To Best the Boys(24)

I aim for the tall left wall behind a row of young, sunburnt boat hands whose agitated movements warn they’re ready for a fight. It’s like a carnival mirror reflection of the party I just came from, where everything’s a bit off and the tinkling laughter that flowed around silk suits and powdered cheeks has turned rife with ragged, hungry faces and unguarded frustration.

The occupants are yelling at a fisherman standing on the counter amid the smoke-filled air. I haul myself up to stand on a rickety chair in the corner from which I can scan the room long enough to study the crowd for Will and Sam.

There. Near the front. The guys are huddled around a hefty blackwood table on the same side as me, with a host of other boys. At least five of whom are from fishing families. In fact . . . I scan the room again and my chest constricts. Most everyone here is a fisherman—even if the bitter, overlapping voices make it impossible to pick out individual speakers.

Not that it’d matter much, because they’re all saying the same thing.

“If they want to decide things for our livelihoods, then they should reap the consequences just like the rest of us!”

“The ocean belongs to everyone! It’s how we make a wage!”

Their words prick my skin like needles. This is what Uncle Nicholae’s conversation was referring to. It’s what the fishermen and businessmen had been discussing in town earlier today. Why they’d seemed so upset. Rumor of whatever this is had already been trickling down.

Gripping my skirt, I slip off the chair and edge my way along the wall toward Will and Sam, keeping my head low so I don’t accidentally get backhanded by some raging sailor. As soon as I reach them, I hunch behind their stools. “Psst!”

Both glance my way with keyed-up faces and unbrushed hair as Jake, Tindall, and the other boys shout agreement to something the local butcher just yelled.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d get here.” Will scoots his long legs over to let me wedge between him and Sam. “Did you hear they’re shuttin’ us down?”

Sam grins at my dress. “Looking fancy there, Rhen. Almost as good as me.” His brown hair swags over one eye as he leans over. “How were the rich kids?”

“Terrible. What’s going on?”

“Your uncle’s friends are putting restrictions on the Port’s fishing industry. They say it’s to protect the port and our future.”

Jake peers back at us, his eyes like daggers. “Of course that’s what they’d say—it’s not their businesses at stake.”

“Gentlemen, please!” The fisherman on the pub counter puts his hands up for quiet. “We’ll still be allowed to fish. They’ve just limited where and how much can be caught per day. It’s not perfect, but they’re trying to preserve the coastline.”

“Limited catches, my hind end!” someone yells. “How much are we talking?”

“They’re saying they used multiple sources to calculate it,” the man on the counter answers. “But it should be enough to feed our families and still sell some on the side.”

“Sell some on the side?”

“What do they mean, it should be enough? How would they know?”

“No one ever asked us!”

I look at Sam and Will and Jake who are yelling right along with them, and my breath thins at the realization. No one in that room of my uncle’s had any idea what this decision would do, because it won’t ever directly affect them. But for one-third of the men and families in our Lower Pinsbury Port?

It’s their entire livelihood.

My stomach turns. Where’s Lute?

I scan the crowd, but from where I’m crouched, his black hair and thick blue jacket are not among the two hundred other thick blue fishing jackets clogging the room. Does he know yet?

“They threaten us with this every few years,” Jake says angrily, returning his gaze to me and Sam. “The House of Lords likes to talk of putting restrictions on fisheries, but they’ve never actually done it.” He suddenly does a double take at me, as if just now realizing I’m here, and his deep-green gaze promptly drops to my dress. He tips his head at it and lowers his voice. “Better not let anyone know you just came from there, Rhen, or they’ll tear you limb from limb with the way this crowd’s worked up.”

“Right. Thanks.” My neck warms because I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t thought of anything other than getting away from the party. I yank my shawl closer and try to look smaller, even as I tell myself these people here know me. I am one of them. Hopefully they’ll remember that fact and not blindly take offense to a silly dress. Although—I peek around—looking at their faces, they’re in the mood for offense tonight.

“By the way, you get any further on that cripplin’ disease thing?” Will leans in and speaks low so only Sam and I can hear.

The disease. I shake my head. “Why? What’d you see that you needed to tell me about?”

Will looks at Sam. Both hesitate, and Sam finally says, “It might be nothin’, but there was a community outside town we passed today, and a good fourth of ’em couldn’t walk and hardly eat. Some were coughing up blood. Said it’d come on less than a month ago.”

My spine bristles.

“We didn’t know if it’s related or just some sickness, but they showed us a couple graves and said the people just got paralyzed, then died.” Will swallows. “Scared us pretty good. We hightailed it out of there and reported it to the constable but . . . figured we’d mention it to you and your da too.”