in the garden.” She hefted it back up, straining as its bulkiness slipped and slid, her bloody fingers wiped clean against the torn velvet jacket. “But oh no. Of cour—” The thing slipped again, for all the world as if fighting her, and she snapped a weightshift charm to help lift it. Sparks cracked blue-white, and it settled back in its place on a low chocolate-varnished wooden shelf, curiously carved and with rotting leather straps dangling from it. She’d never been close enough to see before.

  Looks like something chewed its way loose there. She blew out between her teeth and had to sit down, glaring at the scarecrow. Its blue-painted eyes returned her stare, insouciant.

  “Don’t look at me like that. What, you want to be on the floor all the time? Auntie would be mad.” It popped out before she thought about it, and that was curious too.

  She had to take a deep breath and find a sticking-plaster for whatever she’d scraped herself with. Just because Auntie wasn’t here didn’t mean there wasn’t work to be done.

  “Maybe she’s marketing? For stuff for the Ball, and she didn’t leave a note. Maybe she just didn’t think about it. She never writes notes.” Her whisper took her by surprise. “If she’s at market, she’ll be tired when she comes home. I should have lunch ready, and the rue’s ease weeded, and the hollyhocks trimmed and charmed.”

  What if she doesn’t come back? The scarecrow’s piercing gaze was uncomfortable, to say the least.

  “Then it’s just you and me, right?” It can’t be that hard to survive here. Auntie’s done it for a while now. Nobody even has to know.

  How would she pay for the grocery deliveries? She didn’t know where Auntie kept her credits. Or maybe it was automatic, but that was no guarantee that it would continue. Still . . . it was a thought.

  The old woman had said the magic word. Apprentice. This was also Auntie’s home, of course she’d come back. Home was the place where they had to take you in, but Auntie didn’t have to. Ellie was on sufferance here, just like everywhere else.

  Still, this was a better sufferance than most.

  The scarecrow sagged. She kept watching to make sure it didn’t fall again, and finally hauled herself shakily to her feet. “She’s coming back.” The words sounded flat and unconvinced. “She has to. I’m her apprentice.”

  But the calm, iron voice that she used for planning was back, and it would not be silenced. If she doesn’t, I’ll figure something out.

  TWENTY-SIX

  BY THE TIME AUNTIE DID COME HOME THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Ell was pretty close to climbing the walls. She’d cleaned everything that could be cleaned, weeded everything that could be weeded, charmed until her head was empty and her stomach ached, and set out the morning milk bottles not just rinsed but sparkling. She’d even cleaned the old ash out of Auntie’s kitchen fireplace, and when the old woman waltzed in with an armful of packages wrapped in rough brown paper, Ellie was up to her elbows in soapsuds, having taken every painted dish and bright copper pan out of the cupboards. She was on her last load, Auntie’s mismatched silverware and some odds and ends, like the butter dish and the red-lacquered serving platter shaped l
ike a leaf, a sort of cross between oak and maple.

  She looked over her shoulder, blowing pale hair out of her face—it was longer now, and lighter with all the time she’d spent in the sun—and the relief blew her heart back up like a balloon. “You’re back!”

  Auntie’s housedress was a vile fuchsia, her thistledown hair combed and pinned atop her head. The old woman looked thinner and oddly radiant. Maybe it was just that Ellie was seeing her afresh after an absence. Auntie’s face was smoother, and her smile did not make a mass of wrinkles on each cheek. Even her hands looked better. She was middle-aged instead of old, and the streaks of iron-gray in her hair had widened, each with a thread of pure black at its center, vital and growing.

  “And you look good,” Ellie finished. “I missed you. Have you had lunch? I made bread, not as good as yours but it’s okay I guess. I’ve been weeding, and the hollyhocks are fine. You must have seen them, right?” She had to stop for breath. “I tried to do everything, I really did.”

  “Good little apprentice.” Auntie’s white smile widened. “The house is happy. Auntie is happy. Come, see what she brings thee.”

  The table was freshly wiped, so Auntie set her cargo down on it with a theatrical sigh. Ellie, drying her wrinkled hands with an embroidered dishtowel, edged into the teensy dining room. The scarecrow was no longer twitching, Auntie’s presence nailing everything in the cottage back into its normal dimensions and usual cheerful glow. The ghost-scent of the bread baked earlier strengthened, too.

  Auntie made a quick movement, and a tide of moonlight spilled over the table.

  “Oh . . .” Ellie’s breath rode out in a gush of wonder. “Is that . . . is that what I think it is?”

  “Does Auntie’s dove like it?” Did she sound uncertain? Why?

  The dress was silver, but not just silver. Glittering beads hung on strings, as if a post-Reeve flapper-girl had just stepped out of it. Spaghetti-strapped and low-waisted, a small tinsel flower at the left hip, it shimmered and shone. That flower was sharp-petaled, with that same strange grace the frilled roses planted along the garden’s borders showed. At its heart, trembling crystal raindrops shimmered with charmlight.