To Best the Boys(38)
The child flaps her arm at two women looking down. They wave back, and her eyes grow as round as sand dollars. “Mum, can I ride in one?”
“Those are for brave people, not babies,” her brother teases. “You have to be older.”
She shoots him a glare. “I am brave. And I’m going to ride in one when I’m two inches taller.” She jumps up as if to stretch her height, and Seleni catches my eye before the little girl pries free of her mum’s hand and skips ahead to the wide metal gates. Within moments we arrive as well—only to be pressed in on all sides as the festival-goers merge to squeeze through.
I glance up at those thorn hedges reaching for the sky on each side. How many people have actually died because of them?
I grab the back of Seleni’s sleeve to keep us from getting separated as the crowd’s anticipation grows. “Do we need to find your father and mum?”
She shakes her head and leans back to yell in my ear, “They came up with their friends. I told them I’d be with you or Beryll . . .”
Whatever else she says is drowned out as we’re carried through the gate with the crowd, then emerge on the other side at a wide stone driveway that is so smooth the thing looks like gold in the sunset light. Which is when I feel it. The atmospheric ripple.
Even for someone who believes in the science of what I can tangibly see and hold and explain, I’ve always known the unexplainable is possible here. The air is tinged with a magic that quivers around my skin.
Ahead of us, the drive veers to the right—to another gate set into an arched set of bushes—and beyond that the massive, hundred-room castle rises like a crown above the thorns and dense foliage. As far as I know, the only Port people ever to have seen inside the building itself are the contestants—none of whom will speak of it, whether due to fear or a signed agreement, I don’t know. But Lawrence once told us his brother said the castle’s intricate halls give the impression of being in a spider’s lair and that Mr. Holm’s extensive riddles make your mind feel full of webs.
Seleni tugs my hand and points toward the front of the estate, which is spread out to the left of us in blankets of green lawns and stone terraces—each one cascading in levels away from the house, until they reach a flat meadow down below. And beyond that, sloping hillsides that run for miles down to the sea. Dotted across the terraces and lawns are groupings of parties sharing blankets or tents, with gangs of children running beneath white lanterns strung in zigzag abandon from pole to pole. They’re bouncing in the breeze.
Except they aren’t really lanterns, but something referred to as electric suns. It’s a new technology this year, and one of Holm’s own invention from what I’ve heard. I’ve yet to get close enough to study one, but even the university knows little of their makeup, which Mum says is just another in a host of reasons he’s so catered to as a benefactor. Contrary to Germaine’s assessment last night, Holm’s inventions are more than simple illusions. I’ve even studied a few—enough to have attempted re-creating them. The majority, however, are beyond me or even Da.
Although, standing here, I can understand why most people think of Holm as an illusionist. The white lights certainly look like illusions. Like thousands of stars set above glowing faces, to offer warmth and safety and illumination.
They look like magic.
Seleni tugs my hand harder and her voice sounds shaky. “Let’s find food and Beryll.”
I nod. The nerves are setting in. I lead us toward the first terrace that sits in front of the Labyrinth hedge and house where a collection of musicians are playing an evening waltz. “Where’s Beryll’s family supposed to be sitting?”
“With his mum’s aunt.” She points at a lawn to the right of the staggered levels where some Upper attendees have already erected beautiful white linen tents that look more like small cottages than simple overnight bedding.
I wrinkle my nose. Of course the Uppers brought half their homes. Probably their servants too.
I turn toward the normal folk and sift through the faces—many of whom were full of hurt and fury last night but are now filled with laughter. The kind that comes as a distraction from grief and the internal ache that will still be there tomorrow. I bite my lip and ignore the thought that I recognize it all too well.
“No one here seems overly upset about the fishing restrictions,” Seleni whispers.
“They are—they’re just refusing to let it ruin their festival.” I pull her down the stone stairway leading to the second patio, which is filled with long, golden banquet tables covered in fountains of bubbly drinks splashing into goblets. We dodge the swarms of people and move on to the third patio, where fire pits are assembled, for toasting desserts from the smell of it. My stomach rumbles and I realize I am famished.
We wander from terrace to terrace, slipping bites from tables covered in more kinds of meat than even Seleni will see all year, to giant spreads of breads and puddings and Labyrinth cakes, to entire galleries set up just for wine. It’s a feast for the senses, including the choice of music soaring above us in a perfect complement to the smells and sights and sounds.
The crowds around us are filling their pockets and plates now, and I follow Seleni to grab a few more delicacies—and hope I don’t promptly throw them back up from the anxiety that’s taken full root. I shift the bag on my shoulder and take a couple hunks of cheese and bread, then turn to focus on the task at hand. I need to find Sam and Will and tell them about Germaine. I need to make sure I know how to shadow them into the Labyrinth.