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?
“Yep.” And he whirled her to a halt amid a swirl of polite applause. A shadow loomed in her peripheral vision, and Cami almost flinched.
But it was only Papa, straight as a poker in his own tuxedo, mane of graying hair combed neatly and the Vultusino signet on his left hand glowing with its own sullen crimson spark. He moved stiffly, and the ruddiness in his graven cheeks told her he had Borrowed.
Stevens would be upstairs in the Red Room, probably with Chauncey transfusing him from canisters—breathing Family couldn’t take transfusion, it had to be straight from the living. It was dangerous for Papa to Borrow so close to the Kiss, and Cami gasped as a murmur swelled through the crowd.
Nico handed her over, and the music came back on a tide of strings. Papa’s smell—bay rum, leather, and copper—enfolded her. The world righted itself once again. She laid her head below his shoulder carefully, so she didn’t disarrange the charms in her hair or throw him off balance.
She shouldn’t have worried. He was strong, especially so near the Kiss, and his iron grip was carefully gentle; she could feel the restraint quivering in his hard hands.
“Bambina,” he whispered, his lips moving slightly. “My little girl.”
It wasn’t like dancing with Nico. She could let Nico do the steering. Papa wasn’t being let. He just did it, like a tidal wave or a minotaur. There was no stopping him.
That was an even greater relief.
“You are Family,” Papa said, in that same stilted whisper. “Nico knows.”
If Papa says it, it has to be true. She kept dancing. A nod, letting him know she heard, her cheek moving against his chest. His tuxedo smelled of fresh air and starch, and somehow it was subtly wrong. The humanity in him was burning out, and what was left was dry clove-and-copper, a mix of crusted blood and the ancient spice of the Unbreathing.
Already, Papa’s great barrel chest was thinning. “When I am gone—”
“No.” She had never in her life dared to interrupt him. “No, P-papa.” Unbreathing wasn’t gone, it was just changed. But things looked different on the other side of the Kiss, and the Unbreathing retreated from the world. At least, they didn’t keep charge of Family affairs, unless there was an inter-Seven dispute. Then they moved, swiftly, to punish—or simply to appear; their mere presence often solved any number of . . . problems.
Papa’s hand tightened a fraction on her waist. “When I am gone, bambina, Nico protects you, eh? It is arranged.”
It is arranged. Those three little words, the seal of finality. How many times had she heard him say it, deciding some detail, from a business deal to other, darker things? Things she wasn’t supposed to know or think about. The lump in Cami’s throat didn’t go away, and the water in her eyes was going to ruin Ruby’s careful work.
It was arranged. Well, okay. Great. Except she didn’t want Papa to transition. There. She’d admitted it, at least to herself.
Because once he was gone, the others with their flaming eyes and their cruel mouths would maybe not keep their disapproval whispered behind ring-jeweled hands. Nico wouldn’t notice, or if he did, it would only make him furious. There would be Trouble, capitalized and underlined, and there was no way she could head that trouble off without Papa’s breathing presence keeping the worst of it at bay.
His certainty of her belonging was the only anchor she had, really.
The music finally came to a close, and there was more applause as Papa handed her back to Nico. She tried to look happy. Papa patted her cheek, his hand feverscorching and dry. At least he looked pleased, an infinitely small smile creasing his coppery face, thinning as the Kiss hollowed him out.
Trig was suddenly there, angular, scrubbed and slightly ill-at-ease in a black jacket instead of his usual violent plaid, his bowtie just a little askew. Papa took his proffered left arm, and the respectful murmur hushed even further.