To Best the Boys(42)

Vincent leans in and lifts a hand my direction. “I believe it’s obvious what I’m talking about. And as one gentleman to a . . . fisherman, I’m requesting you honor my intentions. Miss Tellur is an old friend who is of particular interest to me.”

“I think we should let Miss Tellur decide who her friends and interests are. But if that’s what you’re concerned about—trust me, I am quite committed to Miss Tellur’s honor.”

“I disagree.”

“On which part? Her decisive abilities or her honor?”

Vincent’s hands curl into fists. “All I’m saying is stay away from her, Wilkes. Or the next time I ask, it won’t be as a gentleman. I’ve made my intentions clear and she’s accepted. Are we understood?”

Lute goes still.

I bristle. What is he talking about? I did no such thing. I go to say as much, but one look at Ben’s concerned face peering up at me and I check my outburst.

Lute stares at Vincent before he flicks me a questioning look, then tightens his jaw. When he speaks again, he simply says, “Perfectly.”

Vincent steps back in what appears to be relief. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Then, louder, adds, “Miss Tellur, I believe the contest is about to start. My parents are expecting you to sit with them. I told them you’d be right up.”

My neck crawls at his words and tone. If Ben and Mrs. Wilkes weren’t here, I’d have sharp words for both men, but I refuse to be a source of further stress on the boy or his family. I rise as if I was just going anyway—when a horn blows across the terraces and lawns, calling everyone’s attention. Vincent nods at Lute and then hurries off to climb the hill toward the Labyrinth’s entrance.

As soon as he’s gone, Lute strides over and, without looking at me, says coolly, “Miss Tellur, thank you for the chat. I hope you enjoy your time with Mr. King’s family.”

I scoff. “Mr. Wilkes. Mr. King is misinformed. As was your conversation about me—seeing as it didn’t actually include me, which I highly resent—” Except my words have been drowned out by a kid yelling across the lawn. “They’re about to get started!”

I peer up at the stars to check the time—drat. They really are about to start. I look around for Seleni, but she’s already running toward me when a voice booms out from the terrace at the top of the hill.

“Gentlepersons of all ages, please welcome yourselves to the Festival of the Autumnal Equinox and Mr. Holm’s Labyrinth. We have a few regulations, rules, and festivity announcements to go over, so please lend us your ear. If you don’t, you’re liable to lose that ear due to any number of dangers you’re about to experience here.”





14

Hurry!” Seleni hisses. “They’re making the festival announcements.”

“Hold your panties—it’s fine. They always take forever. Now stand still!” I nudge her. “If we don’t get this right, it won’t matter how quick we get up there—your hair will give us away. What in Caldon were you doing with it anyway? Rolling on the grass?”

She blushes as I stab another pin into her curl to flatten it back in place before she shoves her bare legs into the pair of threadbare breeches behind the row of thistle bushes where we’re changing. She ties a string through the belt loops and tightens them around her waist, same as I did mine, then straightens so we can observe our work. I pat her head. It’ll hold. I hand her a boy’s serving cap, then reach for my own to pull on like a sock over my short hair and ears.

Seleni wrinkles her face at me. “I have never worn something so appalling in my life. These clothes give me the creeps. Did the men die in them or because of them?”

I’m tempted to tell her she actually looks good, but that’d only offend her. “Okay, but do we look like girls?” Screwing my brow into a doubtful expression, I step back. “Because from the neck down, you’re good, but your face still looks too much like you.”

She snaps her fingers, then rustles through the bag and pulls out the trimmed oil wick we brought. Smearing her fingers with the blackened grease, she proceeds to wipe it in the creases of our faces and beneath our eyes until my skin feels both smooth and itchy and nothing like I imagine most boys or men feel. When she’s done, she assesses me and nods in satisfaction. “Now you’re a boy, albeit a rather sad and unclean one. Just be careful not to rub it off.”

I walk around her in a circle, and when we’re face-to-face again, I grin. If I look anything like her, I’m an unrecognizable ragamuffin who lives on the streets of a nameless town. “You ready?”

She nods, even though she looks like she’s going to throw up. Suddenly I’m wondering if I will too. I’m scared, and I have no idea what to expect other than that at any moment someone in the Labyrinth or out here could recognize us.

What if Lute and his mum find out? What if Vincent or Germaine discovers us?

Stop, Rhen. Focus.

You’re not doing anything different than Sam or Will or Beryll. If they can do this, so can you.

I force my shoulders to relax and my lungs to exhale, then shove our other clothes and the lamp wick back into the bag and tie it tight. I stuff it inside the row of thistle bushes we’ve just changed behind, then stand to eye the terraces where the crowds are assembling.