Wayfarer Page 24

  “I’m sorry.” How many times had Ellie said that lately? If she was going to be a charity case, well, that was just the way things were. It will get better, Livvie told her, over and over. I promise it will get better.

  Well, maybe Avery’s mom could be trusted. Avery himself had been raked up one side and down the other for driving Ellie out to Perrault Street, but he’d taken it all with a rueful grin, and they hadn’t hit him, either with charm or with fist. Mr. Fletcher had sounded like her own father, stern but fair, and Livvie, well, she was Livvie.

  Right now she leaned forward a little, pale but composed, almost vibrating with tension in the chair where Laurissa had once sat. Ellie had that morning tentatively broached the idea of working to pay for her room and board, since the trust was tied up until she was eighteen. There was enough of it left to get her through college, though the Strep had burned a lot on poppy and God only knew what else.

  Avery’s mother had looked horrified, and now here they were, sitting in Mother Hel’s office while Juno drowsed under a late-summer sky, its halls empty except for the sisters going about whatever they did when the girls had mid-July through mid-September off. It was too late in the day for even the summer school classes to be in session.

  “Hmmm.” Mother Heloise nodded, her chin dipping. “Ruby de Varre and Camille Vultusino. Your friends.”

  It was ridiculous, that she should feel caught out. Why would Mother Heloise know about that? “Yes ma’am. They’re my friends.”

  Not an angry word from either of them. Cami simply hugged her and teared up a little, then brought out presents. Little things like hair ribbons—the thin headbands were out and ribbons were in now—and fresh luckcharm dangles, these ones not silvery as last year’s had been but bugle-shaped, like bells or beads, and their tinkling had made a cold finger trace down Ellie’s spine. Ruby brought a fresh paperback copy of Sigmundson’s Charms to replace Ellie’s lost one, and a couple gossip magazines, their covers garish-colored.

  One of them had a grainy painting of a half-minotaur Twist criminal caged behind true-iron in an inquest dock, a swollen misshapen thing sentenced to a kolkhoz for the rest of its life. Laurissa’s pregnancy hadn’t been real, just the first symptom of a black charmer’s Twisting.

  Now when Ellie heard a train coming in from the Waste she would think of the Strep, bone-shrouded head too heavy for her neck because the minotaur process had been halted midway by charmer cops throwing draincharms. She would think of the thing’s bleak furious gaze scraping the sides of a dark, sealed car, speeding through the poison-black forest. Maybe she’d Twist back fully into a minotaur out there and run through the sinkstone and wire out into the Waste, where she could savage and howl all she wanted.

  Yes, Ellie would think about it. And each time, she would feel scalding, shameful relief.

  I didn’t kill her. Instead, she had saved Rita. Who had disappeared from the hospital. Just like a cloud vanishing.

  The police weren’t happy about that, but there was enough evidence to take the Strep away—as if more evidence than her Twisting half-minotaur was needed. Poppy, black charming—Ellie’s halting answers to their questions were accepted without question, even though she’d been terrified the Strep would appear at any moment and accuse her of lying.

  Maybe she could have stopped all this earlier if she hadn’t been so afraid?

  The Mithrus Mother Superior made a small hmmm noise. “Miss Vultusino missed school during the winter and is attending classes through summer holiday. So is Miss de Varre, who I gather was not skipping to go shopping, as is her wont, but to search for her missing friend.” Mother Heloise nodded. “Very irregular situation, indeed.”

  “I’m sor—” Ellie began again.

  “Miss Sinder, this unfortunate series of incidents is not your fault. Mithrus, in His wisdom, knows that. I, though my wisdom is much less, do as well. And . . . Fletcher? Mrs. Fletcher, is it?”

  “Yes ma’am.” Livvie looked almost as uncomfortable as Ellie felt.

  “Olivia. Née Starling, I seem to recall.” Mother Hel’s gaze grew a little sharper. “Top of your class, indeed. A mischievous little thing. Used to quite torment Sister All-Abiding Mercy.”

  “I grew up, ma’am.” Slight hint of asperity, but Livvie’s cheeks were pink.

  A bright, watchful spark had kindled in Mother Heloise’s tiny eyes. “You agree that little Ellen bears no fault for this . . . situation, do you not?”

  “Completely, Mother Heloise.” And Livvie Fletcher did a strange thing.

  She reached over and took Ellie’s hand, scooping it up from Ellie’s plaid-clad lap. She even squeezed, very gently, while staring Mother Heloise down.

  Ellie’s jaw threatened to drop.

  “Very well. Sister Amalia will give you her schedule, she starts classes on Wednesday. I believe Miss de Varre is her transport on file; otherwise, you will make arrangements?”

  “Certainly. She needs a new—”

  “Uniform, yes, Sister Amalia has a package for her.”

  “I’ll pay for—” Ellie began, because the trust had provisions for her schooling, and she’d offered to pay the Fletchers even though they wouldn’t hear any of it. Was it just more charity?

  Somehow, she didn’t mind so much. Not at the moment.

  “You will not,” Livvie interrupted, firmly.

  Mother Heloise went on, smooth as a ship sailing into harbor. “Miss Vultusino, I believe, signed the receipt. I am sure a thank-you note is in order. Manners are just one of the things a Juno girl must acquire.”

  Cami. Thinking ahead. And Mother Hel knew I’d be back. The weight in Ellie’s chest lifted, and Livvie squeezed her hand again, gently, comfortingly.

  “Your grades, Miss Sinder. Keep them up. Be a credit to us.” Mother Heloise nodded. “Yes, indeed. Mithrus bless and keep us all, in this world of struggle and striving.”

  “Amen,” Livvie murmured, and Ellie too. The ritual response was comforting, as if they were sitting together in Morning Chapel, bored and warm and finally, blessedly . . . safe.

  • • •

  “Drive carefully,” Livvie said, giving Avery a glare. “Do you hear me, Ave?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, darling mother. I’m taking Ell for cheeseburgers.”

  “Good.” Livvie kissed Ellie’s cheek, her soft perfume a cloak. “You didn’t know I was a Juno girl?”

  “No ma’—I mean, no. I didn’t.” For a moment she felt cold, even in the sunshine, and heard a rustling. She restrained the urge to look over her shoulder—there would be nothing there but Juno’s empty visitor’s lot. Empty except for Avery’s primer-coated hulk and the Fletchers’ heavy SUV imported from overWaste, its windows tinted and its radio sleek and charm-buffered, its ride as smooth as a white limousine’s.

  Avery was watching her, carefully. “Ell?”

  “I’m all right. Just wondering about Rita. Marguerite.”

  “No word yet. We’re looking. New Avalon’s making inquiries too.” Livvie tried a smile, but the worry underneath it made it crumble. “Who knows, she might be going to Juno too, if we can find her.”

  Livvie’s dark eyes were troubled, and Ellie knew why. A teenage girl could go missing in New Haven and never be found.

  For all sorts of reasons.

  Ellie had nothing of Rita’s to practice a locator-charm on, and Livvie would probably give her a scolding if she tried. There were a few weeks left before the charmstitcher would clear Ellie for even regular classwork again.

  Why on earth would she leave? Livvie had asked, and Ellie had shrugged. It was no use explaining how even help could be a trap to someone whose own mother didn’t want her. She’s not responsible for Laurissa, Livvie had said . . .

  . . . but Ellie knew, deep down, that it didn’t matter. Rita would feel responsible. Just like Ellie did. Sisters in unwilling guilt, both of them, and Ellie couldn’t even begin explaining.

  There weren’t words for it.

  The bi
g stone house on Perrault was being reclaimed and sold, the proceeds going into the trust for Ellie’s eighteenth. Still, it would sit on the market for a while, because nobody wanted to buy a place that had held a black charmer Twist until they were sure the echoes had died down.

  Livvie grinned, and you could see the Juno girl she used to be, probably popping vanilla beechgum and full of fire, just like Ruby. “All right. Have a good time, you two, and be home before dark. Dinner is at seven.”

  “Mrs. . . . I mean, Livvie?” Ellie reached out, tentatively. She touched the woman’s arm, fleetingly, just above the elbow. “Thanks. I mean . . . thank you.”

  “You are very welcome, Ellie. You’re safe now.”

  And the clan adoption paperwork on the kitchen counter. She could see it, black and white legalese, waiting for her signature so that the charm-clan could fold around her like a warm blanket. She’d looked at it for a long endless moment this morning, her heart in her throat.

  You don’t have to sign it, Livvie had said, softly. Any clan would be glad to have you. You’ll finish school, we’ll see to it, and you can work anywhere you please. Even overWaste, if you . . .

  No, Ellie had said, with more firmness than she felt. I belong here.

  Such funny little words. Such a funny feeling, to belong anywhere. Was she ever going to get the hang of it again?

  The SUV’s engine roused as Avery closed the passenger-side door of his own car. Ellie took a deep breath, and when he dropped down into the seat she scooted over and did the next awkward thing. Her lips met his cheek. As kisses went, it was just a shy peck, and she retreated to her side of the car with fire-hot cheeks and her heart beating thinly against her ribs.

  She’d gained a little weight, but she still felt . . . well, oddly clear. As if sometimes the light would shine right through her. She couldn’t decide if it was comforting, or . . . not.

  Avery sat very still for a moment, before jamming the key in the ignition. “Wow.” A goofy grin split his face, and his hair was a furnace of gold streaks. “What was that for?”

  “For everything.” She settled back, and the flush died down. He wasn’t angry. It was a start.

  “Any chance I can get a real kiss?” He darted her a shy glance, and Ellie ducked her head, her hair sweeping forward. It was still pale as Auntie’s had been, but the waves in it were new. It was growing out nicely, and Livvie often sighed and ruffled it, just as she easily ruffled Avery’s dark-gold head.

  At least Ellie knew what to say to him. “Pushing your luck, Fletcher.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. Ell?”

  “Hmm?”

  He twisted the key, and the Del Toro purred. The Marconi crackled into life, one of Hellward’s slower songs lifting gently from the speakers he’d installed by hand. That was why the car was a hulk, because he wanted to fix it himself. He would even teach Ellie how to do some of it—she had helped with the wiring, snatching her fingers back when suppressors sparked against her Potential.

  “So, are we . . . you know, dating?”

  Oh, Mithrus. How am I going to answer that? She decided to take another small risk, since it seemed to be a day for it. “Kind of.” Weighed it, found it wanting, so she added a little bit more. “I mean, if you want to.”

  “Finally.” He rolled his eyes, dropped the Del Toro into reverse, and backed them carefully out of the parking space. It was agonizing to go so slowly, sometimes, and he was irritating as all hell.

  But he was steady. He’d grown up.

  Have I?

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Avery continued, craning back over his shoulder as they reversed. He turned back to the front, and his hand not-quite-casually brushed her shoulder. “So I can call you my girl now?”

  “I guess.” A warmth began inside her, the last of the cold leaching away.

  “Hot damn. Well, where do you want to go?”

  Ellie leaned back in the seat and shut her eyes. My baby has a witchy eye, Hellward sang, scratchy and rough, but with a lilt behind the words. She’s my baby, all right.

  “Anywhere,” she said, quietly. “Anywhere, with you.”

  EPILOGUE

  It was a ruined little place, and she found it almost by accident, wandering aimlessly under black-barked elms. She’d had some vague idea of finding the train station again, but this town turned her around, and the terror inside her head had robbed her of much conscious thought. The sedatives they’d given her at the hospital wore off only slowly, and when she surfaced, weaving unsteadily in another girl’s old, too-small, scuffed maryjanes, silver tinkles breaking free of their straps, she found herself staring at a blasted trellis.

  Behind it was a scattered path of bony chips, gleaming in the dark. She plodded up the path, her mouth working slowly, her hair hanging in her face.

  There was a dilapidated brownstone shack, more like a two-story shed, queerly melted and sagging as if acid had poured over the bricks. It smelled faintly of sugar and feathers, and she gave it a wide berth. Something in her recognized the danger—some aching space where once there had been a wellspring of color and light.

  The well was dry now, drained by—

  —Mommy?—

  The thought mercifully fled as soon as it arrived, and she found herself crouching on the back step of the shed. This door was blasted off its hinges too, and the rustling inside pulled her forward. There was something not quite . . . right, here, something she might have remembered, if she could remember anything at all with her head a mass of whirling noise and hurt.

  Inside the cavernous ruin, a carved bench and leather straps. There was something trapped there, a vaguely human shape rippling and bulging. For a long while the girl stared, her mouth slightly open and some faint color coming back into her cheeks.

  It wore a blue velvet coat. She took a step forward.

  Another.

  The leather split along old chewed seams, and the thing thumped forward. It hit the sagging, rotten, runneled floor with a thud that echoed all through her, and she found herself on her knees beside it as the blue velvet roiled, its tanned breeches twisting and jerking.

  She seized its velvet-clad arms and gained her feet in an unsteady rush. Dragging, the heaviness bumping and thudding, somehow trying to push itself along, they spilled through the back door and fell, and as they did the wellspring inside her roared to life. The hot flood hurt as it tore free, and the air was full of high crystal singing for a fleeting instant.

  Stalk and sand became flesh. The scarecrow sagged, and his mouth finished its endless yawning scream. Blue eyes flashed, and the girl in his arms struggled. Her cry was swallowed as his own rose, and her thrashing grew more frantic.

  “Stop! Stop!” He sucked in a huge breath, living lungs full of air now, and his grip on her tightened. “I am not—I am not her!”

  It was the one thing that could have pierced her frantic thrashing. She went limp, boneless, and the damp hot pressure on her forehead was lips, printed over and over again on her sweating skin.

  “My life,” he kept repeating. “My life, you have found me.”

  The shack behind them folded down with a rumbling splintering sound. Three locked chambers upstairs full of diamond-twinkling dry-drained cocoons crumbled into sand, for the thing that had fed upon them and kept them wrapped in gossamer cerements had lost its last hold upon the physical world.

  Sticks melted, and its entire sagging shape released a hot breath, a long, rank, foul exhalation as a black cloud rose from its pit. Tented together like drunks, they reeled to the bottom of the garden between ancient empty beehives, and there her strength failed. She folded down into the grass and he fell beside her. They slept tangled together like children under a tree next to a heap of simmering refuse, where another boy had called over a fence to the girl he loved so desperately. The morning dew coated them, but they did not care, and when they woke on a bright summer morning it was as if they had always been thus, adrift in a world with only each other.


  The next morning, he found the ring in the ruins, and held it up. A glittering circle of silver, a sapphire that flashed blue in the sunshine. “At least tell me your name.” He poked at the debris with his foot. “Do you know that? Your name?”

  His rescuer, hugging her knees as she crouched on the bottom step, shook her head. “I don’t . . . no. Nothing.”

  “The spider here no doubt stole it, as she stole mine.” Long and lanky, his blue eyes squinted against the sun he had not seen in a lifetime, his straw-yellow hair disarranged, the boy knelt. “It matters little. You are not alone.”

  A disbelieving smile broke over her thin, pinched face, and the ring flashed once more in benediction. He slid it onto her finger, and when she tipped forward into his arms, the scarecrow boy closed his eyes and held her close.

  Rita-no-more, who no longer remembered the mother who had not wanted her or the orphanage’s terror, finally began to weep.

  finis