Nameless

had their own language, one Ellie hadn’t known since she and her dad had moved from another city, overWaste in a charm-sealed train—but again, Ruby had ridden in to save Ellie from getting picked on, and now they were a troika.

Or more like Ruby and Ellie were best friends, and Cami was the third wheel that made the thing stable.

She opened her eyes. Ellie was grinning, the faint freckles on her nose almost invisible under a light coat of translucent powder. She had great skin. “That’s good. She’s breathing and has her eyes open.”

“Check her for a pulse. Maybe she’s transitioned.” Ruby snorted, leaning over the vanity and touching up her eye makeup. The little black dress sheathing her was almost indecent, but with her glory of coppery hair and the expertly applied eyeliner she somehow looked fresh instead of whorish.

“Wow, even more tasteless than usual, Rube.” Ellie was in black too, a halter-topped satiny number that made her into a sleek old-timey film star, her pale hair slicked down and her lack of jewelry classic instead of poor. It weighs me down, she said, twisting at the ring on her finger—a charmed star sapphire, the only thing left from her real mother. The Evil Strep had been talked into letting Ellie stay the night, probably because Stevens had taken care of sending a formal invitation to one Ellen Sinder, with the Vultusino crest impressed on the wax seal and a heavy scent of money wafting up from the pressed-linen paper. She looked just about green when she got it, too, Ellie had whispered gleefully.

Even a famous charmer with a Sigil like the Strep feared Family.

“I can’t help it. I’m nervous. If Cami faints I might turn into a puddle of tears.” Ruby turned away from the vanity mirror and batted her eyelashes, making little kissy noises.

“F-f-f-fuck you!” Cami burst out.

They all dissolved into laughter, and Cami stepped into the pumps. They were okay, she guessed. Heels always made her unsteady, no matter how many Family functions she attended.

Ellie took her elbow, and they approached the full-length mirror in its heavy frame, the scarf over it fluttering from a stray breath, probably from the heater registers. Ruby arrived on a wafting breeze of chocolate perfume, whisking the gauzy material aside. “Voila. Gaze upon fair princesses, better than mortal man deserves.”

“Amen to that,” Ellie muttered.

Cami peeked at herself.

Oh.

The slim, red-wrapped girl in the mirror hanging on Ellie’s arm had a shy disbelieving smile. Her gloves were spotless white, her lips carmine, her black hair an artful mass of charmed curls, a single charmstick thrust through it and dangling a string of crystalline red beads. The kohl smudged around her blue eyes made them huge, and she looked tall, elegant, and completely unlike the regular, everyday stuttering Cami.

This once, the mirror didn’t frighten her. It was a miracle. “Wow,” she breathed.

“Amen again.” Ellie grinned. She tugged at her skirt, removing an imaginary wrinkle. “There. I think she appreciates our efforts, Rube.”

“She’d goddamn better.” Ruby tossed her curls. “Come on. We’re fashionably late, ladies. Let’s go Make An Entrance.”

Every house of the Seven had a ballroom. The Vultusino’s was a long wood-floored expanse, spindly wrought-iron chairs and tables along the walls and several smaller chambers opening away—the ladies’ resting room, the smoking room, the two supper rooms, the solarium, two private audience chambers for Family business, the playroom for children too young to participate in the dancing, and a private room for members of the Family hosting the event to retreat to. The licensed and charm-bonded caterers were already at work, threading through guests with silver trays bearing fluted crystal glasses of champagne, champagne-and-calf, and fruit juices, as well as tiny, exquisite canapes. The mirrored bar was two deep already, the massive crystal-draped chandelier blazed, and the portly moustachioed herald at the door—another traditional feature—gave a signal. The music halted, turned on a dime, and became a tinkling fanfare.

“The Lady Camille Vultusino has arrived!” The herald’s bass voice cut the hush, and Cami stepped through with her head high. Her knees almost buckled, and she heard very little of the herald announcing Ruby and Ellie.

Well, Ruby would be thrilled with that.

There were Family everywhere. The others of the Seven were represented—a contingent from the Cinghiale, and the Canisari their traditional opposing force, the Vipariane the balance to the Vultusino, the Stregare who were balance to no one, with their distinctive long tapering fingers and gold jewelry. The two branches of the Diablie, the Destra and Sinistra, mingling and indistinguishable except for their Unbreathing Elders, who stood stiffly, gleams of coal-red or foxfire-blue in their clouded pupils.

There were so many Unbreathing here, probably because Papa was close to transition. So still, only the gleam of their eyes moved as their gazes combed the crowd of breathing life. They stood tall, thin, and motionless, somehow avoided even in the heaviest crush of bodies.

You never wanted to crowd the Unbreathing. They didn’t see things the way the mortal living did, and sometimes they . . . did things.

Nico appeared. She threaded her arm through his and tilted her head, accepting the polite applause. “Finally,” he muttered without moving his lips. “You’re beautiful.”

The flush was all through her. Everyone could probably see the thin white scars on her upper shoulders. The music began, and he was heading straight for the dance floor, where the crowd was pulling back and away.

“N-no.” She tried to tug on his arm. “Y-you’re c-c-cra—”

“Relax.” With his dark hair slicked back and his eyes blazing, he looked more Family than ever. Next to his impeccably crisp tuxedo and the Heir’s bloodring glimmering on his finger, she already felt a little rumpled and wilting. “It’s just a waltz. Tradition, kid.”

It’s always tradition in a Family. Why was this tradition okay with him, and other ones not?

The empty floor looked very large, and Cami caught a flash of russet hair. Ruby was already heading for the bar; Ellie had a glass of plain champagne half drained, and both of them looked inordinately smug. Trouble was on its way. For once, though, she didn’t have to worry about derailing it.

Or, she could worry, but she couldn’t exactly do anything about it.

Nico halted, the music began, and her body obeyed woodenly. She’d liked dance classes well enough; every girl of New Haven’s upper crust had them at the Vole Academy. Madame Vole never made fun of Cami’s stutter—in fact, she understood Camille Vultusino would prefer not to speak at all, and Cami never got into trouble for giggling in class.

Her feet didn’t stutter, either.

Nico paused, catching the rhythm. Her hand on his shoulder, his secure and warm at her waist, and all of a sudden they were nine and thirteen again, sneaking into the shuttered ballroom and pretending to be grown-ups. Waltzes and foxtrots, a scratchy tango played on an ancient Victrola from just after the Reeve, and she found herself moving with him, the flush fading as the world dropped away. He gazed steadily over her shoulder, and she could just let him do the directing.

“I mean it,” he said, finally. “You’re beautiful.”

She nodded. Thank you. She could feel the words knotting up.

So could he. “Book.”

“B-b-book.” Automatically.

“Candle.”

“C-candle.”

“Nico.”

“Nico.” Her smile caught her unawares; she watched his face.

Serious, intent, a sharp line between his eyebrows. His eyes were darker than usual, too. “I want to tell you something.”

“Okay.” As long as they kept dancing, she could handle this.

“But not until later, okay? Just . . . relax. This is your night. And there’s a surprise.”

“Surprise?” Another one?