To Best the Boys

by Mary Weber

  “Everything all right?” she asks from her spot plopped across my bed.

  I shrug and put on dry socks and booties, because if I do anything else, like actually speak, I will do something daft like cry. Once they’re on, I pull out a second pair of shoes that Seleni will need and shove them into a woven bag along with the dead boys’ shirts and trousers and caps we will take with us for the Labyrinth. Next, I find the case of pins in my drawer that Mum used to do my hair with and help flatten Seleni’s long, brown curls against her head in a way that looks purposeful but can also double as a boy’s cut beneath a hat. When I’m finished, I stand back and eye us both.

  Seleni tips her head and studies us in the mirror, then strides over to the oil wick on my lantern and trims off a part of it. She drops it in the bag. “For our faces,” she says at my questioning expression.

  Good thinking.

  Careful to stay quiet so as not to disturb my parents, I retrieve the Labyrinth Letter from the cellar, where I notice Da has removed Lady’s carcass from the cage. I turn away and try not to think on it, then shove the paper into my pocket, in case it’s needed as proof of—of what? My right to enter? To be there? I don’t actually know how Holm decides who is allowed and who isn’t. An attack of nerves roils my stomach, and I have to brace for a minute to calm my breathing. The worst they’ll do is kick you out, and people will laugh or scorn, Rhen. Both are things you know how to live with.

  With a deep inhale I return upstairs where Seleni is waiting by the door. I peek over at my parents’ room. Should I say something? But I don’t know what it would be, so instead I step out the front door with Seleni and walk across the four stone markers that connect our house to the cobbled street. Just as the rooster gives another strangled crow.

  12

  Holm Castle sits on the tallest hill in Pinsbury Port, on an estate gracing the far side of the Upper end that stretches all the way down to touch the sea a full mile from the wharf. From Seleni’s and my view on the road, the tops of the century-old stone and shingled roofs catch the late-afternoon sun and gleam like pinpoint pearls, shimmering above the vast green hills and hedges that tumble away from the mostly hidden home.

  Legend has it, King Francis’s great-grandfather, King Edmundton, deeded it to Holm’s great-grandfather for his use of magic that turned the tide of the great Oceanic War. And while the subsequent Holm and royal descendants’ relational arrangement is unknown, in times of national crisis a carriage bearing King Francis’s crest has been rumored to show up in the dead of night at Holm Manor.

  I inhale the smell of damp earth and leaves and wonder what King Francis thinks of the Labyrinth contest—or whether any of his family has ever privately attended.

  Seleni and I start up the walk as a breeze rustles from the wharf and floats over us on its way up the river. It’s pushing back the thick blankets of rain and fog, like a dragon rolling back its breath, until they recede into the tiniest nooks of the Rhine. The rush of salt spray latches like perfume onto our hair and skin, carrying with it the sound of excited voices—shouts that rise a little louder, and laughter that uncoils a little looser. And when I glance around, even some of the faces from the pub last night look a little lighter.

  The hill soon becomes steep and my feet slide inside my shoes as the soggy gravel crunches beneath them. Crunch crunch crunch—the sound is muted by the voices and hollers of the families up ahead, who are clearly enjoying the day’s climate change. If the water was a gift to cool off tempers, the setting sun has now locked in to warm us all back up. The people we walk by greet us with bright eyes that say they are choosing to celebrate the fact that even if parliament is against us today, the weather is on our side. And so is the host of boys we’re sending into one man’s crazy maze.

  Beside me, Seleni chuckles at the kids running back and forth. They keep taking off toward the river while their mums call them back. “Not too far! The basilisks will eat you if we can’t find you!”

  I laugh along with her, but it’s sharper than usual as my nerves bleed through. A bead of sweat trickles down my back. I scan everyone’s faces for Lute or Will or Sam, but all I find are more parents and kids and elderly as we start up the final part of the slope.

  Seleni leans over. “You’re walking like a girl, Rhen. We should practice acting like males.”

  I am? I glance to see how she’s walking and try not to burst into real laughter because she looks like a cross between a swaggering monkey and a pregnant mouse. I peer around at the men and boys trekking along beside us—how do they walk?—and after a moment adjust my gait to a longer distance that doesn’t have to care whether one’s skirt floats up or if one’s hips swing too much to attract inappropriate attention. I grin and nudge her, like I’ve seen Will and Sam do to each other. “Like this?”

  “Yes, that’s better.” She straightens her shoulders and dons a bored expression before she juts her chin at me like Beryll does when he walks by other guys. She keeps doing it until we both erupt into giggles. “Although I still think it might’ve been smarter if we’d just dressed at your house and come in disguise. It would’ve given us more time to practice.”

  I shake my head as a group of rowdy ten-year-old hooligans from my neighborhood runs by us, their bare feet grinding over the rocks as they hoot and holler. “It’d raise the chances of people seeing through our disguises. This way there’s little time to suspect.”

  “You’d better hope so, because if they do suspect and we’re caught, you know Mum would never allow me to speak to you again.” She pretends to imitate my aunt Sara. “Seleni, this is the last straw. Rhen will be the ruination of any reputation you have left. I forbid you from seeing her.”

  Another laugh bubbles up my throat, partly because the reality of that is painful and partly because the look on my aunt’s pointed face might actually be worth it.

  Someone bumps my bag containing our boy clothing and I instinctively yank it closer. Seleni waits until the woman hurries past before she whispers, “But seriously. If we do get recognized, what’s the plan?”

  “We say we spilled something on our dresses at the festival and hadn’t any other clothes, so we borrowed from the crowd.” I check the thickening throng again. Their faces are shiny with perspiration and their pace is slowing the nearer we’ve gotten to the top of the hill where the estate’s entrance lies. “But like I said, we won’t be recognized because no one’s looking for us to be dressed like that. We’ll just seem like two boys in a host of fifty others. I think the bigger concern is remembering to use different names.”

  “Renford,” she mutters.

  “Sedgwick,” I say.

  She nods. “That, and I hope I can remember to use a deep voice.”

  “I’m more worried you’ll cuddle up to Beryll or kiss him while in disguise.”

  Alarm fills her eyes. “Oh, Rhen, can you imagine? Poor Beryll would drop dead in surprise.”

  “After he gets appalled.”

  We both break into giggles again as we reach the cusp of the hill that is really a mountain, and the humor turns to gasps as we come face-to-face with the tall hedges and wide entrance that lead to Mr. Holm’s manor and estate grounds.

  Seleni and I have made this trek for seventeen years, and each time the thrill is just the same. For as extravagant and mysterious as Mr. Holm and Holm Castle have always been, there’s a reason very few people have ever made it onto his property and come back to tell of it. Namely, it’s nigh impossible.

  If the rumors of disappearances and brain-eating banshees guarding the space won’t keep a person out, the thirty-foot-tall thorn hedges surrounding the entire perimeter will. One prick from those and, best case, you’ll be vomiting for a week. Worst case, you’ll be dead. And not only do they encase the estate, but they’re arranged inside of it to guard the castle itself—as well as the Labyrinth.

  “Mr. Holm likes his privacy,” I’d once said to Sam. “Wonder what he does with it.”

  “I know what I�
�d do,” Will had said, grinning at us both. To which I’d promptly informed him no one else wanted to know.

  But even now, as close as we are, the only thing visible aside from those twelve castle rooftops is the thirty-foot-wide gap where the gates stand open to usher the crowd onto the glittering driveway that’s edged with a rich green lawn.

  The small girl walking beside us squeals and points up as her mum tries to keep hold of her hand. I follow her gaze to seven patchwork balloons that come into sight through the entrance, and suddenly Seleni squeals too. They float like giant bubbles of sea foam above the inner hedges and lawns, and baskets are attached beneath them with people inside.

  The child flaps her arm at two women looking down. They wave back, and her eyes grow as round as sand dollars. “Mum, can I ride in one?”

  “Those are for brave people, not babies,” her brother teases. “You have to be older.”

  She shoots him a glare. “I am brave. And I’m going to ride in one when I’m two inches taller.” She jumps up as if to stretch her height, and Seleni catches my eye before the little girl pries free of her mum’s hand and skips ahead to the wide metal gates. Within moments we arrive as well—only to be pressed in on all sides as the festival-goers merge to squeeze through.

  I glance up at those thorn hedges reaching for the sky on each side. How many people have actually died because of them?

  I grab the back of Seleni’s sleeve to keep us from getting separated as the crowd’s anticipation grows. “Do we need to find your father and mum?”

  She shakes her head and leans back to yell in my ear, “They came up with their friends. I told them I’d be with you or Beryll . . .”

  Whatever else she says is drowned out as we’re carried through the gate with the crowd, then emerge on the other side at a wide stone driveway that is so smooth the thing looks like gold in the sunset light. Which is when I feel it. The atmospheric ripple.

  Even for someone who believes in the science of what I can tangibly see and hold and explain, I’ve always known the unexplainable is possible here. The air is tinged with a magic that quivers around my skin.

  Ahead of us, the drive veers to the right—to another gate set into an arched set of bushes—and beyond that the massive, hundred-room castle rises like a crown above the thorns and dense foliage. As far as I know, the only Port people ever to have seen inside the building itself are the contestants—none of whom will speak of it, whether due to fear or a signed agreement, I don’t know. But Lawrence once told us his brother said the castle’s intricate halls give the impression of being in a spider’s lair and that Mr. Holm’s extensive riddles make your mind feel full of webs.

  Seleni tugs my hand and points toward the front of the estate, which is spread out to the left of us in blankets of green lawns and stone terraces—each one cascading in levels away from the house, until they reach a flat meadow down below. And beyond that, sloping hillsides that run for miles down to the sea. Dotted across the terraces and lawns are groupings of parties sharing blankets or tents, with gangs of children running beneath white lanterns strung in zigzag abandon from pole to pole. They’re bouncing in the breeze.

  Except they aren’t really lanterns, but something referred to as electric suns. It’s a new technology this year, and one of Holm’s own invention from what I’ve heard. I’ve yet to get close enough to study one, but even the university knows little of their makeup, which Mum says is just another in a host of reasons he’s so catered to as a benefactor. Contrary to Germaine’s assessment last night, Holm’s inventions are more than simple illusions. I’ve even studied a few—enough to have attempted re-creating them. The majority, however, are beyond me or even Da.

  Although, standing here, I can understand why most people think of Holm as an illusionist. The white lights certainly look like illusions. Like thousands of stars set above glowing faces, to offer warmth and safety and illumination.

  They look like magic.

  Seleni tugs my hand harder and her voice sounds shaky. “Let’s find food and Beryll.”

  I nod. The nerves are setting in. I lead us toward the first terrace that sits in front of the Labyrinth hedge and house where a collection of musicians are playing an evening waltz. “Where’s Beryll’s family supposed to be sitting?”

  “With his mum’s aunt.” She points at a lawn to the right of the staggered levels where some Upper attendees have already erected beautiful white linen tents that look more like small cottages than simple overnight bedding.

  I wrinkle my nose. Of course the Uppers brought half their homes. Probably their servants too.

  I turn toward the normal folk and sift through the faces—many of whom were full of hurt and fury last night but are now filled with laughter. The kind that comes as a distraction from grief and the internal ache that will still be there tomorrow. I bite my lip and ignore the thought that I recognize it all too well.

  “No one here seems overly upset about the fishing restrictions,” Seleni whispers.

  “They are—they’re just refusing to let it ruin their festival.” I pull her down the stone stairway leading to the second patio, which is filled with long, golden banquet tables covered in fountains of bubbly drinks splashing into goblets. We dodge the swarms of people and move on to the third patio, where fire pits are assembled, for toasting desserts from the smell of it. My stomach rumbles and I realize I am famished.

  We wander from terrace to terrace, slipping bites from tables covered in more kinds of meat than even Seleni will see all year, to giant spreads of breads and puddings and Labyrinth cakes, to entire galleries set up just for wine. It’s a feast for the senses, including the choice of music soaring above us in a perfect complement to the smells and sights and sounds.

  The crowds around us are filling their pockets and plates now, and I follow Seleni to grab a few more delicacies—and hope I don’t promptly throw them back up from the anxiety that’s taken full root. I shift the bag on my shoulder and take a couple hunks of cheese and bread, then turn to focus on the task at hand. I need to find Sam and Will and tell them about Germaine. I need to make sure I know how to shadow them into the Labyrinth.

  It takes a minute of scanning the lawns to find the crowds of local folk. And then another moment to spot Sam and Will’s family at the bottom of one of the terraces. They’ve set up a small sleeping tent and seem to be settling into their place next to one of the larger fire pits for the long haul. I look around, but I don’t see Sam or Will. All the same, their family’s laughter and tones of anticipation carry over, and something in me wishes I could join in with them for a while.

  That thought brings an ache to my chest with the awareness that without Mum and Da here, the festival is not quite the same. Unlike past years, there’s no specific place for me—no spot I belong. The twinge of that realization surges and I wait for it to settle. Then eat my bread and cheese and meander a bit more before Seleni turns and grabs my shoulder. “Come on. I see the boys.”

  The “boys” means Beryll and friends. They’re seated up top with their backs to the hedges that make up the Labyrinth—as if claiming their spot to be first inside. Or maybe they’re using it for a full view of the festivities, because Beryll waves at us the moment we start making our way up. He and Lawrence are with a host of boys I’ve never met. Plus a few I wish I hadn’t.

  “My dear Miss Lake, where have you been?” Beryll rises from his seat.

  “We have a half hour,” I whisper to Seleni, before she saunters over to join him. I turn to see if Sam or Will is anywhere around.

  “Nice hat, Rhen,” a male voice calls from a spot between two girls. I peer over at Germaine as the girls with him giggle and take sips of some type of bubbly drink.

  “Looks like your plan to stay an old maid is on target.”

  “That’ll make two of us then,” I say, and keep searching for the boys.

  Germaine chuckles. He stands and brushes off the girls and then approaches me with a thick-eyebrowed e
xpression of something between amusement and disdain. He reaches his hand out to tap the brim of my hat, and his black eyes flicker. “I can see why Vincent likes you. You’re something to tame.”

  My hand instinctively goes up to push his fingers away from my hat—except he’s already dropped them, and his calculated expression turns cool as he looks behind me, then takes a step back.

  I feel Vincent’s presence before I hear him. “Miss Tellur, I’ve been searching all over for you. I’m glad you’re here. After last night, I admit my mind began to wonder a bit.”

  I frown and Germaine’s eyes glint at my obvious confusion. Wonder what?

  Vincent moves to stand in front of me with his perfectly coiffed hair and smile. Which expands before it falters at my hat and clothes. He keeps his mouth shut, but the impression is clear that he’s not pleased with my choice of outfit. I smirk. The next moment his grin is back and he pulls me aside from Germaine and drops his voice. “I know your walk with Mr. Wilkes last evening was out of innocence, but may I suggest you be more cautious? My father, specifically, was rather concerned with the appearance of it.”

  I raise a brow. “You’ll pardon me, Mr. King, but I believe—”

  He presses a forefinger to my lips. “Shh. We’ll speak of it no further. Only please know the occurrence pushed me to make a decision. I had a long talk with my father, and I told him what incredible incentive you have and what an asset your brilliant mind can be to us. To me. And while hesitant, he has acquiesced.” He puts a hand to his neck to loosen his collar.

  My frown expands. Acquiesced to what? What is going on? What does he want?

  “Miss Tellur, all that’s to say—I am prepared to officially request permission from your father to court you after the equinox festival.” He breaks into a smile that is odd, and even a bit proud, while his cheeks turn the color of a beet.

  I stare at him.