To Best the Boys(23)
We both look over as she comes skipping up the stairs with Beryll on her heels, and in the back of my mind I note the boys’ voices have fallen silent through the door even as Seleni’s grows louder. “We’re about to play a game of Tell or Fail. Are you in? Where are the others?”
I lift a finger to my lips, except it’s too late because the door in front of me yanks open and four faces look straight at us as Germaine’s broad shoulders fill the space.
His cheek curves up along with the edges of his lips as he stares at me, then moves his gaze on to Vincent. “Vincent. Rhen. What a nifty surprise.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Seleni and Beryll frown at the assembly who’ve trespassed in Seleni’s father’s room. Germaine glances at them, then turns to where the other boys are standing with their arms crossed. “Looks like we’re missing out on a party in the hall, gentlemen.” He forces a smile. “Perhaps it’s something we should get in on.”
Vincent slides his arm across my shoulder. “I think Rhen and I are going to get a little fresh air. We’ll catch up with you shortly. Excuse us, Miss Lake.”
I look at Seleni. My stomach’s suddenly flipping and my nerves are buzzing because I don’t want to get air with him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I—I have to go.” I shove past Vincent and hurry for the stairs. Seleni’s startled gasp follows me as I push between her and Beryll and scurry down to the lower level.
I don’t glance back—just head for the door and out to the garden—away from them—from the party. From the lights and Vincent and Germaine, and the type of future that would be financially stable and wise and supposedly comfortable. My head pounds and all I know is that I really should warn Sam and Will and the others that something is being plotted surrounding Mr. Holm’s Labyrinth tomorrow. And I can’t shake the feeling that Vincent is plotting something too—in regard to his hopes for me.
8
I run through the garden. Past the charmingly cottage-like carriage house and stables. Past the milking cows and down the estate hill to the road where the night mist is emerging over the moor like a ghost spreading out her long, white wedding train.
I shiver and tug Mum’s shawl tighter through the murky damp that’s come on thick—and keep going despite the fact I can hear Vincent’s voice calling after me and a crackling in the air that signals it’s not just the ghosts who are out hunting now. The ghouls of the knights whose bodies are buried beneath Holm Castle like to emerge when the moon is hidden. They hunt for lost travelers along King’s Crossing on Tinny River.
I rush across the wooden bridge to the port side, with its misty, narrow walkways that feel as familiar as my own skin, and barely slow for breath when something rustles and snaps, like a stick breaking underfoot, in the nearby fenced graveyard. The subtle scent of sulfur emerges to tickle its way down my nose and singe my throat.
I don’t wait to investigate. I know precisely what it is, and I’ve no interest in having my chest cavity excavated tonight. I fly down the winding cobblestones toward the pub—sticking to the main street to avoid the side alleys—until the miasma drifts dotting the ground are so thick I can no longer see more than a few feet in front of me. The fog has grown dense and the lanes louder as more and more people begin to appear from the shadows. Safety in numbers.
But my frown deepens as the nervous tick in my stomach expands. Why are they all out tonight? I peer through the haze just as a crowd swarms out and rushes around me, nearly toppling me over as their voices fill with bewilderment and rage.
“What’s going on?” I ask a woman hurrying by.
She doesn’t look at me—just shouts something about parliament and pushes on. I ask again, this time of a man who says, “They’re shutting down the port.”
“What does that mean?” I yell after him. The conversation in Uncle Nicholae’s study flashes to mind. I pick up my pace and follow the man and the others with him on a road now just as cluttered with port people as it is with squashed fruit and discarded papers.
A noise cracks the air and I jerk as a group of youths emerge, hurtling bottles and tossing threats into the night. I skirt around them and keep up with the flood surging down the sloped path toward Sow’s pub.
“Pardon me. I’m sorry,” I say repeatedly. I duck beneath old men’s elbows and ladies’ arms that wave like bony branches.
“Hey, watch it!”
“Move, girl!”
I sidestep out of the way before I realize it’s not only me the voices are snapping at. Everyone is lashing at each other in tones suggesting they’re hungry for a target to unleash on. I slink lower and make my way between them to the front of the creaky old pub, with its weathered, low-hanging sign that announces:
SOW’S FINE SPIRITS & FOOD
TALK IS FREE, ADVICE IS NOT.
IF YOU NEED SOME, GO ASK YOUR MUM.
The doors are open, but the ten feet in front of it are a swamp of people. I push through the bodies and squeeze my way inside to the space that’s as large as my entire house and yet hardly holds enough air to breathe. The place is like a greasy tin of sardines. Oily faced people line the walls, tables, and stairs, and the smells of pipe tobacco and sour beer saturate the air with a stain that never leaves one’s clothes. The enraged shouts outside are nothing compared to the deafening noise in here.