To Best the Boys(71)

I slow and tilt my head and study his reaction. Until this moment it hadn’t occurred to me how something so ridiculous could be his deepest fear. Or why. I feel the scratching in my mind pick up, as if edging me closer to some discovery.

My skin ripples with the memory I’d had in the Labyrinth. Of Vincent suggesting he borrow my lung-fluid vaccine to test on his cow-disease cells.

Of Vincent working beside me the day one of the rats showed the first symptoms of the crippling disease. Of Vincent tipping over a drink he wasn’t supposed to have in our lab—and knocking over two of the cages, causing that rat to escape. And of his disappearance the next three days and his change of personality and career choice two months later.

I lift my gaze to him.

And I know.

I know what he’s done.

I open my mouth. Shut it. Just as Vincent’s father says, “Nicholae, I commend you for encouraging the ideals young minds seem to push for. They rarely come to fruition, but I believe allowing them to realize that on their own is important. Good for you for letting Miss Tellur’s passions run their course until she comes ’round.”

I bestow Vincent with a smile that quickly twists to outrage. It wasn’t Da or me who created the disease accidentally.

It was him.

And if I could, I’d kill him for it.

Instead, I clench my fists and quietly say, “Just like your son’s passions ran their course, Mr. King?”

Vincent’s eyes flare as his father turns my way. “Pardon, Miss Tellur?”

I lick my lips. “Is that why you suddenly switched career goals, Vince? Because of what you created with your passion in the lab? Being responsible for the crippling disease is quite a feat.”

“Miss Tellur, I don’t see how my son’s—”

As someone who has spent a solid bit of the past few months running, the one thing I never expected to see was Vincent King run. Especially from a girl.

But in the span of the ten-second space between when I finish talking and Uncle Nicholae says, “Is this true, Mr. King?” Vincent has flushed the color of a burnt sunset and launched for the door.

The constable is there to stop him. “Hold on just a minute, friend.”

Vincent looks around at us, wild-eyed, like a trapped animal, and I know it shouldn’t give me the smallest bit of pleasure, but it does. The disease he accidentally developed is killing my mum, and I can prove it. I’d bet my scholarship on it.

“Miss Tellur . . . Rhen,” Vincent says. “You have to understand. I was just messing around with some tests. I thought if we could see what they did on the rats . . . I didn’t mean for one to get loose.”

“Rhen, go get ready for your and Seleni’s celebration party,” Uncle Nicholae says. “I think the Kings and I need to have a chat.”

I nod. And without giving Vincent another ounce of acknowledgment, I turn my back on him and walk out the door.





26

To Rhen for winning!” Uncle Nicholae says. “And to Seleni!”

“To Rhen and Seleni!” the guests respond.

Their cheers are accompanied by the clinking of glasses and the trill of a musical serenade, followed by corks popping from a tower of golden bottles as the servers push expensive drinks on every adult in the place.

“To keep everyone docile.” Seleni giggles. “At least according to Mum. But I think it’s more to keep her and Father calm, because the way they’ve been acting, you’d think King Francis himself was set to make an appearance.” Her voice drops conspiratorially as she plays with the sleeve of her frilly blue dress. “I even heard her say she might have to dip into Father’s snuff later just to survive this—and Father didn’t argue. He just looked nervous and put extra hired guards on all the upstairs doors and around the house perimeter in case a ‘riot breaks out.’ ”

I laugh and take in the loud room and outer gardens, all of which are frothing to overflowing with politicians and children and Uppers and Lowers—all of whom seem less interested in rioting than in partying, ever since the Lowers put the Uppers on notice at the equinox festival. The hint at reevaluating the way the fishing restrictions are handled came swiftly after, and since then the interest has mainly been taken up by Seleni and me—the “girls who behaved like boys,” an elderly woman says behind us in a whisper.

I glance back at the woman and offer up a wink. “We even kissed boys in the Labyrinth,” I say. To which she turns two shades of red and utters something about wondering what young ladies are coming to these days.

Except according to the number of women in the room shyly eyeing Seleni and me, I’m not sure what we’re all “coming to” is a bad thing.

“Rhen Tellur, you are terrible.” Seleni chuckles, but she dips and plays to the attention all the more. Then emits a sharp gasp. “Beryll’s just arrived with his parents. Oh, Rhen.” She swerves to me. “How do I look? What do I do? I have to go meet them. Here—wait two minutes, then come over and talk with us. And make me sound good.” She plants a quick peck on my cheek, smooths her dress, and trots off to where Beryll is standing in a leg cast and leaning against a cane beside a fashionably dressed couple and an old woman wearing a hat.

I look past them to the open door to see who else came in—and hide my disappointment. It’s only them. Da and Mum still haven’t arrived. Neither has Lute.