To Best the Boys(21)
But I stay silent because if I say more, I will end up raising my voice and bursting into tears, and their intellectual dismissal will only turn to embarrassment for me.
“You’re a good man, Nicholae. And you’re a lucky girl, Miss Tellur,” one of the men says heartily. “Not everyone has such an opportunity. I expect to see good things come from it.”
I stare back at him. Then simply firm my shoulders and softly reply, “Oh, don’t worry. You will.”
After forcing another curtsy, I exit the doorway before my shaking knees give way, and take a deep inhale to brace myself so I can go find Seleni and tell her “Thank you for the evening, and I’m heading home now.”
Except one of the board members murmurs, “I find it surprising anyone would allow her father to treat them after his pseudo-experiment with the university equipment killed that one woman.”
I stall beside the wall in the dim hallway—and blink twice to rebuff the heat furiously flooding my eyes and the quick words flying up my throat. My father didn’t kill anyone. Mrs. Sims was going to die anyway. Da simply allowed her the hope of trying an experiment he’d already told her was unlikely to work. But at least she died feeling she’d had a choice—and that someone was willing to keep fighting for her. Even if it was the cadaver room caretaker. And even if he was wrong to have done it.
“Your niece is quite inspired, though,” Mr. King murmurs.
“Yes,” my uncle says. “It’s just a pity the apple fell too near her mother and father’s trees. If she were more inclined to certain things, she’d make a solid catch.”
I bite my lip and refuse to wince. And start walking. I don’t want to hear what Mr. King has to say to that.
I’ve gone exactly five steps when the door to my uncle’s study swings shut behind me with a soft, decisive thud. I clench my jaw and continue walking as one of the doors up ahead gives a quiet squeak and pops open from the shift in air pressure. It swings ajar enough to emit a slit of dull light along with a new set of voices emerging.
I slow. These are my uncle’s rooms—no one else should be up here. Perhaps it’s Seleni? I quietly step to the slatted opening, set my hand on the knob, and listen for her or my aunt.
It’s neither. A blend of male voices are whispering excitedly about the Labyrinth competition. One of them laughs, and it’s chilled enough that the warmth leaves the walls for a moment. “We’ll take each one down fast so they won’t have time to warn the other players.”
“But if we take out too many, won’t that look a bit obvious, Germaine?”
Germaine? I freeze and pull my hand away. What are they doing in there?
Edging closer, I peer through the narrow slat into the room. Only three boys are visible—Germaine, Rubin, and one other I recognize from earlier but have no idea as to his name. The latter two’s faces are flushed and giddy. Germaine’s is stale and smart.
“It’s a competition,” he mutters. “If Holm doesn’t like the way we play, then he shouldn’t host it. But he can’t sift for the smartest minds in Caldon and expect they’ll be the ones playing within the regulations.”
“But what you’re suggesting can get us in trouble,” the nameless boy hisses. “You do realize we might actually kill people.”
My spine ripples. Kill people. I peer harder through the crack only to see Germaine sneer at the speaker, then at the person beyond my view. “Welcome to the new game, boys. It is what it is. You want to win? You have to risk. Just make sure that if anything does happen, it looks like an accident.”
Every nerve ending I own goes paralyzed. This is bizarre. It’s way beyond besting Holm at his own game. It’s taking things to a whole other level—one where they’re willing to do harm.
A rustling behind me makes me jump so fast I have to catch my hand from flapping against the door as I spin around. A voice tinkles out like clock chimes. “Such naughty chaps who delight in sinful traps. Can you imagine being in competition against them?”
My lungs catch in my throat as I scoot away from the room and scan the corridor, but all I see is an empty hall. Until my gaze lands on a wall inset twelve feet away where an elderly man is hiding, steeped in shadow, watching me. From his secretive expression, I’ve an odd suspicion I’ve just interrupted some sort of romantic, geriatric meet-up. I try not to imagine such a thing but glance around to see if he’s got a lady nearby.
Thankfully, no.
He waves at my uncle’s closed study door and continues talking as if we’re in midconversation. “Or even being in parliament with those older men, for that matter.” He tips his head. “ ‘The problem, my dear, must be sanitation.’ ” His voice is a perfect mimic of the politicians as he flicks his fingers, then gives a tinkly laugh. “Good grief, so much opinion from opinionated humans.” He lifts a pipe to his lips and takes a puff, except no smoke curls up.
I eye the pipe, then his lavender eyes. The thing’s unlit. Is he a friend of Uncle Nicholae’s? And how long has he been up here? I note the man’s wrinkled face and clumped grey whiskers that hint at mischief beneath a pair of rather magnificent eyebrows that look almost unreal. Above those, a giant tuft of silver hair is enhanced by his colorful suit, which blends rather impressively into the tapestries on each side of the inlet he’s standing in.