To Best the Boys(25)

I bite my lip. I don’t know if it’s related either. But the coughed-up blood sounds like the guy I saw today. “Thanks. I’ll look into it.”

My words are drowned out by another shout from the men around us, and then the fisherman on the pub counter lifts his hand to try to regain control of the room. “Listen! We’ve lived through change before and we’ll live through it again. The important thing is—”

“The important thing is we’ve just been handed a death sentence!” someone shouts.

“Now hold on there.” The man tries again. “Let’s just keep our heads—”

“Keep our heads?” Jake’s father yells from his spot in front of us. “This isn’t the time for calm—this is the time for action!”

Jake turns, and his green eyes have darkened beneath his stiff red hair that sticks up like straw thanks to its constant exposure to salt spray on the boats. “He’s right. We need to push back on this to show them we’re not weak. They need to feel what we feel.”

Sam and Will nod vigorously, and I follow suit. It’s like the crippling disease. If the politicians actually knew what their decisions were doing—what they are doing—in the midst of the needs already plaguing our town, maybe they’d understand. We just need to find a way to make them understand.

Except when I peek up at Will and Jake, something in their faces suggests they’re not talking about starting a letter campaign and sending representatives on our behalf.

I lick my lips and start to ask what they have in mind, but they’ve already jumped up with the crowd to cheer, and after a moment they’re not just cheering. They’re banging fists on the tables and lifting glass bottles over their heads, and I’m suddenly aware I’m one of only a few women in a room full of rather agitated men. And if tempers grow higher or one of those lagers gets dropped . . .

Sam and Will and the boys have now climbed on their stools. They’re waving their arms above their heads. I slip back to get some distance lest they tumble off, but from their flushed cheeks and shiny eyes, it’s clear they’re not coming down for a while. I scoot for the wall and almost reach it when a gentleman launches from his chair to join in the yelling, and the next thing I know, his giant bear of a body trips over me. He hardly glances my way before straightening and raising his empty mug as he bellows, “Are we going to let this stand?”

I duck to move away from his swinging arm, but my dress stays. What in—? I turn to find the gentleman’s foot standing on part of my skirt. I can’t move without it ripping a waist seam or pulling off completely. “Excuse me, sir.” I nudge him and try to push his boot off, but he’s too busy hollering.

“Fellow friends, our fight is not with each other, but with the men who made this decision!” he yells. “They may not have wanted our input then, but I suggest we give it to them now!”

A roar goes up so loud it shakes the wood planks beneath my feet, rumbling all the way into my nerves. I try to move again, and this time there’s a small tearing sound, but I don’t care. The shouts have turned into an earthquake inside the lungs of every person in this place, and it’s vibrating the entire room. With a last fierce tug, my dress rips loose enough for me to scramble the rest of the way to the wall, where I press my back and inch for the door as the crowd’s energy grows higher and their faces redder.

This is what Beryll was referring to in the undertaker’s cellar—why the constables would have better things to worry about than us siphoning blood. Because they’re about to have a blasted riot on their hands. And of course Beryll had known. His father is in parliament. His father helped make this decision. I frown. The least Beryll could’ve done is give us a little warning.

Jake’s father shouts, “So let’s take the fight to them! Let’s see how they feel when it’s their children who go hungry!”

“Take the fight to them!” another voice crows.

I stoop beneath a man’s arm and attempt to twist around the front of him, except I miscalculate and his elbow comes crashing down. I can’t get away fast enough to avoid the coming impact—but suddenly a second arm is there to interfere. The hand reaches out and grabs my shoulder, and I swerve just as the person abruptly plasters himself against my body in a manner that, given any other time, would be considered far too forward. I recoil and spin around.

And come face-to-face with Lute’s piercing eyes, unruly black hair, and tight mouth.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses. He keeps his arm on my shoulders and pushes me toward the door.

“Lute.” Despite where we are and the vexed look on his face, a silly flush of heat flutters across my cheeks.

He ignores me and half shoves, half ducks us around a unit of men who are jumping up and down, getting louder and more brazen as they bump into us. I trip over floorboards and shoes and finally have to grab his wrist to keep from falling.

“Mr. Wilkes! You can stop pushing me. I’ll exit when I see fit, thank you very much.” I manage to lock my legs in place enough to turn and force him to stop.

He stares at me like I’m mad, then leans over and jerks his chin at the room. “Have you seen what you’re wearing, Rhen? You can’t be here. You need to leave.”

I cock a brow to hide my embarrassment. “I have just as much right to be here as anyone else. They know who I am.” I don’t tell him I was already leaving.