Page 16

We hobble back to Caledonia Cottage, Marion and I supporting the weight of Olive, who is in such a state of shock she can barely walk. Emmy’s ankle is twisted. Greer’s face is still bleeding, and Faith gingerly touches the spot where our heads collided.

The cottage is dark and still when we return, no baths have been drawn for us, and no staff wait at the ready to help us get cleaned up.

On each of our pillows rests a small scroll of parchment. Faith and I unroll ours at the same time. In black ink on mine is the number 3.

Faith wordlessly turns hers to me, her brows knit together in confusion. On hers is the number 2.

I follow her out into the hall, where we find Marion holding her paper, emblazoned with the number 4. “Any idea what this means?” she asks.

Greer and Emmy emerge from their room. Greer’s paper says 5 and Emmy’s says 1.

Olive comes into the hall last, a blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her eyes are still red, her face gaunt, but at least the weeping has stopped. “I got six. That means I lose, right?”

And all at once it clicks. We’ve been ranked.

Back in my room, I throw my number 3 into the fire, then peel myself out of my ruined nightdress and throw that in alongside it.

When I awake, it’s to someone screaming.

My eyes snap open and I tumble to the floor with fright as I find Lottie standing directly over me, screeching as if she’s just witnessed a murder.

“Sorry, miss!”

she exclaims, her face sheet white. “You’re covered in blood.”

I look across the room to where Faith is groggily pushing herself out of bed. She doesn’t look much better than I feel. The skin under her eyes is dark, with bruiselike circles, and her nightdress is ripped at the knees, where she fell.

“I’m a sleepwalker,”

I say. “I must have tripped.”

I stumble to my feet.

Lottie reaches out and plucks a white feather from my matted hair. “Into a goose pond?”

“Looks that way.”

She turns to Faith. “Are you a sleepwalker too?”

“Ask the queen,”

Faith deadpans.

Downstairs, a breakfast of iced pastries and oatmeal is laid out for us on silver trays. “We have to tell him,”

Marion declares. Olive shifts in her seat uncomfortably. We all know that by him she means Bram.

I agree with Marion, but I’m already in a precarious position. I can’t risk making myself a target.

“You do it, then,”

Greer mutters under her breath, staring down at her thumb. She must be thinking the same thing I am. What will the cost be?

Faith stares her down. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“What do we expect him to do? Go against his mother?”

Olive asks.

“Yes,”

Faith snaps. “That’s exactly what he owes us. If he can’t protect us, what good is he?”

“But what about the vow we made?”

Olive demands.

“Screw the vow,”

Faith says. We finish our meals in silence and then head back to our rooms to prepare for another day of courting.

I’m bruised all over, but my hands have it the worst. They’re bloody and raw, completely ripped apart from when I tripped. Tenderly, Lottie wraps them in bandages thin enough that they won’t show under my elbow-length white gloves. She dresses me in a sporting dress of blue-and-white pinstripes, with a little boating hat pinned to my curls.

All the lady’s maids have done an impressive job with us. Greer has a smart straw hat pulled low over her face, covering her forehead wound. Faith’s hair has been braided to cover the bump on her head where we collided, and Emmy’s twisted ankle has been set by a brace hidden under her skirts. Olive looks the worst of us, her eyes still red from where the blood vessels burst with the force of her sobbing.

We’re driven in glossy palace carriages to the Thames Rowing Club, a glorious boathouse right on the edge of the river, near the finish line of the regatta. The green lawn of the boathouse has been transformed by a white marquee tent decorated with cheery red and blue bunting. Beneath the tent are tables piled with champagne and caviar and oysters.

Viscountess Bolingbroke emerges from the crowd to lecture us on propriety and sportsmanship.

As she drones on, Emmy leans over and whispers in my ear. “She should just say, ‘Remember, absolutely no fun,’ and save us all some time.”

Then she ducks behind my back to drain a flute of champagne I have absolutely no memory of seeing her grab.

We’re sequestered from the rest of the party, instructed to sit on a shaded bench near the water and clap politely for the boats.

We’re as on display as the boats are. We sit straight-backed in our corsets and watch for hours as the junior club rows by, then the university boys in their uniforms. Gossips surround us, along with the newspaper reporters who scribble away on their little notepads as they study us like a zoo attraction. I find it all a little mind-numbing, and end up playing rock, paper, scissors with Olive to pass the time.

The queen doesn’t deign to come to things like this, but she’s still everywhere: her face on the money passing between hands for bets, in the statue by the water, her profile in the royal seal that marks the side of every boat.

Finally, the clock strikes two and the main event begins. It’s a lively scene now as the party guests crowd around us, and on the opposite bank of the Thames, citizens have gathered for their own festivities. The air is thick with tobacco, river water, coal, and the slightly burnt aroma of spun sugar. Children laugh, perched on their father’s shoulders in their smartest little sailor outfits.

From far off, a gunshot rings out, and then there is the distant cheering of “Hurrah!”

from both banks of the river as the boats pass by.

We all look to London Bridge, lit brilliantly by blue sky, and anxiously await their appearance.

“Here they are!”

A cry goes through the crowd as the boats come into view. Each shell is marked by a flag, and everyone in the crowd cheers for their favorite color. “Let’s go, Pink!”

or “Bravo, Yellow!”

But the loudest shouts go up for Blue, the boat clearly in the front of the pack, careering down the Thames.

It passes by us, nearly to the finish line. It’s an eight-seater, and just behind the coxswain, in the starboard seat, pulling as if his life depended on it, is Prince Emmett. Beside him, in the portside seat, working just as hard, is Prince Bram. Unlike the rest of the crew, he’s not sweating or gasping for breath, he’s just got that wide grin on his face, like he’s having the most fun of anyone here.

At the sight of him, we all spring up from the bench and cheer.

The crowd explodes as the Blue team crosses the finish line. Confetti rains down from somewhere, and the band kicks up a cheery tune.

The princes step out onto the shore and brush their hair off their foreheads. Together, they accept the sterling silver cup and hoist it above their heads in triumphant victory.

Viscountess Bolingbroke herds us over to them, and one by one we curtsy and congratulate Bram on his win.

I’m rising from my curtsy when a gust of wind whips up from the river and something sharp flies directly into my eye. I blink against the tears and reach up to wipe it away, but realize I can’t take off my gloves without revealing last night’s injuries.

The boys from the boat are clapping each other on the back, and the other girls are lingering in an attempt to steal time with Bram. I take advantage of the chaos to disappear into the boat storage shed a few yards away from where the celebration is raging.

I yank off my gloves and rub aggressively at my offending eye. I’m not making much progress when a noise behind me makes me jump.

From behind a pile of boats that are stacked all the way to the ceiling, Emmett emerges from the shadows.

“You scared me!”

I breathe out.

“I thought you wanted me to follow you.”

He’s glossy with sweat, wearing a blue-and-white-striped sweater. He reaches up to push his hair off his forehead, and his sweater rises, revealing a sliver of his toned abdomen.

“No, I was trying to get this clod of dirt out of my eyeball without making a complete fool of myself.”

“Let me see.”

Before I have the chance to lurch back, he grasps the edge of my face with one hand, the pads of his fingers gentle on my jawbone. To see better, he tips my head toward the beams of sunlight streaming through the dusty glass ceiling.

“Ahh, there it is,”

he whispers. With his other hand he reaches up. “Stop blinking.”

“Hard not to when there’s a hand in my eye.”

“I will physically restrain you.”

“I’d like to see you try,”

I shoot back.

“You just saw me sail. I’m good with knots.”

“I’ll bite through them. Very strong teeth.”

He swipes a finger along the lower rim of my eye. “Ahh, got it,”

he whispers in victory.

Holding my gloves in one hand, I reach up to wipe my errant tears with the other. I realize my mistake the moment I do it. Emmett’s eyes flash, and he grabs my wrist.

The wounds are only hours old and haven’t had time yet to scab over. There are red splotches where they’ve bled through the bandages.

I yank my wrist back, but Emmett keeps his hold strong.

“What happened to you?”

“I tripped,”

I reply, averting my eyes.

I retreat a few steps until my back hits another stack of boats.

“Why are you lying to me?” he asks.

The door to the shed squeaks open. Emmett shoves me by my shoulders, and I stumble back into a narrow hiding place, behind a rack of oars.

“Who’s there?”

he calls, his voice pointedly friendly.

“Just me,”

a soft female voice replies.

Faith Fairchild’s footsteps are near silent as she makes her way through the storage shed to him, delicate like everything else about her.

“You shouldn’t be here,”

Emmett whispers.

“I had to see you,”

Faith half sobs. “Why won’t you respond to my letters? I waited for you at our statue for ages—”

“Faith—”

Emmett interrupts her.

“You can’t keep ignoring me! Not after everything. This isn’t anything like what you said it would be, last night—”

There’s an odd choking sound as Faith sputters. I peek out from around the oars to see her red-faced and hunched, like she suddenly can’t breathe.

“Faith?”

Emmett thumps her on the back a few times, until she takes a large gasp.

“I’m trying to tell you that—”

Again, she heaves, choking on something, before taking a breath.

“Are you quite well?”

Emmett crouches and peers up at her face, worried. “Let me call one of the maids and have you taken home.”

“That goddamn witch,”

Faith hisses under her breath.

We should have known that she meant we literally wouldn’t be able to speak of her lessons.

“What’s changed? Is there someone else?”

Faith asks. She doesn’t sound sad. She sounds absolutely furious.

Emmett squares his shoulders. “I’ve decided it shouldn’t be you. I’m sorry if that’s disappointing. I don’t think you’re right for him. All I want is for him to be happy.”

“Bullshit.”

She punches him square in the shoulder. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie. I changed my mind.”

“Why would you do this to me? I know we’ve had our disagreements, but at the very least, I thought you respected me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Emmett’s voice is tense.

“I’ll tell him,”

Faith snarls. “I’ll tell him everything about us, all the ways you were willing to manipulate him.”

“No you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because then he’d never pick you.”

Faith punches him in the shoulder once more. He takes it gallantly. And then she storms out.

I poke my head out from my hiding place. Emmett swipes a hand over his exhausted face and sighs. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

“It was supposed to be Faith—”

I was stupid not to have put it together before now. Emmett was never going to leave the May Queen up to chance. My stomach turns as the realization dawns on me. “No wonder she hates me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be. You should have told me.”

Emmett looks down at his hands. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look truly unsure of himself. “She was a ballerina. I thought it would give her an advantage at the maypole. We’ve known each other for years.”

“So the rumors about you two were false? She’s not your lover, but your pawn?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Not exactly.”

I push past him, disgusted. “You were willing to let your brother take one of your castoffs?”

He chases me through the boathouse. “Please, let me explain.”

“I’m interested in only one thing. How much does she know?”

If Faith knows about Emmett’s plan to unseat the queen, she could easily blow this plot up. I could be executed for sedition.

“She doesn’t know my true goal. I promised only that I’d help her marry Bram. I told her to win May Queen, but not why.”

“Oh, perfect,”

I snarl sarcastically.

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. I have to look away to keep from staring. “I’m going to help you win. This changes nothing. He’ll fall in love with you. I know he will.”

The idea of anyone falling in love with me is so ridiculous it makes me nauseous.

“Did you love her?” I ask.

“Ivy—”

He says my name like I’m a horse he’s trying to settle. Outside, a harpist begins playing, a sign that the latter part of the party has begun and I’ve been missing from the group for far too long.

I turn for the door, but Emmett captures my wrist in his hand once more, his hold gentler this time, an apology in it. “Meet me in the sunken garden tonight at midnight and I’ll show you every last one of my cards.”

He has the audacity to look wounded as I walk away.

I march out of the boathouse, the anger in me so hot and blinding I don’t see Bram until I’ve smacked directly into him.

“I’m sorry!”

I exclaim.

He just chuckles. “We have to stop meeting like this, Lady Ivy.”

He has the regatta trophy slung casually in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. Like his brother, he’s wearing a blue-and-white-striped sweater, his hair tousled from the wind and water. Unlike the rest of the rowers, he looks distinctly unwinded. His gray eyes don’t squint against the sun either. His posture is perfect, everything about him at ease.

I panic, afraid that Emmett will follow me and we’ll be caught once more. Bram may be good-natured, but I doubt he’s stupid.

“Will you show me the boat?”

I ask, not giving him a chance to answer. I’m already bounding down the dock, leading him far enough away from the boathouse that Emmett should be able to escape undetected.

The door to the shed squeaks open, and Emmett peeks out. I widen my eyes at him in an attempt to tell him to stay put. He nods in understanding and pulls the door shut. It squeaks again. I grit my teeth in frustration.

Bram glances back. I have to act fast.

“How many of you fit in this thing?”

It’s the first question I can think to ask.

“Uh, nine. Eight rowers, one coxswain.”

Great, now he thinks I’m dull. Or dim. Or the worst possible combination, dull and dim.

From behind his shoulder, I see Viscountess Bolingbroke eyeing us judgmentally from the lawn.

I distract Bram, gesturing to the small space in the stern of the shell. “Does the coxswain really fit in here?”

“Johnny is the smallest on our team. We fold him up like an elegant napkin, and he barks orders at us like a stern governess.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“It is.”

Emmett steps out of the boathouse just as a gust of wind swings the door wide, slamming it against the frame.

Bram’s eyes flicker, and he half turns around.

I have to do something quick. “Like this?”

I jump into the boat.

The shell starts to flip the moment my foot hits it.

Bram shouts and lunges for me, but he’s not quick enough.

By the time I register what is happening, I’m fully underwater.