To Best the Boys(14)

But my mind also says, Seleni will rip your face off and Mum will be disappointed if you don’t show. The noise is just heightened excitement.

And it probably is. If it’d been anything major, they would’ve been rioting earlier when I was down there—not talking in whispers. More likely, Sam and Will and a host of others are at Sow’s pub challenging each other over drinks, with half the town cheering them on. The Port people are nothing if not proud of their boys, and they’ve been taking bets for weeks on who’ll bring home the win. Even though the Lowers have only won seven years out of the past fifty-four. Tonight is their send-off before it all begins tomorrow.

I chew my lip and, for a moment, debate joining them.

Instead, I turn and start up the road as the lights twinkle across the bridge leading to the Upper district and Aunt Sara and Uncle Nicholae’s event of the year.

The beautiful manors and pastures, with their gardens and mini rose forests, sit like crowns overlooking our seaside town and shore. Even in the evening dim, they make a picturesque statement beneath a jewel-crushed sky.

I shake off the familiar fear of what else sits in that dimness and what will happen if its moor ghosts catch scent of me. I can feel their tendrils already—their auras reaching out along the tributaries and roads in search of foolish travelers to pull into the underground cemeteries.

A shrill scream rattles the air and about makes my skin peel off. It’s from somewhere out over the ocean—a siren looking for prey. I say a quick prayer for lost sailors and then, with a loud gulp, clutch up my skirts to keep the material from snagging and make my way quick and quiet along the hedge of cattle nettles and berry vines.

Dust stirs up and horses neigh and wheels crunch the gravel as guest after guest drives past me on the road that weaves up to my uncle’s mansion, which sits five estates below the towering hill of Mr. Holm and the famed Holm Labyrinth. The coaches’ swinging lanterns look like fireflies in the dark, and it’s not hard to notice how many more there are than usual.

Seleni says the night before the equinox is the time to host a lavish event—especially if you have a young lady you’re hoping to marry off. Let the last impression in the future businessman’s mind be of red-stained lips and lilac-scented skin. Because whether the families win or not, they’ll remember the way that girl and party made them feel—like they could accomplish anything. Which I hear is a desirable quality in a spouse.

I carefully open the inner gate and tighten the string in my hair before I maneuver through the path in my aunt’s underused garden that, as a child, I was enamored with. Seleni and I used to make worm hospitals in the mud and rocks here—dissecting the invertebrates in order to “learn how to save them.”

Until her parents found out and recoiled in horror at what kind of children would do such a thing. “Possessed ones,” I had whispered, just so we could snicker at my aunt’s reaction. From then on they decided my visits would consist of Seleni’s nanny teaching us cross-stitch—something far more appropriate for young ladies with clearly too much morbid time on their hands.

I let out a smile at the slip of memory as I round a cluster of elf bushes and overgrown trellises, to arrive at Seleni’s back entrance of warmly lit windows and double doors.

The indoor scene is golden. Like something from my aunt’s collection of children’s fairy books. Candles in crystal chandeliers sparkle through the windows above the space. Tapestries, fireplaces, and bouquets of fresh flowers give the room a rich ambience, as does the assembly of servants carrying silver trays loaded with pastries and drinks. My stomach growls. The guests are filling their plates around food tables and fountains, and the savory smell slipping out promises plenty of rich stews and hot vegetable platters.

I inhale through my nose and smooth my ill-fitted bodice. Then lift a hand to knock.

The door swings open. “I thought I saw you slinking up, you minx!” Seleni crows. “Come save me,” she adds in a whisper, and grabs my elbow to drag me through the doorway and into the shiny, marble-floored room.

Light and music splash over us. A waltz is being played on a harpsichord that, from my assessment, sounds as perfectly tuned as the guests’ nerves look. I start to smile until I spot her mum, my aunt Sara, standing behind Seleni and peering from beneath a pile of brown curls that seem to be set in some type of hair topiary. I nod, curtsy, and hurry to shut the door to keep in the warmth. “Aunt Sara, thank you for the invitation.”

“Of course, dear. How’s your mother feeling?” Aunt Sara’s features falter as her eyes take in my still-damp hair and crumpled skirt. She leans in and sniffs, then straightens with a frown. “Rhen, dear, did you bathe in the ocean again?” Her voice is intended only for me even as her pale cheeks tinge pink.

“I bathed at home but had to rush. I was working on something with my da, but . . .”

Aunt Sara’s gaze falls. She sighs and flips her hand as if to ask why she even tries. “Please take some food home to your mother when you go.”

I nod, apologize again, and duck from her before the sense of shame that sometimes plagues my bones when I’m here can flare and leak onto my neck and face. I hustle for the other side of the room, where a fireplace bigger than the five men standing in front of it roars and toasty drinks are being served.

Seleni is right behind me, every hair in place, draped in a cream dress that looks like a cupcake, with a tight waist that’s bordering on scandalous in the way it hits just above her ankles. “It’s okay. Mum was appalled because I looked ‘too winded’ when I got home. She had Nanny spend a solid hour fixing my ‘atmosphere’—whatever that is.”