To Best the Boys(65)

Holm points to the table holding the laboratory supplies. “In front of you is a bench with four individual stations. Each one has the same equipment, same chemicals, and same compounds. And I’ll give you a clue.” His voice dips excitedly. “Parts of the process have already been prepared for you. But . . . it’s up to you to figure out which solutions have been mixed at what stages, and what assembly steps and chemicals have yet to be finalized.”

He steps back, places his hands into his vest pockets, and stares at us.

I frown and look around. Wait—is he serious? Creating a glow compound is tricky, but it’s not that tricky. It’s more like making a cake—lots of ingredients and detailed timing. But otherwise, it’s essentially the same. I peer over at Vincent. He and I used to make these with my da and take them out into the fields to release. They’d last a few hours and look like the stars had come to earth.

Vincent’s eyes say he’s remembering the same thing. He shakes his head at Germaine. “There’s got to be a catch. It’s too simple.”

Except Germaine says nothing as he stares at his section of supplies. And when I peer over at Lute, his face is a mirror image of Germaine’s.

Neither of them knows how to do this.

“Please note, you may speak to one another, trade supplies, and offer small conversation.” Mr. Holm’s voice trickles around us. “However, you may not share your finished compound. Nor may you share the recipe for how it can be created. Gentlepersons of the Labyrinth exam—the clock starts now.”

I turn from Lute to the station in front of me to grab a pair of gloves. Only there are none. I narrow my gaze. Why wouldn’t he supply gloves?

Shaking it off, I tug my sleeves to the edge of my fingers and start in.

If I can figure this out fast enough, I can help Lute.

First I analyze the two pitchers of solution that have already been readied. One green, one clear—I just need to figure out which stages. I dip a glass pointer separately into each and dab a bit of their liquid onto a dish to see if I can get a feel for what’s already been placed in them. I make a quick list on the available notepaper, then place the dishes under a microscope and begin adding individual chemicals to see if I can narrow down the still-needed components.

Next, I gather the remaining ingredients I think I’ll need and begin measuring those, one at a time, beside a third pitcher.

“Seems your boy there is struggling a bit,” Vincent whispers. He hovers beside me, peering at my mixture and notes, his gloved fingers resting beside my own bare ones.

I lift a brow. Where’d he get the gloves? “Seems your boy is too.”

He grins. “Brings back old times, doesn’t it?” He moves on, tracing his gloved hands along the table, then steps around me and does the same to Lute. Then to Germaine.

I shake my head. If he’s trying to intimidate us, it’s not working. It’s just annoying.

Focus, Rhen.

I go back over the ingredients I’ve measured and begin to combine them in the pitcher. If I’ve learned anything through the years with Da, it’s that sometimes the simplest experiments are the trickiest, simply because I tend to overthink the process or go too fast.

Lute studies the compounds in front of him and writes out their structures on a paper. His bare fingers press against the table and scratch out each chemical as he deciphers it. Smart.

I turn back to my own mixtures and set my hands on the work area to refocus. Then pick up the green to pour into my clear liquid first. I’ve just added it in when the tips of three of my fingers start tingling. I ignore them and dip in a glass stick to stir the solution.

The tingling picks up. I frown and look down. We should’ve had gloves.

Except . . .

Except I don’t believe any of these chemicals would give such a specific sensation. I rub my fingers on my pants to stop the prickling, but just as I return them to the pitcher, the table jolts and a cry rings out through the room.





21

A second cry rings out, and something hits the floor with a thump. In my peripheral vision I see Germaine slumped over into a fetal position. He’s shaking and gasping for air like he’s choking.

What the?

The king and his attendants rise just as the knights move to surround His Majesty, even as he’s asking what’s going on and requesting that something be done for the boy.

I look around for Mr. Holm, but he must be assisting the king too, because I don’t see him. My fingers begin to shake. Ignoring His Royal Highness’s questions, I drop to where Germaine is convulsing on the ground and Lute is already kneeling and loosening the boy’s collar. He yanks it back so I can check Germaine’s pulse. It’s racing far too fast for safety.

I scan his body, his chest, his lips, then glance up at the table to Germaine’s chemical combinations. This isn’t due to the compounds we’ve been using. Something else is going on. Something is wrong.

Vincent.

I veer around to find him still standing at his station, casually pouring the first two of his pitchers together. On his face is a smug look of satisfaction. Not just smug—chilling.

I narrow my eyes as he seals the lid on his pitcher, then lifts it up and looks at me. He begins to shake the solution.

My skin ices over. He took out his own friend. In front of the king and Holm, no less.