To Best the Boys(29)
He gives a slight smile. “Always.”
I swallow. “In that case, I know you’ll figure it out. The fishing thing, I mean. But thanks. For helping me tonight.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something more. Maybe to communicate the thing from earlier that’s suddenly reemerged in his expression. It elicits an odd hunger in me—one that seems to be growing around him today.
Instead, he simply tips his head and turns again to leave, but the sound of horse hooves and carriage wheels interrupts his departure. A coach is pulling onto my street, rumbling loud over the rocks and pebbles and potholes. Two horses emerge into view, followed by a beautiful black carriage. I frown. It’s not Seleni’s, but what other Upper would come down here tonight?
“Whoa,” the driver calls to the mounts, and the coach pulls up right in front of me as Lute returns to stand behind me, and then a curtain slides back from the window.
Mr. King’s face is staring at us. Vincent is just behind him. I catch the surprise and flash of irritation in Vincent’s eyes at the same time I sense Lute’s body go rigid. My gut drops. I wrap my arms around my chest and give a breathless, “Good evening, Mr. King.”
“Miss Tellur,” Vincent’s father says. His expression is stiff as he assesses the scene. What he thinks of it, I can easily imagine. “My son was concerned with your swift exit this evening and desired to ensure you arrived home safely.” His eyes flit to Lute. “It would appear you have.”
I lick my lips. “There’s been some disturbance tonight in the Port,” I say, as if adding some reasonable explanation will calm the suspicion clouding both his tone and Vincent’s face. “Mr. Wilkes lent me his assistance against a group of ruffians.”
“I see.” He sniffs in a way that suggests he’s gauging if I’m lying. “Vincent said you’d left early to continue your studies regarding your mother’s disease. I know he believes in the work you’re helping your father do, and I simply hope his progressive stance does not turn regrettable. Now, it’s a cold night, and seeing as there are a good many uncouth characters about . . .” He narrows his tone, and though he doesn’t look at Lute, he might as well be. “I suggest you head inside, young lady.”
“Father, I think it wise to—”
Vincent’s father shakes his head to silence his son’s opinion, then taps the coach and lets the curtain fall.
As soon as they rumble off, I spin to Lute. “Lute, I—”
“Mr. King is right, Miss Tellur. You shouldn’t do anything that you or your friend there will regret.”
I blink. His tone and demeanor have completely altered to an aloofness that borders on frigid. I glance around, then back at him. What just happened?
Before I can explain that Vincent’s not exactly my friend—and not that kind of friend—and, for that matter, I don’t even know what kind of regrets they’re all speaking of—old Mrs. Mench’s light flicks on and her head peeks out her window.
Lute turns on his heel. “Good night, Rhen.” And strides off into the murky dark.
10
I unlock the door and dart inside so as not to wake my sleeping parents within, or incite more of Mrs. Mench’s attention without. My head is a blur over whatever just happened out there. Lute’s discomfort with Mr. King was warranted—he’s one of the politicians who signed the fishing restrictions. But Lute’s altered behavior and comment as if he were—what? Lumping me in with them?
I run back over the scene in my mind. Did I do something to indicate such a thing? But the only point that sticks out is Mr. King’s insinuation that my work was regrettable even as he seemed to be suggesting his support of Vincent’s interest in me.
I try not to let either nip at my pride and, grabbing the lantern by the door, I strike a match to light it, then jot a note for Da to check on Lute’s brother when he gets a chance. Then I slip to my parents’ door to peek in on them. Da has his body wrapped around Mum’s, who looks twice as old as her thirty-eight years. Her breathing is labored and uneven. Da’s is rough and heavy, hinting at the hours he’s spent leaning over the medical tables and patients during the past twenty years.
I tiptoe across the floor and kiss both their heads, then turn to go when a discoloration on Mum’s upper chest catches my eye. I lean closer. It’s a bruise. Deep purple and black.
It happens. Everyone gets them. It doesn’t mean her sickness is advancing.
All the same, I skim her neck and face—only to land on a speck of blood on her pillow. I hold the lamp as near as possible without disturbing her and study the dark spot that’s no bigger than the size of a tiny merrymarch flower petal. Then trace it up to another matching speck beside her lips.
I pull back and try to hold my breath so the cry launching up my throat can’t emerge. Then scour her skin for any other spots. There are none.
There don’t need to be. Because my mind is already explaining away any similarities between her situation and the dead people I’ve seen and heard about today.
She has bruising, but the others didn’t. Her disease is different. Slower. I carefully back out of the room and shut the door behind me. And lean against it until my shaking chest can breathe evenly. Then head for the cellar stairs.
At the bottom I turn the lantern wick up and let my eyes adjust to the light before I stride over to the shelf where the rat cages are lined up against the left wall. The rats rustle and squeak as I walk past, until I reach the end, where Lady is kept. The metal pen is quiet. I tap it. No movement.