To Best the Boys(77)
The sea is her own entity.
The rhythmic water thrums against my ankles and soon becomes loud in my head. I shut my eyes and let its whispers slip through me, until the next moment it’s reaching right into my soul and reshuffling every assumption I’ve held. The beliefs I’ve misunderstood.
I frown and look up at Lute. What had he called the sea? Untameable.
What if it really is the same with me? What if I don’t fully belong anywhere . . . because I belong to myself? Maybe that’s the sea’s strength, and maybe that’s my strength too. It’s not that I don’t belong. It’s that I belong to me.
It’s why I entered the Labyrinth.
It’s how I will survive if I lose my mother.
It’s how I’ll survive if I end up losing Lute.
I will belong to me.
I let the smile edge my lips and pull Lute’s hand flat to my chest where I can feel the thump thump thump of my blood pulsing through my heart as I stare at him. This man standing in the middle of the ocean spray, so near, he might as well step into me. The water droplets slide down his hopeful face like fingers across bare skin. They catch on his lashes and lips and chin, and he presses my fingers against my chest before he pulls them away and sets them on his.
To feel his lungs and heartbeat too. Because maybe I also belong there.
Finally, he exhales and, leaning in, whispers, “Bloody hulls, please say something. Say you want to conquer the world but that you also might be willing to let me do it with you—even if I’m doing it from here. Because you are the wild sea and unkempt storms and constellations in a world where I am the anchor for everyone I know.” He leans forward, as if his heart is stretched as taut as his tone. “And you remind me that I can do impossible things.”
He looks at me shyly, as if afraid I’ll say no. “I know the university’s a day’s trek away—but I don’t mind the distance if you—”
My fingers on his anatomically perfect lips cut off the rest of his comment. He lifts a brow and waits for my choked-up smile before he slides his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me closer, his thumb tipping my chin up to his. I draw him into me until the atmosphere between us ceases to exist, and it’s just us, the sea, and the sky.
He opens his mouth to speak again, but I’m already crashing in at the seams of my being, as the ocean spray around us is swirling and falling into wind and life and magic. And suddenly his hands are in my hair and his lips are on my cheek, brushing down to my chin, then my mouth, and every single inhale I take declares that I am undone.
Hand on hand. Nerve on nerve. Lip on lip. Breath entwined. Burning to the ground. Everything in me belongs to me, but it also belongs to him. To this boy who is willing me to succeed. Who is willing to take on a world with me, and in the process, perhaps we will create a new world of our own.
I pull back and look at him. “I’m sorry you didn’t win the contest, Lute.”
“It was never mine to win. My Labyrinth was you. Your mind. Your heart. Your trust. In hopes you’d name me your own.”
I stand on my tiptoes and cup his face between my hands. “Mr. Wilkes, have I ever explained the decomposition process of an animal corpse to you?”
28
When the letter arrived on the steps of every Pinsbury Port home in the quiet October morning hours, scarcely two weeks following the Autumnal Equinox Scholarship Competition that had thoroughly shocked at least one half of the tiny kingdom of Caldon—Mrs. Mench was understandably appalled. After all, Mr. Holm had sent it without even the slightest consideration to how such things work. Social changes should be given time, as should people, and there had been far too much of the former lately. Propriety must be honored even when some reckless young bucks thought tradition was for toppling.
Mrs. Mench only hoped it wouldn’t become a habit. She’d had enough excitement—that hadn’t been created by her, at least—for a solid five months. And that was saying something.
Even so, she and everyone else in Pinsbury tore open the sealed parchment the moment the missives hit the cobblestone steps, because for the first time in fifty-five years, no one had any idea what the contents said. Two letters from Mr. Holm within the same year had never been heard of before.
The brief, purple-inked note was hand printed on a parchment made of forty-pound vellum.
* * *
All gentlepersons of all ages are cordially invited to attend the celebration of one Miss Rhen Tellur and her full acceptance into Stemwick University for the commencing winter quarter. Festivities will be held exactly one week from today, on 13 October, year of our King Francis (long may he reign), at Holm estate. Guests will appear at six o’clock in the evening in front of Holm Manor’s entrance and are welcome to stay until one o’clock the following morning.
For Attendees: Party refreshments will be provided at all times. Sleeping accommodations not provided (hence, please leave by one o’clock). Gratitude and congratulatory excitement toward Miss Tellur are expected. (Those who fail to comply will be tossed out at our congratulatory excitement.)
For Dissenters: No one likes a sore pouter—so stay home.
For All: Mr. Holm and Holm Manor bear only slight responsibility, liability, and legal obligation for the future societal changes that may result from your female children believing it is within their power and right to become whomever and whatever they desire—and in doing so, to change the course of history.