by Mary Weber
I swallow as he studies me, before his features morph into interest. “So what are you overhearing? Anything I should know?”
I should tell him what they’re planning. Vincent’s going in the competition tomorrow and deserves to know. But I don’t because Seleni is calling loudly from the bottom of the stairwell, “Oh, Rhen, there you are!”
We both look over as she comes skipping up the stairs with Beryll on her heels, and in the back of my mind I note the boys’ voices have fallen silent through the door even as Seleni’s grows louder. “We’re about to play a game of Tell or Fail. Are you in? Where are the others?”
I lift a finger to my lips, except it’s too late because the door in front of me yanks open and four faces look straight at us as Germaine’s broad shoulders fill the space.
His cheek curves up along with the edges of his lips as he stares at me, then moves his gaze on to Vincent. “Vincent. Rhen. What a nifty surprise.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Seleni and Beryll frown at the assembly who’ve trespassed in Seleni’s father’s room. Germaine glances at them, then turns to where the other boys are standing with their arms crossed. “Looks like we’re missing out on a party in the hall, gentlemen.” He forces a smile. “Perhaps it’s something we should get in on.”
Vincent slides his arm across my shoulder. “I think Rhen and I are going to get a little fresh air. We’ll catch up with you shortly. Excuse us, Miss Lake.”
I look at Seleni. My stomach’s suddenly flipping and my nerves are buzzing because I don’t want to get air with him. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I—I have to go.” I shove past Vincent and hurry for the stairs. Seleni’s startled gasp follows me as I push between her and Beryll and scurry down to the lower level.
I don’t glance back—just head for the door and out to the garden—away from them—from the party. From the lights and Vincent and Germaine, and the type of future that would be financially stable and wise and supposedly comfortable. My head pounds and all I know is that I really should warn Sam and Will and the others that something is being plotted surrounding Mr. Holm’s Labyrinth tomorrow. And I can’t shake the feeling that Vincent is plotting something too—in regard to his hopes for me.
8
I run through the garden. Past the charmingly cottage-like carriage house and stables. Past the milking cows and down the estate hill to the road where the night mist is emerging over the moor like a ghost spreading out her long, white wedding train.
I shiver and tug Mum’s shawl tighter through the murky damp that’s come on thick—and keep going despite the fact I can hear Vincent’s voice calling after me and a crackling in the air that signals it’s not just the ghosts who are out hunting now. The ghouls of the knights whose bodies are buried beneath Holm Castle like to emerge when the moon is hidden. They hunt for lost travelers along King’s Crossing on Tinny River.
I rush across the wooden bridge to the port side, with its misty, narrow walkways that feel as familiar as my own skin, and barely slow for breath when something rustles and snaps, like a stick breaking underfoot, in the nearby fenced graveyard. The subtle scent of sulfur emerges to tickle its way down my nose and singe my throat.
I don’t wait to investigate. I know precisely what it is, and I’ve no interest in having my chest cavity excavated tonight. I fly down the winding cobblestones toward the pub—sticking to the main street to avoid the side alleys—until the miasma drifts dotting the ground are so thick I can no longer see more than a few feet in front of me. The fog has grown dense and the lanes louder as more and more people begin to appear from the shadows. Safety in numbers.
But my frown deepens as the nervous tick in my stomach expands. Why are they all out tonight? I peer through the haze just as a crowd swarms out and rushes around me, nearly toppling me over as their voices fill with bewilderment and rage.
“What’s going on?” I ask a woman hurrying by.
She doesn’t look at me—just shouts something about parliament and pushes on. I ask again, this time of a man who says, “They’re shutting down the port.”
“What does that mean?” I yell after him. The conversation in Uncle Nicholae’s study flashes to mind. I pick up my pace and follow the man and the others with him on a road now just as cluttered with port people as it is with squashed fruit and discarded papers.
A noise cracks the air and I jerk as a group of youths emerge, hurtling bottles and tossing threats into the night. I skirt around them and keep up with the flood surging down the sloped path toward Sow’s pub.
“Pardon me. I’m sorry,” I say repeatedly. I duck beneath old men’s elbows and ladies’ arms that wave like bony branches.
“Hey, watch it!”
“Move, girl!”
I sidestep out of the way before I realize it’s not only me the voices are snapping at. Everyone is lashing at each other in tones suggesting they’re hungry for a target to unleash on. I slink lower and make my way between them to the front of the creaky old pub, with its weathered, low-hanging sign that announces:
SOW’S FINE SPIRITS & FOOD
TALK IS FREE, ADVICE IS NOT.
IF YOU NEED SOME, GO ASK YOUR MUM.
The doors are open, but the ten feet in front of it are a swamp of people. I push through the bodies and squeeze my way inside to the space that’s as large as my entire house and yet hardly holds enough air to breathe. The place is like a greasy tin of sardines. Oily faced people line the walls, tables, and stairs, and the smells of pipe tobacco and sour beer saturate the air with a stain that never leaves one’s clothes. The enraged shouts outside are nothing compared to the deafening noise in here.
I aim for the tall left wall behind a row of young, sunburnt boat hands whose agitated movements warn they’re ready for a fight. It’s like a carnival mirror reflection of the party I just came from, where everything’s a bit off and the tinkling laughter that flowed around silk suits and powdered cheeks has turned rife with ragged, hungry faces and unguarded frustration.
The occupants are yelling at a fisherman standing on the counter amid the smoke-filled air. I haul myself up to stand on a rickety chair in the corner from which I can scan the room long enough to study the crowd for Will and Sam.
There. Near the front. The guys are huddled around a hefty blackwood table on the same side as me, with a host of other boys. At least five of whom are from fishing families. In fact . . . I scan the room again and my chest constricts. Most everyone here is a fisherman—even if the bitter, overlapping voices make it impossible to pick out individual speakers.
Not that it’d matter much, because they’re all saying the same thing.
“If they want to decide things for our livelihoods, then they should reap the consequences just like the rest of us!”
“The ocean belongs to everyone! It’s how we make a wage!”
Their words prick my skin like needles. This is what Uncle Nicholae’s conversation was referring to. It’s what the fishermen and businessmen had been discussing in town earlier today. Why they’d seemed so upset. Rumor of whatever this is had already been trickling down.
Gripping my skirt, I slip off the chair and edge my way along the wall toward Will and Sam, keeping my head low so I don’t accidentally get backhanded by some raging sailor. As soon as I reach them, I hunch behind their stools. “Psst!”
Both glance my way with keyed-up faces and unbrushed hair as Jake, Tindall, and the other boys shout agreement to something the local butcher just yelled.
“Was wonderin’ when you’d get here.” Will scoots his long legs over to let me wedge between him and Sam. “Did you hear they’re shuttin’ us down?”
Sam grins at my dress. “Looking fancy there, Rhen. Almost as good as me.” His brown hair swags over one eye as he leans over. “How were the rich kids?”
“Terrible. What’s going on?”
“Your uncle’s friends are putting restrictions on the Port’s fishing industry. They say it’s to prot
ect the port and our future.”
Jake peers back at us, his eyes like daggers. “Of course that’s what they’d say—it’s not their businesses at stake.”
“Gentlemen, please!” The fisherman on the pub counter puts his hands up for quiet. “We’ll still be allowed to fish. They’ve just limited where and how much can be caught per day. It’s not perfect, but they’re trying to preserve the coastline.”
“Limited catches, my hind end!” someone yells. “How much are we talking?”
“They’re saying they used multiple sources to calculate it,” the man on the counter answers. “But it should be enough to feed our families and still sell some on the side.”
“Sell some on the side?”
“What do they mean, it should be enough? How would they know?”
“No one ever asked us!”
I look at Sam and Will and Jake who are yelling right along with them, and my breath thins at the realization. No one in that room of my uncle’s had any idea what this decision would do, because it won’t ever directly affect them. But for one-third of the men and families in our Lower Pinsbury Port?
It’s their entire livelihood.
My stomach turns. Where’s Lute?
I scan the crowd, but from where I’m crouched, his black hair and thick blue jacket are not among the two hundred other thick blue fishing jackets clogging the room. Does he know yet?
“They threaten us with this every few years,” Jake says angrily, returning his gaze to me and Sam. “The House of Lords likes to talk of putting restrictions on fisheries, but they’ve never actually done it.” He suddenly does a double take at me, as if just now realizing I’m here, and his deep-green gaze promptly drops to my dress. He tips his head at it and lowers his voice. “Better not let anyone know you just came from there, Rhen, or they’ll tear you limb from limb with the way this crowd’s worked up.”
“Right. Thanks.” My neck warms because I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t thought of anything other than getting away from the party. I yank my shawl closer and try to look smaller, even as I tell myself these people here know me. I am one of them. Hopefully they’ll remember that fact and not blindly take offense to a silly dress. Although—I peek around—looking at their faces, they’re in the mood for offense tonight.
“By the way, you get any further on that cripplin’ disease thing?” Will leans in and speaks low so only Sam and I can hear.
The disease. I shake my head. “Why? What’d you see that you needed to tell me about?”
Will looks at Sam. Both hesitate, and Sam finally says, “It might be nothin’, but there was a community outside town we passed today, and a good fourth of ’em couldn’t walk and hardly eat. Some were coughing up blood. Said it’d come on less than a month ago.”
My spine bristles.
“We didn’t know if it’s related or just some sickness, but they showed us a couple graves and said the people just got paralyzed, then died.” Will swallows. “Scared us pretty good. We hightailed it out of there and reported it to the constable but . . . figured we’d mention it to you and your da too.”
I bite my lip. I don’t know if it’s related either. But the coughed-up blood sounds like the guy I saw today. “Thanks. I’ll look into it.”
My words are drowned out by another shout from the men around us, and then the fisherman on the pub counter lifts his hand to try to regain control of the room. “Listen! We’ve lived through change before and we’ll live through it again. The important thing is—”
“The important thing is we’ve just been handed a death sentence!” someone shouts.
“Now hold on there.” The man tries again. “Let’s just keep our heads—”
“Keep our heads?” Jake’s father yells from his spot in front of us. “This isn’t the time for calm—this is the time for action!”
Jake turns, and his green eyes have darkened beneath his stiff red hair that sticks up like straw thanks to its constant exposure to salt spray on the boats. “He’s right. We need to push back on this to show them we’re not weak. They need to feel what we feel.”
Sam and Will nod vigorously, and I follow suit. It’s like the crippling disease. If the politicians actually knew what their decisions were doing—what they are doing—in the midst of the needs already plaguing our town, maybe they’d understand. We just need to find a way to make them understand.
Except when I peek up at Will and Jake, something in their faces suggests they’re not talking about starting a letter campaign and sending representatives on our behalf.
I lick my lips and start to ask what they have in mind, but they’ve already jumped up with the crowd to cheer, and after a moment they’re not just cheering. They’re banging fists on the tables and lifting glass bottles over their heads, and I’m suddenly aware I’m one of only a few women in a room full of rather agitated men. And if tempers grow higher or one of those lagers gets dropped . . .
Sam and Will and the boys have now climbed on their stools. They’re waving their arms above their heads. I slip back to get some distance lest they tumble off, but from their flushed cheeks and shiny eyes, it’s clear they’re not coming down for a while. I scoot for the wall and almost reach it when a gentleman launches from his chair to join in the yelling, and the next thing I know, his giant bear of a body trips over me. He hardly glances my way before straightening and raising his empty mug as he bellows, “Are we going to let this stand?”
I duck to move away from his swinging arm, but my dress stays. What in—? I turn to find the gentleman’s foot standing on part of my skirt. I can’t move without it ripping a waist seam or pulling off completely. “Excuse me, sir.” I nudge him and try to push his boot off, but he’s too busy hollering.
“Fellow friends, our fight is not with each other, but with the men who made this decision!” he yells. “They may not have wanted our input then, but I suggest we give it to them now!”
A roar goes up so loud it shakes the wood planks beneath my feet, rumbling all the way into my nerves. I try to move again, and this time there’s a small tearing sound, but I don’t care. The shouts have turned into an earthquake inside the lungs of every person in this place, and it’s vibrating the entire room. With a last fierce tug, my dress rips loose enough for me to scramble the rest of the way to the wall, where I press my back and inch for the door as the crowd’s energy grows higher and their faces redder.
This is what Beryll was referring to in the undertaker’s cellar—why the constables would have better things to worry about than us siphoning blood. Because they’re about to have a blasted riot on their hands. And of course Beryll had known. His father is in parliament. His father helped make this decision. I frown. The least Beryll could’ve done is give us a little warning.
Jake’s father shouts, “So let’s take the fight to them! Let’s see how they feel when it’s their children who go hungry!”
“Take the fight to them!” another voice crows.
I stoop beneath a man’s arm and attempt to twist around the front of him, except I miscalculate and his elbow comes crashing down. I can’t get away fast enough to avoid the coming impact—but suddenly a second arm is there to interfere. The hand reaches out and grabs my shoulder, and I swerve just as the person abruptly plasters himself against my body in a manner that, given any other time, would be considered far too forward. I recoil and spin around.
And come face-to-face with Lute’s piercing eyes, unruly black hair, and tight mouth.
“What are you doing here?” he hisses. He keeps his arm on my shoulders and pushes me toward the door.
“Lute.” Despite where we are and the vexed look on his face, a silly flush of heat flutters across my cheeks.
He ignores me and half shoves, half ducks us around a unit of men who are jumping up and down, getting louder and more brazen as they bump into us. I trip over floorboards and shoes and finally have to grab his wrist to keep from falling.
“Mr. Wilkes! You can
stop pushing me. I’ll exit when I see fit, thank you very much.” I manage to lock my legs in place enough to turn and force him to stop.
He stares at me like I’m mad, then leans over and jerks his chin at the room. “Have you seen what you’re wearing, Rhen? You can’t be here. You need to leave.”
I cock a brow to hide my embarrassment. “I have just as much right to be here as anyone else. They know who I am.” I don’t tell him I was already leaving.
His bold eyes slip to my dress, then return to mine with an alarmed glare. “These men are about to tear this room apart, and they’re going to tear you apart with it because you look just like one of them.”
“One of whom? An Upper? Except I’m not, and everyone here knows it.”
His jaws clamp so tight, the sound snaps in my ear. “And that’ll mean exactly nothing in ten seconds when the people in here notice you. They won’t care. You came from there tonight. And dressed like that, you’re not one of this group right now either.”
I flinch and clench my fist at the small sting his words give. I came down here because I care. Because I live here. The bias is ridiculous, and Lute of all people should know it. He doesn’t fit in with people any better than I do.
I scowl toward the front of the room where the boys are all standing on their table now, and the crowd surrounding them has their hands and hats in the air. And yet Lute is right. Coming from the Upper party without knowing the town was triggered may have been accidental—but it won’t matter. The atmospheric shift is clear. The energy and rage in here are a furnace about to blow.
Lute’s gaze softens and he leans in long enough to murmur, “It’s not you, Rhen, it’s them. Just . . . please.”
A sizzle in the air is followed by a snap, and the next moment a man near the counter lifts up a stool, and something inside me starts yelling that we all need to go. We need to go now.
