Nameless

on.”

He doesn’t know? I don’t know who did mine, either. So she followed. There was really nothing else to do. He silently walked her to the front steps, and as soon as she reached the massive ironbound doors he trudged off toward the side of the house.

To the servants’ entrance. Leaving Cami standing there openmouthed, wondering what kind of friend he thought he was going to be.

FIFTEEN

THE QUEEN, HER LONG GOLDEN HAIR GLOWING, paces down a long corridor full of mirrors. Velvet swishes as her skirts swing, and everything around her is a soft glimmer. The smoke in the air is incense, perfuming the hallway; she halts before a particular mirror.

Writhing cherubs twist their wings together on the mirror’s iron frame, flakes of rust drifting free and whirling down to the plush carpet. The Queen’s white face floats in its water-clear depths, and it reflects nothing but her. This is her favorite one, you can tell by the way she leans in, smiling a little. The medallion at her chest glows, and the roundness of it is not quite perfect. There is something about it . . .

But wait. The Queen frowns slightly. She does not do so often, for it mars the perfection of her soft features. The skin, dead-white, is drier now. She leans much closer to the mirror, jerking back with a hiss as she finds what she does not expect.

For a moment the edge of the smoky heavy perfume lifts, and a sharper, drier scent underneath rises. It is an edge of rot, a fruit left in a wet dark corner for too long. The Queen’s lip curls, and she whirls away from the mirror. Yet it holds her image as a cup holds wine, a long shimmering, and I can see what she saw. What she fears, what has struck her with terror and fury.

A wrinkle in white skin. A single line, at the corner of her right eye, radiating. And I know I am to blame.

There was no Nico. She sat up, clutching the white down comforter, her ribs heaving. There was no Papa either, and she must not have screamed because the house was quiet. Not even a breath of wind moaning at the edges, the absolute muffled silence of snow over everything. The nightmare retreated, and the blue gauze over the mirror fluttered slightly.

Cami didn’t notice. She was too busy gasping, her throat a pinhole. No wonder she hadn’t made a sound. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were full of perfumed smoke. The chanting receded, a seashell-moan fading into the distance.

Constriction eased. She dragged in great gulps of clean air. No incense here. Her wrists twinged, and she caught herself hunching as if to ward off a blow. Her heels scraped against the soft sheets, and she was out of the bed before she thought of it.

Skritch-scratch.

A soft scraping at her door, loud in the hush. She padded across her room, heart lodged firmly in her just- recently cleared throat, her fingers and toes made of clumsy ice, her nightgown fluttering. The silk was raspy with sweat under her arms, its straps cutting her shoulders and the hem behaving oddly, swirling as if it were heavier.

As if it was motheaten velvet, brushing her skin.

She twisted the crystal knob and jerked the door open.

Tor twitched back. His eyes were live coals, his hair a wild mess, and he was in a black tank top and hastily buttoned jeans.

She hadn’t seen him for two days.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and she finally discovered what made her gaze catch on him all the time.

He looked familiar, somehow. He reminded her of something; she just couldn’t figure out what with her head full of the rushing of a nightmare’s passage.

The stasis broke. Tor pressed a finger to his lips, his boots dangling by their laces from that hand, bumping his chest. There was a hole in his white socks, right over his instep.

Cami’s jaw fell. He’s not supposed to be here. How did he—But then, she realized, he probably stayed overnight because of the snowfall. Some of the garden boys, like most of the maids, did. Especially if they lived in the Old City—the parts of pre-Reeve Haven that hadn’t blighted into the core.

He held something out with the other hand. A thin black velvet case, worn down to the nap at its corners. She took it automatically, and his indrawn breath as their fingers touched was a twin to hers. His skin was cold, and he seemed to be trembling.

Am I dreaming?

She couldn’t tell. Her hand curled around the case. It was too heavy. He nodded, gravely, and backed away before the smile broke over his face. It was oddly sweet, a winter sunrise all its own, white teeth gleaming. Then he went ghosting on quiet sock feet down the hall, melding with the darkness. There wasn’t even a betraying creak from the floorboards.

Cami let out a long shuddering breath. She shut the door and brought the case up to her mouth. Velvet pressed hard against her lips.

I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before. Then why did he feel like a glove? Like a sock or a broken-in pair of charm-laced trainers, like the familiar faces of the books in the library or . . .

I don’t know him. This is a dream, one I won’t even remember tomorrow. She was sure of it.

Until she surfaced to her alarm tinkling “Wake Up Charmgirl,” the streets plowed clean, school resumed . . .

 . . . and a long thin bone hairpin, a fall of glittering crystals fastened to one end with smoky golden wire, sitting in its velvet case on the pillow next to hers.

SIXTEEN

THERE WAS, AS USUAL, A STEAMING MUG OF HOT chocolate and a porcelain plate with a delicate fey-lace doily spread over it, two fresh croissants nestled against the snowy paper. Sometimes Marya even did pain au chocolat, when she was feeling especially appreciated. But today the feywoman fluttered around the kitchen, her spiderweb shawl moving on invisible drafts of Potential, muttering to herself and obviously piqued over something.

Cami’s nose and cheeks were stinging; she set her schoolbag down on the stool and slid into her accustomed place with a sigh. The surprise test in High Charm Calculus had not gone well, nor had the French quiz. Her braid, heavy and damp, lay against her back, and beads swung as she turned her head. The bone pin’s point, carefully threaded through her braid that morning, scraped at her nape. “Y-yummy,” she tried, tentatively, cupping her icy hands around the hot mug. It stung, but pleasantly.

“Yesyes.” Marya stopped, put her hands on her ample hips, staring into the fireplace. “I cannot find it. The Gaunt will not be happy, but I cannot find it.”

Stevens? I don’t know if he ever looks happy. “What c-can’t you f-find?” She blew across the top of the hot cocoa, her shoulders relaxing in tiny increments. Ruby had kept up a vociferous stream of obscenities all the way home, not letting Ellie or Cami get a word in edgewise. Her French test must have been just as dire, or something else was pissing her off. Ellie was wan and tired, and she kept giving Cami little sideways looks, as if she suspected her of something.

At least Cami had been able to sneak away at lunch and go to the office to arrange the surprise. I hope she likes it. The thought of Ellie’s delight over a new blazer made Cami all but wriggle on her seat and smile.