by Mary Weber
“Seleni, you are downright awful.” Moly giggles.
“That must be what’s killing off so many of the Lowers,” Cake Boy adds, in a tone that’s attempting to make us laugh. “Their sickness is really spread by Mr. Holm.”
The smile dies on my lips. I shift my worn shoes against the marble floor and look away. Clearly he doesn’t know anyone with the disease or he wouldn’t say such things. But perhaps I should be grateful because it reminds me of why I’m here.
I drift my gaze around the room until—there. My uncle is standing across the hall from us, speaking with a group of men who, if the stiffness of their pocket brocades is any indication, are either politicians or Stemwick University board members. Or both. I study their faces and nicely set hair. Whatever they’re talking about seems to mostly involve lighthearted chuckling.
Good.
I check to see if Seleni’s distracted—she is, by Beryll—and am about to break from her circle of friends when a voice says, “Oh, Holm is real, but he’s definitely no wizard.”
It’s the eyebrow boy, and something in his tone is darker than before. I spin to see his eyes scanning our faces.
“And I can assure you he won’t be anonymous much longer. Come tomorrow—not only do I intend to beat these chaps at the game—” He looks down his narrow nose at us and curls his lip to complement the cocky way he’s standing. Then sniffs and takes a gulp of his drink. “But I intend to beat Mr. Holm at it as well.”
6
Seleni giggles. “And how, may we ask, do you plan on doing that, Germaine?”
“Quite simply. By breaking the rules and exposing Mr. Holm for the cheap-trick charlatan he is.”
Half the circle bursts into laughter and the rest resort to eye rolling. “Not this again,” Lawrence says. Except, Eyebrow Boy’s arrogant expression says he’s quite sincere.
Moly lifts a hand. “Holm has single-handedly funded numerous university educations over the years. At least give him that.”
“Money-schmoney, I’m talking the game itself.” Germaine strokes his left brow and slides his dark gaze around. “The ‘magical illusions’ he uses in his Labyrinth are an insult. If he’s so anxious to give his money away to charity, why not have a normal process? Instead, he amuses himself by creating inappropriate ploys that any street magician could do. And he endangers all of us in the process. The man has the blood of at least five contestants on his hands.”
“Fair enough,” a boy I don’t know says. “But according to the estate’s official declaration, those deaths were all due to those boys not following the competition’s regulations.”
“Were they?” Germaine looks at his drink. “Or was that just what he needed to say in order to keep operating? Because, ask yourself, what kind of academic scholarship competition actually allows for young men to die? Let alone the way they died.”
As if someone opened a window and let the moor wind in, a chill ripples through the group. Even my own skin gets goose bumps at the recollection of the stories. The most recent—from four years ago when the body was so badly damaged they couldn’t perform a proper funeral. The whispered suspicion was that whatever had gotten hold of the lad had made teeth marks the size of a fist.
“Whoever’s fault those were, I believe Miss Lake here asked how you plan to beat him.”
Germaine takes a second-long sip of his drink, and for a moment I think he’s not heard Beryll. Until a short, broad-shouldered guy I’d not noticed before steps out from behind Germaine and answers for him by leaning over and slapping Beryll on the back. “Aw, poor chap—you scared? Well, you should be. You best just accept this competition will be highly volatile—if you know what I mean—and make your peace with Miss Lake here. Because you boys might as well pull your brains out and toss them to us now.” He crosses his arms and mimics Germaine’s smirk. “That or we’ll be ripping them out one at a time.”
I lift a brow. Beryll might be a ridiculous person, but only Seleni and I can be condescending to him. I snort and turn to the twit. “Perhaps that’s why Mr. Holm hosts his competition the way he does. To ensure it accounts for more than just one-sided intellect.”
The broad-shouldered boy and Germaine look around until their eyes land on me. “Explain,” Germaine demands.
I glance at Seleni and Beryll and try to come up with more. “From what I’ve heard, the test is as intuitive and physical as mental. Maybe Holm understands not everyone’s had the same interests—or educational opportunities, for that matter—so he’s being fair.”
“I assume you’re referring to the contestants from the Lower district, Miss . . . Tellur, is it?” Germaine’s gaze narrows. “And that’s precisely what makes the test nonsensical. It circumvents the correct process by making it achievable for anyone, rather than those who’ll benefit the most. Why waste an education on someone with less ability?”
My nerves flare. “Less ability?”
“Less aptitude—less motivation. I’m referring to those who could elevate their status if they applied themselves harder. There’s a reason those in the Lower district live there, Miss Tellur. And while they should absolutely be allowed to earn a scholarship, putting them in the same league as us only undermines the effectiveness of the process.”
My mouth drops open but no words come out. They’ve been lost somewhere between my head and my rippling, infuriated spine.
“Well, I believe it’s only fair to give everyone a chance,” Seleni says, in a tone warning he’d be wise to watch his mouth.
Germaine shakes his head. “Not when money would be wasted. We all know there’s no way an Upper’s education can be bested by someone who’s barely passed year eight in school. Thus, fully funding their future learning for beating a substandard contest? Promotes a substandard system.”
“And yet you’re entering,” I say quietly.
“But even if a contestant wins,” Moly hurriedly butts in, “they still have to pass Stemwick University’s entrance exams.”
“Has anyone with the scholarship ever not been allowed in?” Germaine challenges. “And money is money, Miss Tellur. If I need to play a game to win it, fine. Doesn’t mean I have to agree with everyone else he’s allowing to play it.”
I swallow and place a hand on my hip. “If that’s how you feel, then perhaps the scholarship contest should be open to women as well.” I look coolly around at the group. “At least that way your friends might have actual competition.”
The words. They spill out like a spurt of blood, and the moment I utter them I wish I could take them back. His expression says I should wish as much.
Germaine flicks his gaze down my body to slowly scan my chest before he slithers it toward my hips. He smiles suggestively and lifts his eyes to meet my glare. Even as he addresses Seleni. “Miss Lake, I’d heard your cousin would be a fun one, but I’d no idea just how pleasurable. You must bring her around more often. I think I’d enjoy getting to know more of her . . . spirit.”
My cheeks warm. I hold his gaze and straighten my shoulders in the midst of this high-ceilinged room with its fancy dresses and fresh faces that suddenly feels suffocating. I lower my voice and flick my gaze down his body. “Mr. Germaine, I assure you—were you given the opportunity to know more of my spirit, I believe I’d find the experience wholly unsatisfying.”
If there was a gasp at my comment before, this time there’s an explosion of laughter mixed with a few eye daggers.
“Annnnd it’s time for more cake,” someone says.
“I think Seleni’s mum is beckoning,” crows another.
Germaine narrows his jaw and dips his head at me. And says quietly, “Perhaps you’d like to test that theory out, Miss Tellur.”
I open my mouth to respond, but his broad-shouldered friend picks up a plate from the fireplace mantel and lifts a piece of Labyrinth cake off of it. His expression flashes furtive. Cruel almost. He looks down at the pastry and takes a bite before he holds the plate above his head. Staring straight at me, he sa
ys in a low voice, “Careful, Miss Tellur. Women who don’t know their place have a habit of losing their place, just like your mum did. You keep on with that attitude of hers, and you’ll stay just like her—begging people to buy your cakes and living with a crackpot husband who murders his patients.”
I freeze. Twenty different emotions bubble up and threaten to compress my lungs. I steady my gaze and refuse to let the mixed waves of fury and shame play out across my face, even as I feel my cheeks turn the color of our port town sunsets.
“Rubin and Germaine,” Seleni snarls. “That’s quite enough. Your remarks reek of insecurity, and your offensive manners have tainted the evening as well as my cousin’s opinions of you. I expect—”
“Seleni, dear.” My aunt’s voice rings out from across the room like fork tines clinking on her china. “Bring your friends into the great room. We’re doing a waltz.” She claps rapidly as if to break things up and move us along.
“Oh, and Rhen.” My aunt’s trilling voice calls even louder. “I’ve asked Mr. King there to accompany you in the first dance.”
She claps again, then moves to usher her friends in, and I turn to where she’s pointed—to Vincent, Kenneth’s son, who is standing casually in a cream waistcoat and jacket on the far side of the now-dispersing group. I frown. Was he standing there the whole time? Had he heard the conversation?
“Miss Tellur.” He extends a hand my direction, followed by the same type of wide smile I’ve seen his father give constituents. The smile Vincent used to hate because “it looks hungry” but now imitates so perfectly that I cringe. “It’s nice to see you again. It seems you’ve made the rounds of my friends.” He nods at Germaine and takes my arm, then leads me into the great hall and onto the center of the dance floor. Where he slips my hand into his.
The music tinkles and floats through the blue-and-white wallpapered room, and Vincent lifts his arm to begin. His feet are far more astute than mine, as are his hands, which are cupped around my stiff waist as we step to match the movements of the thirty other couples filling the glittery space. Can he feel my skin squirming beneath his hot fingers?
“Miss Tellur, your cheeks are positively glowing,” he says in a warm voice. His blond hair swags across his forehead in a boyish style that complements his roguish chin and finely chiseled features, all of which mimic his father’s, and all of which he’s had since we were children. He once cut a lock of that blond hair so we could perform genetic experiments on it to better hone our skills. And those chiseled features now have the ladies sneaking glances at him—especially in light of his recently declared intention to forgo science in pursuit of Upper government.
He drops his voice as he leans in. “I know your aunt suggested I claim this dance, but I freely admit my parents and I were hoping you’d be here.”
I nod and try to smile back courteously and don’t mention that, while his parents’ attentiveness is very kind, my flush has nothing to do with them. Rather, it’s me trying to assess which version of Vincent I’m getting tonight—the one who’ll soon ignore me or the one who wants something from me. While also shielding the disgust still burning through my bones for Germaine’s and Rubin’s insults. My body’s trembling from it, and I’ve a good mind to go over to where they’re standing at the far wall, tracking the other competitors, the room, and me with their eyes—and give both boys another tongue-lashing.
They’re like hunters tracking prey, my gut whispers.
But I don’t. I stay and behave and sway to the trilling music as Vincent spins me against him. When he twirls me out, he follows my eyes, then tips his chin in Germaine’s direction. “You were a little hard on him back there, don’t you think?”
I blink. And frown—as he bestows on me the other kind of smile. The one Da gives when I’ve skewed an experiment.
“Germaine was just stating his opinion, and it’s not his fault if there’s some accuracy to it. You needn’t have embarrassed him,” he continues quietly. Then pulls me around to place my hand tighter inside his and winks. “At least not quite so badly.”
“Mr. Wells insulted my neighbors and was inappropriate toward me.”
The persona cracks and Vincent shrugs in the way he used to. Simple. Boyish. “I completely agree. But I’ve known him for most of my life, and I don’t think he intended to imply anything. If he overstepped, you’ll have to forgive his somewhat intense social skills. After all, his father’s a politician, so what can you do?”
So is yours, I almost point out. So are you. Or at least you will be.
Instead, I study his confident blue eyes and feel mine waver as my mind reels back through the conversation with his friends. Was I too hard?
I don’t know. My head feels muddled. I thought the remarks about the Lowers were unfair, and Germaine’s comments regarding me improper. And I’d think someone who used to be my friend would feel the same. Even though these days Vincent’s acquaintance seems to be more about his myriad moods, or what I can do, than any echo of what we’ve been. Which just makes it all the more jumbled. I furrow my brow in confusion and awkwardly note the skin on my arms is reddening. Perhaps I am being a bit too sensitive.
Vincent laughs. “No need for mortification, my dear. Just thought the woman I intend to court should know for future reference.” He tilts his head kindly and lets the light catch his eye, before playfully adding, “Although you look positively lovely when you blush.”
I feel my flush deepen at the perplexing mix of what feels like calculated flattery and correction, and unwanted declared intentions. I don’t know if any of those is even accurate—but then Seleni is twirling past us in time to the music and whispers, “Are you all right?”
Yes. No. I don’t know.
I feel like a trapped animal that maybe should run.
I peek at Vincent, then up at the gold spire clock hanging like a globe from the ceiling. Sam and Will and the other boys are probably still down at the pub, tucking into their fourth ciders. My chest gives an odd flutter—is Lute there too?
“Of course.” I lie to her, amid the dancers’ shoes click click clicking to the tune of Variety in C.
But then, maybe it’s not a lie. I firm my spine and focus on the fact that Mum would be thrilled to see me doing this. I picture her happy expression in place of Germaine’s, which is currently boring into the back of Beryll’s neck as he reclaims Seleni, who grins and giggles and fits perfectly in his arms. I ease my breath and try to smile at Vincent like a decent person. “How is your father’s job these days?”
“Excellent. He’s influencing the House of Lords to make real changes for Caldon.”
“And your own aspirations?” I say it quietly, without malice or any insinuation of the mutual camaraderie we used to have versus the lonely distance that’s settled in its place.
But it doesn’t matter. His expression cools, and that stiffness that presented fourteen months ago when he changed career focus clicks cleanly over his face.
“My father has begun taking me to parliament as an assistant, which, as you can imagine, has opened a glut of connections. Once my education is finished, my position will be assured.”
He sounds like a machine the way he says it. I shiver and want to ask more. To ask what happened to him and to remind him of the fact that he used to not want his father’s life. He wanted to study anatomy and cellular abilities and create cures just like me and Da and his friend Lawrence.
“And what about you?” His tone stays just as taut. “How’s your research on the disease coming along? Have you found anything more on it yet?”
It’s the same thing he’s asked every time he’s decided to speak to me in the last year. Like it’s the one nod to the past he’ll allow. “Have you figured it out? Do you know how it started? Did you find a cure?” I frown and answer honestly. “Not yet, but I think we might be close. If the medical community or politicians could take it on and fund more actual research—or even take an interest—”
It’s his turn
to frown as he reclaims my waist with his hands. “They’ve got other things to focus on, and they’ll just get caught up researching how it originated rather than fixing it.”
I start to argue, but he lowers his voice into a sense of urgency that’s familiar to the team we used to be. “Keep working at it. I know you can find the cure. And when you do, my constituents will adore you for it. They may not even mind that tongue of yours,” he adds with a chuckle, then twirls me past three older gentlemen before he returns to lock arms with me.
Finally, the dance is over and everyone is clapping, except for Vincent, who hasn’t yet released me. Instead, he leans in. “Now that that’s settled, let’s talk of better things—such as you. Because I confess to having another reason for hoping you’d be here.”
My body stalls. I gulp and catch the glances of a group of women emerging into view over his shoulder. They’re swathed from head to toe in the latest fashions, low-cut bodices and bustled skirts, and they’re all watching us. The curve of their lips say they’d be proud to have their daughters where I am—wrapped in Vincent’s arms, his gaze looking at mine with so much favor. I swallow down my nerves and allow a nudge of guilt. Uncle Nicholae would also be proud.
Vincent peers around as if he, too, can feel the ladies’ attention. He grabs my hand and leads me from the room of flushed faces and out into a side hall. “My parents were hoping your family might like to join them for the opening picnic tomorrow.”
“I’m sure they would like that, Mr. King, but—”
“Good. And on a more intimate level, Miss Tellur . . .” He pulls me into a small recess, away from prying eyes, and looms his face close to mine with a look of presumption. “I believe it’d be most honoring of you to lend me a token to carry into the contest.”
A token? Honoring him? I furrow my brow. I’ve heard of girls giving such things to the entrants before, but I’ve never been asked. My stomach twists as that feeling of being a trapped animal squeezes tighter.
“Perhaps a kerchief or hair ribbon?” he prompts.