To Best the Boys(35)

“You don’t have to. I’ll be back in a couple hours—we can talk more—”

“Not just the deliveries, fool. I’m coming with you into the Labyrinth.”

It’s my turn to slow, and turn, and stare. She’s jesting.

Her expression is serious.

I shake my head. “No way. If there are two of us, it’ll be easier to get caught. Plus, no offense, Sel, but this type of thing isn’t exactly your cup of tea.”

“Says who?” She tugs on her stockings. “I’ve been involved in every episode you’ve gotten us into since birth, Rhen. And I’ve held my own in doing it. I may not be as scholarly, but I’ve got a lot more savvy than half the boys in there, and more intuition than you. And even if you don’t need either, Beryll will, because I’ll not have you looking after him for my sake. And I’m not about to have both my best friend and the future father of my children get their heads ripped off without me.”

I stare at her.

She’s dead serious.

She slips on her shoes. “Of course, I’ll not cut my hair, but I’ll pin it tight and we’ll find me a kettle boy’s cap. Now . . .” She stops and looks up. “How do we get man clothes without drawing attention? Because if we try to steal from our fathers, we’ll get locked in our rooms until the contest’s over.”

I squint at her and chew the inside of my cheek. This could be an okay idea, or it could be the worst one ever. I’m leaning toward the latter.

She arcs a single brow. “I’ve made my decision, so stop acting like you have the right to make it for me. Now answer the daft question.”

I ease back and, after a moment, give her a nod and half grin. “All right, fair enough. Except as far as the clothes go . . .” I shrug. “I was planning on hitting up the grave digger’s place to borrow some off a body.”

She snorts. “Of course you were.” But because she is Seleni, she doesn’t even argue.

We’re quiet as we load up the baskets of baked goods and slip out the door before Mum and Da can hear us.

It’s pouring rain as Seleni and I make the deliveries—biscuits and scones to the regulars, Labyrinth cakes to those who can afford the extra splurge for a festival breakfast. At every house we visit, the upcoming party is all anyone wants to talk about. We listen as we shiver politely in front of their stoves or on their porch steps while water drips off our clothes in rivulets and puddles.

“You going up to Holm Manor this evening, ladies?” the fathers ask.

“Yes,” we say.

“I hope you have something fancy to wear—I hear the party will be extravagant.” The wives smile. “Rumor has it, Mr. Holm brought down fruit and meats all the way from the Rhine Mountains. Maybe we’ll even have basilisk steaks.”

“Basilisk meat is poison,” I politely say, because I think they should know in case they are ever offered some.

“Any young men you specifically hope will win, Rhen?” the old cat biddies ask.

“No.” Because Seleni and I aren’t men.

By the time all the goods have been delivered, our clothes and hair are soaked to the skin and our flesh is frozen to the bone. We tug the baskets higher on our arms and duck down the alleys to the old Port church, then across the yard to the back, where Mrs. Mench claims her dead husband walks periodically. Which is unfortunate seeing as he went to the grave wearing nothing but his birthday suit, and that’s more trauma than anyone needs to see these days.

Seleni and I step softly around the gravestones and up to the grave digger’s cottage located at the far end of the churchyard. I pull out the two cakes I saved, then knock on the narrow door. “I need two sets of boy clothes,” I say, when Old Timmy answers. I shove the cakes under his nose. “About my size, if you have them.”

“Boy clothes?” He eyes me, then the cakes, then Seleni, before he nods and disappears. A minute later he returns and shoves the clothes into Seleni’s hands before he takes the cakes from mine. “Tell your da I hope your mum’s gettin’ better.”

“Thanks,” is all I say, and then the door shuts and Seleni and I turn and hurry for my house.

We’ve just put the baskets away and finished changing into party dresses for the festival—her into the dress she wore this morning that’s now dry from the oven, and me into her second hand-me-down I own, a yellow cotton that makes my eyes look gold. I’ve just topped it off with a hat that’s floppy enough to make my hair looked pinned up rather than cut, when Da comes through the door in a rush of cold air. He’s winded from head to foot and looking a bit wild, even as I note the rain has stopped. I pat the wide-brimmed hat set low on my head. “Everything all right there, Da?”

“Fine, yes—just checking on the Strowe girl again.” He pulls off his coat. “How’s your mum?”

I pause halfway to Mum’s room with a cup of steaming tea as if in explanation. He nods and follows me to their room, where he takes the tea and sets it onto her nightstand. “Rhen’s here to see you,” he says, and I frown because she can obviously see that.

Mum smiles and lifts her head. She beckons me over to where she’s been looking out the window at the housetops that lead all the way down to the sea, where the sun is peeking through the dissipating rain clouds.