“We can get married. If you . . . After, you know, college. Unless you don’t . . . don’t . . . ”
Don’t what? How could I not? A small seed of warmth bloomed under her ribs, and she almost swayed with relief. “Yes.” Her cheeks were wet. Nico. My God. “Y-yes.”
Maybe she should have thought about it. But it was Nico, the warmth under her ribs dilated, and the ring glittered as she touched it with a trembling fingertip. Its charmlight flushed a deep crimson as it popped a single spark.
If she hadn’t been the chosen one, his chosen one, the ring would refuse. It was like the Heir’s rings, or the signets. Sometimes things could be charmed for so long they seemed . . . alive.
The world righted itself, and the terrible cold fell away in invisible shards. The box snapped shut and she flung her arms around him, hugging so tight the charmstick in her hair tilted, and as he hugged her back, there was a pair of black eyes across the room.
Watching.
TWELVE
THE END OF OCTOVUS HAD ALWAYS BEEN A CELEBRATION, even before the Reeve. New Haven crouched under the lash of cold rain and spatters of sleet as Dead Harvest dawned, and curled itself down still further as the afternoon wore on under iron-colored clouds. Despite the wet and the keening east wind, last-minute costume-booths were still open on Southking, the thrift stores were crawling with customers—it was lucky to have something used as a part of your Dead Harvest attire—and the invitations flew fast and thick.
THE PLEASURE OF
YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED
AT A COSTUME FÊTE,
so on, so forth.
No celebration at the Vultusino house, because of the observance of Papa’s transition. But the invitations had to be sorted, and Nico didn’t know how. It had always been Cami’s job to go through them with Papa and make a plan for their separate appearances—the arcane dance of Family etiquette dictated some parties must be attended by the Head and some by the Heir, some by a junior member; others would be important but it could give the wrong impression if the Head attended, and above all there was the careful balance of power among the Seven to take account of. This year she didn’t have Papa’s comments to guide the whole process, but she’d been swimming in the Family’s etiquette for so long there were no real problems.
It still took a while, even with Stevens making one or two helpful, if dry, remarks. Cami finally decided that since Papa had transitioned the only party that was absolutely required was the formal costume ball, hosted by the Stregare this year since one of their ruling family had transitioned too, just before May Eve.
The Vultusino would be responsible for the next May Eve party, because of Papa transitioning so close to Harvest. That was something Cami could worry about later. It would take months to make arrangements, but Stevens and Marya would help. So it ended up with only one Dead Harvest appearance to agonize over, the great Family costume ball.
Ellie was stuck home handing out candy to trick’s-treaters while the Evil Strep attended the Charmer’s Ball, and Ruby had plans with Hunter, Thorne, and some of the other Woodsdowne clanboys. So there was no help there, and Cami’s Moon costume from last year would have been fine . . . except her chest had gotten bigger, and she was taller. It looked ridiculous, and Marya muttered it was ill-luck to alter a Moon. Which meant the feywoman sent a few maids a-marketing for cloth and necessaries, and made the costume as she did every year.
Little mayfly, growing like a weed, Marya had said around the pins in her mouth. Stand still, little sidhe. Be good.
The sun slipped below the horizon on the last day of Octovus, and New Haven took a deep breath. The Dead Harvest had begun.
The gates of every great house—even the Seven’s fortresses—stood open, the charmbell buttons and antique cold-iron knockers ready to be pressed into service. The Sigiled charmers’ houses were alive with foxfire charmlight, shimmering veils through which ghostly faces pressed, half-heard whispers and screams spilling through cold night as the veil between living and dead thinned.
Every cemetery and graveyard was jammed with willo’wisps and families feasting in celebration, the gauzy shimmers of ancestral spirits hovering above the altars erected by their descendants, piled with hothouse flowers and sugar skulls melting in the damp even under the temporary canvas roofs. The first masked and gowned trick’s-treaters rang bells or knocked, and the first cry of Trick’s-treating! rang out; the first jewel-bright bits of wrapped candy showered into waiting bags. The first charmpoppers exploded against pavement, flung by shriek-laughing children.
The limousine slowed to a crawl, one of a line of shining glossy expensive cars flowing toward the Stregare’s palatial main house. Cami shivered, her tissue-thin fey-woven veil tucked aside for the moment so she could breathe. The veil hung from a silver-tinsel crown; the dress’s heavy length was brocaded with silver thread, the wand with its small golden crescent at the end, the reticule, and the fan secured at her belt. This year Marya had made Cami’s costume in the style of the Renascence, high-waisted and bound with silver ribbons at the sweeping sleeves, as if she had known what the new Vultusino had planned to wear.
Nico lounged next to her, sipping at a whiskey and calf. The new Vultusino, ill-luck be damned, had chosen to dress as pallid Pierrot. White velvet tunic, white close-fitting breeches, white glove-boots, his face smeared with white and gray and his dark hair frosted, the red-thread bracelets at his wrists and the dagger-shapes of the black cloak alluding to the Little Lover’s suicide, driven mad by the Moon-maiden who had promised . . . and left him.
Cami sighed. Nico was even being careful to sip instead of bolt his drink. If it spilled on him, the stain would never come out.
No fights, no running off, no explosions of temper. This was a new Nico, and one Cami wasn’t quite sure about.
“You’re worrying.” He frowned, took another sip. The bloody gleam of the Vultusino’s ring sent a dart of ruby light against the limousine’s roof, and Chauncey whistled tuneless between his teeth, a familiar sound of concentration. “You look great.”
The heavy weight on her left hand was the Vultusina’s ring, its stone merely blushing instead of bloody. It clasped her third finger gently, lovingly, and the metal was warm. It should have been comforting, even if there was a party looming. Her tongue was a knot, so she didn’t answer, just looked out the window.
At least la Vultusina couldn’t be openly insulted. Etiquette would demand she be treated with distance if not warmth, and Cami was fairly sure she could handle smiling and nodding. It didn’t take a lot to be agreeable, even in the Family.
Despite the rain and the fear, there was a throng on the wide pavements of the Helhurst neighborhood, where the Stregare had settled. It was lower on the Hill than the Vultusino residence, and older, but just as beautifully kept. The smaller trick’s-treaters were in groups, with more adults hovering over them than Cami could ever remember seeing on a Harvest night.
Another disappearance had been all over the newscasts. A teenage girl, full of charm-Potential, vanished on her way to the corner market to buy a quart of fey-milk for her apartment building’s concierge, a brughnie which couldn’t have comfortably gone itself.
Brughnies, like Marya, were housebound fey. Marya went a-marketing, but always with a stone or three from the Vultusino household to anchor her so she didn’t lose her way.