by Mary Weber
I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod and give an awkward, “Thank you. Maybe I can think of one and let you know once I arrive?”
“Of course.” His grin comes as smooth as his warm breath on my neck, and for a moment I’m tempted to stop this nonsense. To beg him to go back to who he was before—a friend I miss, exclaiming over a mutual discovery—rather than whatever this new role is that he’s playing. But the last time I did so, he irritably informed me that he’d grown up and perhaps it was time I did too.
I firm my jaw and peer around him—to get away—and spot a group of men slipping up the stairwell at the end of the hall with my uncle, toward the floor that holds his study. The next moment they’re gone and Vincent’s gaze flashes to where I’m looking.
He frowns and looks back at me—and suddenly his fingers are beneath my chin, tipping it up toward him. “I’d very much like to hear more about your experiments. You said you’re getting close?”
“Yes, I—”
He puts a finger to my lips and slouches in at an awkward angle, and oh-hallowed-Francis, I think he’s intending to kiss me. I yank back. “Mr. King, what are you doing?”
He drops his finger and retreats with a look of surprise. Then nods. “My apologies for coming off a bit too forward. It’s easy to do with you.” He holds out his hand. “But as penance, might I invite you to join me in another dance?”
I don’t want to dance anymore. I don’t want to do this with Vincent. Whatever this is he’s doing. I want to make my stomach stop shaking and get this weight off my shoulders—this pounding pressure that says something is wrong with me, and Vincent, and his friends, and this place, and that any other girl in my shoes would be flattered while I simply want to leave.
“I think one is all I’m good for. Besides, I just realized I haven’t yet paid my respects to my uncle. If you’ll excuse me?”
He stiffens a moment, then just as quickly relaxes and bows. “Of course. I look forward to your return.”
I pull away, hoping he’ll see fit to invite another girl, and leave him to make my way toward the arched staircase as a loud laugh goes up from a group surrounding my aunt. They’re talking of holiday trips they’ll be taking this year. I swallow and press through the bodies of guests who smell of soap and perfume and apparently enjoy this type of thing. Is this really the life of comfort Mum and Da hope I’ll have?
Because everything about it makes me feel uncomfortable.
I pick up my pace and shove through the archway that leads to the study.
The staircase and landing are empty. Not even a speck of dust on the shiny balsam wood beneath my quiet footsteps or fingers as I hurriedly trace the paneled walls up to the lavishly carpeted second story. A wide hall with three doors on either side greets me at the top, and shadows of male figures extending from the second room on the right match up with the voices emitting. This is Uncle Nicholae’s section of the house.
I tug my shawl higher on my shoulders and head toward the voices just as my uncle’s fills the air. “Do they know yet?”
“It was announced this evening in the Port. We wanted to give the fishing boats time before the regulations go into effect next month.”
My steps slow.
“It had to be done to protect the future of the port and shoreline. The population’s grown too much to sustain the current intake.”
“That’s going to be rough on those who make their livelihood from it.” My uncle emits a low whistle.
I narrow my gaze. Fishing boats? The port? I stride the last few steps to the open doorway and peer in to find ten men, drinks in hand, speaking in official tones. “Well, you know,” one of them says, “there’s only so much we can do. It’s our responsibility to make hard choices for the benefit of everyone—not favor a few.” His eyes flicker up and land on me, and abruptly the room falls silent.
7
Excuse me,” I mutter. “I was asked to pay respects to my mum’s brother-in-law.”
I wait for Uncle Nicholae to say something as my heart beats so loud I’m certain everyone can hear it as they stare at me from beneath the wire cages containing stuffed exotic birds hung from the ceiling. My uncle bought and posed them years ago to look in midflight or midsong, but even for someone fascinated by the science of life and death, I have always found them morbid.
After what might be forever, Uncle Nicholae smiles and beckons me into the bright room. “Ah, Rhen, glad you could join us.” But his eyes don’t change expression as they flash down to assess my dress and presentation.
I lift my hand for him to take. “Thank you for having me, sir.”
“Of course, of course.” If he thinks less of my nearly dry hair or too-loose dress, he doesn’t show it. Just turns to the men with him. “Gentlemen, this is my niece, Miss Tellur. We’ve taken it upon ourselves to entertain her when we can. Rhen, these men are from the board of Stemwick University and Caldon’s esteemed parliament.”
Of the ten men standing there, one is Vincent’s father, and I suspect five may be with the university where my father used to be employed, because their faces seem to register recognition at my last name. Before they can comment, I quickly add, “Charming to meet you. Thank you for the work you do. I’m certain it’s quite valuable.” I’m not sure if I’m supposed to curtsy or not, so I end up giving a half dip, which comes off more as a stumble.
Their expressions turn pleased. “It’s quite rewarding,” says one, who I think Uncle Nicholae referred to as Millner. “We’re happy to work for the benefit of our constituents.”
“Tellur. As in the local alchemist?”
I freeze and my neck goes cold. I glance at Uncle Nicholae, but the board member continues without a hitch. “How is he? Is he still seeing patients and testing rat cellulitis?”
“He’s seeing patients, yes. And his recent work involves research on a cure for the crippling disease.”
“Ah, yes.” The elderly man turns to his counterparts. “The recently emerged crippling disease. It comes on slowly and attacks the nervous system, leaving the individual paralyzed until their heart and lungs seize up. It’s an interesting phenomenon—one that, alas, only seems to affect the poorer of Caldon’s communities.”
“Due to a lack of clean sanitation habits, no doubt,” one of the parliament men says, and Vincent’s father nods as if this is common. “Has the university begun studying it?”
“Only to ascertain that it’s a low-threat status.”
“But it’s a growing threat,” I say. “We’re seeing it more frequently, and its symptoms now present within weeks instead of months.”
“Yes, well, there are always idiosyncrasies. But compared to the long list of other concerns we see regularly, it’s rather minimal.” The university board member smiles gently at me, then turns back to the others.
My mouth falls open. How can they be so casual about it? “People are dying. My mum is dying from it.”
Vincent’s father looks over to offer a sad smile, but he stays quiet while the board member turns and says, “I’m very sorry to hear that, my dear. Our university is discussing an educational initiative to teach the port people better sanitation next spring. I hope that will give you some solace.”
I stare at him. Is he serious? I start forward. “You don’t understand—”
But Uncle Nicholae’s brow dips in sharp irritation. “Which is why we’ve taken on poor Rhen,” he says calmly. “To see her properly educated in higher society and clean living. Isn’t that right, dear?” He bestows me with the tight grin that’s really a hint that it’s time for me to run off and find Seleni.
My head and chest are exploding. I want to argue—to say the disease has little to do with sanitation, considering it’s at a cellular and nerve level. To say they don’t know enough about it because it’s too new, and if they truly had studied it, they’d at least know that while it may have originated in the Lower Port, it has the potential to spread. In fact, a recent house call Da made in the Upper
district suggests it’s already begun.
I scowl. Maybe if we posed my mum in a cage like those stuffed birds, these men would pay better attention. Maybe they’d see her.
But I stay silent because if I say more, I will end up raising my voice and bursting into tears, and their intellectual dismissal will only turn to embarrassment for me.
“You’re a good man, Nicholae. And you’re a lucky girl, Miss Tellur,” one of the men says heartily. “Not everyone has such an opportunity. I expect to see good things come from it.”
I stare back at him. Then simply firm my shoulders and softly reply, “Oh, don’t worry. You will.”
After forcing another curtsy, I exit the doorway before my shaking knees give way, and take a deep inhale to brace myself so I can go find Seleni and tell her “Thank you for the evening, and I’m heading home now.”
Except one of the board members murmurs, “I find it surprising anyone would allow her father to treat them after his pseudo-experiment with the university equipment killed that one woman.”
I stall beside the wall in the dim hallway—and blink twice to rebuff the heat furiously flooding my eyes and the quick words flying up my throat. My father didn’t kill anyone. Mrs. Sims was going to die anyway. Da simply allowed her the hope of trying an experiment he’d already told her was unlikely to work. But at least she died feeling she’d had a choice—and that someone was willing to keep fighting for her. Even if it was the cadaver room caretaker. And even if he was wrong to have done it.
“Your niece is quite inspired, though,” Mr. King murmurs.
“Yes,” my uncle says. “It’s just a pity the apple fell too near her mother and father’s trees. If she were more inclined to certain things, she’d make a solid catch.”
I bite my lip and refuse to wince. And start walking. I don’t want to hear what Mr. King has to say to that.
I’ve gone exactly five steps when the door to my uncle’s study swings shut behind me with a soft, decisive thud. I clench my jaw and continue walking as one of the doors up ahead gives a quiet squeak and pops open from the shift in air pressure. It swings ajar enough to emit a slit of dull light along with a new set of voices emerging.
I slow. These are my uncle’s rooms—no one else should be up here. Perhaps it’s Seleni? I quietly step to the slatted opening, set my hand on the knob, and listen for her or my aunt.
It’s neither. A blend of male voices are whispering excitedly about the Labyrinth competition. One of them laughs, and it’s chilled enough that the warmth leaves the walls for a moment. “We’ll take each one down fast so they won’t have time to warn the other players.”
“But if we take out too many, won’t that look a bit obvious, Germaine?”
Germaine? I freeze and pull my hand away. What are they doing in there?
Edging closer, I peer through the narrow slat into the room. Only three boys are visible—Germaine, Rubin, and one other I recognize from earlier but have no idea as to his name. The latter two’s faces are flushed and giddy. Germaine’s is stale and smart.
“It’s a competition,” he mutters. “If Holm doesn’t like the way we play, then he shouldn’t host it. But he can’t sift for the smartest minds in Caldon and expect they’ll be the ones playing within the regulations.”
“But what you’re suggesting can get us in trouble,” the nameless boy hisses. “You do realize we might actually kill people.”
My spine ripples. Kill people. I peer harder through the crack only to see Germaine sneer at the speaker, then at the person beyond my view. “Welcome to the new game, boys. It is what it is. You want to win? You have to risk. Just make sure that if anything does happen, it looks like an accident.”
Every nerve ending I own goes paralyzed. This is bizarre. It’s way beyond besting Holm at his own game. It’s taking things to a whole other level—one where they’re willing to do harm.
A rustling behind me makes me jump so fast I have to catch my hand from flapping against the door as I spin around. A voice tinkles out like clock chimes. “Such naughty chaps who delight in sinful traps. Can you imagine being in competition against them?”
My lungs catch in my throat as I scoot away from the room and scan the corridor, but all I see is an empty hall. Until my gaze lands on a wall inset twelve feet away where an elderly man is hiding, steeped in shadow, watching me. From his secretive expression, I’ve an odd suspicion I’ve just interrupted some sort of romantic, geriatric meet-up. I try not to imagine such a thing but glance around to see if he’s got a lady nearby.
Thankfully, no.
He waves at my uncle’s closed study door and continues talking as if we’re in midconversation. “Or even being in parliament with those older men, for that matter.” He tips his head. “ ‘The problem, my dear, must be sanitation.’ ” His voice is a perfect mimic of the politicians as he flicks his fingers, then gives a tinkly laugh. “Good grief, so much opinion from opinionated humans.” He lifts a pipe to his lips and takes a puff, except no smoke curls up.
I eye the pipe, then his lavender eyes. The thing’s unlit. Is he a friend of Uncle Nicholae’s? And how long has he been up here? I note the man’s wrinkled face and clumped grey whiskers that hint at mischief beneath a pair of rather magnificent eyebrows that look almost unreal. Above those, a giant tuft of silver hair is enhanced by his colorful suit, which blends rather impressively into the tapestries on each side of the inlet he’s standing in.
I ease my shoulders.
He stops his snickering and taps on his pipe before he scrutinizes me with curiosity. “You got a name, girl?”
“Maybe.” I glance at the door Germaine and the others are behind, then look back at the giant blue buttons on the elderly man’s vest. “Do you?”
“Of course—everyone has to have a name. I’m Kellen.” He blinks at me in expectation.
Fine. “Rhen. Rhen Tellur.”
“And I take it you were just on your way out, Rhen Tellur?”
“I was.”
“Well, that makes one of us. Me? I leave when I’m inclined or when my presence is declined,” he rhymes. Then puffs his unlit pipe again and leans back against the wall as he cheerfully grins. “But before you go, tell me, whence exactly do you hail, Rhen Tellur?”
I stare at his pipe. What exactly has he been smoking in it? Normally I’d enjoy chatting with an old guy off his nutter—but not when boys in the next room are talking about killing people. “I live across the bridge, on the port side. This is my uncle’s house. Speaking of which, I’m not sure why you’re up here, but I don’t think he’d like it.”
“Neither should those boys in there, I wager. And yet—” Kellen spreads his arms. “Here we all are.”
I half snort, half chuckle, as Germaine’s and Rubin’s voices waft out from the cracked door. Fair point. “So it appears. And where are you from?”
“Oh, from all over and nowhere and everywhere at once.”
Yes, he should definitely lay off whatever herbalist’s blend is in that pipe. I move my gaze back to the room where the boys’ whispers have reached a fever pitch, and I shift my posture to return to the door, but the man continues, “Forgive me for noting it, but you appeared quite bothered at those men in your uncle’s study.”
He heard? Of course he heard. “It’s nothing. I’m regularly put out with them. Aren’t most people?”
His brow goes up. “They are? How fascinating. And why, may I ask, is that?”
“Because they’re out-of-touch Uppers who don’t know the first thing about living in the real world.” I wave my hand. “Now if you’ll excuse—”
“You think so, do you?” The man stops with the pipe midway to his mouth and peers hard at me, as if curious whether I’m serious. Then he nods. “I see. And what exactly would you have them do differently, Tellur?”
I shift impatiently. I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m wasting time talking to him or why he even cares about any of this. But he’s standing here waiting for s
ome kind of answer, so I finally shrug and say, “I guess I’d want them to listen to the people they’re making decisions for. Maybe a variety of voices rather than that monolith of middle-aged men.” I clear my throat politely. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must go. And not to be rude, but I think most people wouldn’t like the idea of you spying on them. Even if—”
“Spying? Ah, but isn’t that what you’re currently doing too, Miss Tellur? Besides, I don’t spy or lie. I simply listen in as conversations swirl. If people forget I’m here and say things they shouldn’t, that’s hardly my fault. For instance, do you know what they’re plotting in there?” He points his pipe toward the room Germaine’s in and clicks his tongue, then bends forward confidential-like. “Seems rather unsportsmanlike, if you ask me. Distasteful even.”
He shakes his head, clamps his teeth around his pipe stem with a click, and dusts off his grey-and-lavender sleeve. Then pushes off from his spot and walks toward me. “And for the record, Miss Tellur, I rather believe you about the need for varied voices. Keep trying.”
He strides past me and heads down the stairs. I narrow my gaze and turn. “Mr. Kellen,” I whisper after him. “Mr. Kellen?” But the old man’s only reply is to pick up humming a tune as he reaches the bottom and strolls away.
I shake my head and stare at the back of his fancy suit, with no idea what to think—until my senses kick in and I return to the door through which I can still hear the boys mumbling, and Rubin says, “Isn’t that right, Germaine?”
Germaine’s tone is so low I have to tilt forward not to miss it. “You boys just take care of it. The two of us will make sure you’re paid.”
“Good, then it’s settled. The other contestants won’t know what hit them. Tomorrow when they’ve all—”
“There you are. I wondered what was keeping you.” Vincent’s deep voice makes me jump for the second time tonight. I slide backward to the middle of the hall, but he is already stepping onto the landing near me. Vincent glances down to my uncle’s study where the door is clearly closed and then at the crack of space in front of me, from which the light is peeking forth. He scans the opening as Germaine’s voice creeps through, then lifts a brow and eyes me and says with a reproachful tone, “You know, eavesdropping is not very ladylike, my dear.”