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 byhimshe 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.
