Page 15 of Magic for Nothing

“And I really do mean it when I say this isn’t the time. It would be fun to yell at you and know that you’d just take it, but if Istas and I are going to fix my hair and get me ready, we need to get started.” I turned to Istas. “You know the layout. Lead the way.”

She sniffed the air twice, in an almost canine gesture, and wrinkled her nose. “A shower first, I think. After that, we will begin.”

When the terrifying shapeshifting carnivore says it’s time to shower, it’s time to shower. I grabbed my backpack in one hand, the handle of my suitcase in the other, and followed Istas across the slaughterhouse to something less complicated than my family.

I sat wrapped in a towel while Istas applied the henna to my hair, humming in a not-unpleasant voice while she worked. Occasionally, she’d ask me to move my head to one side or the other, but for the most part, she seemed content to treat me like a living prop, and I was happy to let her. Again: less complicated than my family.

Being a natural brunette in a family of blondes, it took me a while to learn to love my hair. Henna helped a lot. From the first box I bought at the Hot Topic in the mall to the better-quality stuff I started having delivered to the family post office box when I turned eighteen, henna has never let me down. It doesn’t damage my hair like box color and bleach, and it doesn’t require hours sitting at the salon. Best of all, even “brightening” henna will never turn me into a blonde. I don’t have to feel like I’m trying to make myself look like someone I’m not. I’m just turning myself into a brighter version of, well, myself, and that’s okay. That doesn’t speak to a bad self-image. That doesn’t mean trying to find a therapist.

(When your family works with things that officially don’t exist, therapy is an interesting proposition. Pretty much anyone you talk to has to be a part of the community, since otherwise “this morning I helped a harpy lay her eggs” is the sort of sentence that can lead to medication or involuntary committal. I could probably use some therapy. I think the same is true of most of my relatives. But that doesn’t make it easy.)

Mindy was off with Verity’s mice, swapping newly-developed rituals and reinforcing the strength of their respective oral histories. Aeslin mice never forget anything they see or hear, and there doesn’t seem to be an upper limit to their memories—at this point, our family colony contains the memory of dozens of generations of mice, chronicling the lives of seven generations of Prices, Healys, Harringtons, and Carews. Mindy probably doesn’t know the intricate details of the worship of my mother, since she has never been a part of that priesthood, but she can provide the rough shapes of every major life event Mom has experienced since meeting my father. Where she shines, as a member of my priesthood, is at remembering my life. Everything that has ever happened to me is preserved in the memories of the mice.

What happened to me in Europe would be preserved, too. That was why Mindy wore a very small tracking device built by my cousin Artie on a beaded string around her neck. It was inert and untraceable unless activated. She was incredibly proud of the responsibility, which marked her as chosen above all others in my priesthood. And if something happened to me—if the Covenant caught on, if I wasn’t going to be coming home—that tracking device would give the rest of my family something to look for. Because even when something was as far as possible from the desired outcome, it was important to plan for it.

“This is a good color for your skin tone,” said Istas, beginning to wrap my head. “Once it is set, I would like you to permit me to trim your split ends and shape the hair around your face.”

“It doesn’t need—”

“It is clear that you prefer a hairstyle with a minimum of fuss. I can provide that, and you will lose very little length. But doing this will change the way your cheekbones appear to the casual onlooker, and may complicate facial recognition from photographs. Not enough, should you say something you should not, but sufficient to reduce your resemblance to yourself.” Istas continued wrapping. “I will not even attempt to talk to you about makeup.”

“Thanks.”

“You should not thank me. You have an excellent complexion. You would make a beautiful canvas.”

“I know how to do makeup. I just generally don’t, unless there’s a good reason.” Being a high school cheerleader was like going to cosmetology school, only without the degree at the end. If there’s a trick to blending foundation or enhancing eye color, I know it. I even remember most of it, thanks to the parts that are also applicable to roller derby. (We don’t wear nearly as much makeup, and what we do wear trends toward the waterproof and aggressively Gothic, but there’s only one way to hold the average mascara brush.)

“May I suggest deciding this is a good reason?” Istas finished wrapping and stripped her gloves off, dropping them into the waiting basin. “Makeup is excellent armor against some of the things the world will throw in your direction. This would not be a poor time to go armored.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. I’d been thinking about it. Most of the carnie kids I knew didn’t wander around fully made-up at all times, but there’s reality, and then there’s expectation. The Covenant might think that someone who came from an American carnival would always look like a Kardashian sister. If that was the case, there was going to be a lot of lip liner in my future.

“Excellent,” said Istas. “Please sit still until I return. The henna needs to set.” She turned and left the room, stylish kitten heels clacking against the floor, and I was alone.

I closed my eyes, settling deeper into the seat as I took a deep breath and considered the merits of freaking out. This was it: this was the last time I was going to be Antimony Price for I didn’t even know how long. Unlike Verity, who’s been running from her family and her identity since as far back as I could remember, I’d never wanted to be anyone but me. I liked being me. I wasn’t perfect, but no one was, and at least I was familiar with my imperfections.

Footsteps approached me. I didn’t open my eyes.

“Annie?”

The voice was Verity’s. I didn’t open my eyes even harder.

She sighed. “Look, I know you’re mad, and I know Dominic asked you to take it easy on me, and I know we’re not like, great friends or anything, but this isn’t me coming to try apologizing again. This is me coming with an update on your mission.”

“Okay.” I opened my eyes. “What’s the sitch?”

“I have your paperwork.” She handed me a large manila envelope with a Las Vegas postmark. “Passport, credit card, ATM card, New York driver’s license, student ID card, New York library card, birth certificate on specially aged paper, and a medallion of St. Julian the Hospitaller. He’s—”

“The patron saint of carnival workers,” I said, and kicked my backpack with the toe of one foot. “Good detail. Can you open the front pocket and pass me my wallet?”

“Sure.” She looked slightly deflated. She’d probably been hoping I’d be impressed by the medallion, or give her a sisterly high-five or something. Sadly, that was not on the docket for the day. She probably hadn’t even been the one who asked for it. Big Al was notorious for including little extras like that to make a new ID more believable.

My wallet is a battered old leather thing I purchased at a flea market when I was fifteen, thinking it looked cool and would probably take a lot of abuse, given that it was already at least twenty years old. I was right on both counts. Better yet, it’s traveled so far and passed through so many pairs of hands that even the routewitches can’t read its owner anymore. If I ever lose it, I’m not getting it back; some trucker or bus driver will pick it up and keep it as a lucky charm without ever asking themselves why they felt the urge to do so.

I’d already emptied it of everything that could be used to tie me to Oregon or Antimony Price. My real ID had been abandoned in my bedroom, left on the dresser to gather dust until I either came home for it or the mice claimed it as a religious artifact, to be preserved with the rest of the reminders of my too-short life. The trouble was the distance between here and there, the receipts, the ticket stubs, the proofs of purchase. The small detritus of a life can seem exactly that—small—but it’s all too often the thing that trips people up. Someone who claims to have never been outside of Florida has a receipt for a Washington coffee shop. Someone who’s supposedly never left the West Coast has a photo strip showing themselves at the Statue of Liberty.

The devil’s in the details, and so is the hook. Good deceit begins at the molecular level, and works its way up from there.

“Got any receipts I can have?”