Page 42 of Those Fatal Flowers

“One,” I count, and even though he still needs to be tossed twice more, Lewes has had enough. The young boy scurries out of the circle, forfeiting his claim as the crowd bursts into laughter. I force a small smile to mirror the townspeople’s emotions, but there’s no pleasure for me in Lewes’s defeat. If anything, may this flirtation with violence sate him for a lifetime.

Marke, on the other hand, is visibly desperate for more.He clenches and unclenches his fists, skirting the edges of the ring with a victorious smile that cuts across his face like a hideous gash. His bravado makes my own lust for gore take root in the pit of my stomach, and my lips curl back; it’s time for someone else to crush him since it can’t be me who has that honor. At least not today. “Sir Marke wins the round. Who will challenge him?”

Hugh Taylor, one of Thomas’s men, steps forward. Unlike Lewes, Hugh is prepared to take on the older man. As soon as I give the signal to begin, Hugh kicks the back of Marke’s knees to force him into a kneeling position. Everyone, including me, lets out a gasp, though I suspect only mine contains pleasure. One. When Marke stands again, Hugh shoves him with such force that the older man stumbles back into the dirt. Two. This seems to galvanize him, because Marke throws himself in Hugh’s direction, but Hugh deftly jumps to Marke’s left and sticks out his leg. Marke stumbles over it back onto the ground for his third and final fall.

I don’t need to ask who’s next. Mauris Allen, another of Thomas’s inner circle, enters the ring to face and defeat Hugh. Then he beats Cuthbert White, but he is too exhausted to keep his streak going, so Charles Florrie quickly outpaces him. Emme’s expression darkens as she watches Charles, and it dawns on me that most of the women here have secret histories with these men I’ll never be privy to. It’s hard to see Emme’s round face with none of its usual warmth, and though Charles loses his next match, the pain he feels right now doesn’t absolve him of the debt he’s accrued by hurting Emme.

I’ll make him pay. I swear it.

Emme’s eyes flick to mine. Her stare is cold and distant, just like the sea that brought me here. Does she somehow sense the vow I’ve just made? The sound of bodies collidingdraws her attention back to the ring, and I exhale my relief slowly through gritted teeth.

One by one they fight, throwing each other’s frames into the ground, crushing each other into the dirt. The snow inside the circle melts under the heat of their bodies, and the number of participating men begins to dwindle.

After several matches, Griffen Jones stands triumphantly after forcing Brian Wyles from the circle. No one moves to challenge him, and I’ve stepped forward to declare Griffen the winner when I catch sight of Cora from across the ring. Her eyes have grown wild, and Emme, who’s moved to stand beside her, meets my gaze with an equally alarmed expression. And then I see why.

Thomas has entered the circle. A series of hushed whispers tear through the spectators. Only Agnes looks calm, having known this moment was coming. Her close confidant, Jane Mannering, whispers something into her ear, but Agnes holds up a hand to silence her.

“What are you waiting for?” Thomas goads. “Start the match.”

I look again to Cora, but her eyes are no longer on Thomas—they’re on me, and they’re pleading. I have no reason to object, no reason to stop this, but still, I find that my words waver on my tongue. Thomas clears his throat expectantly.

I can save you all, but I need more blood.

I’m sorry, Cora.

I close my eyes and say it. “Begin.”

When I open them again, something in Cora’s expression has broken, and I’m swallowed by the fear that allowing this was a grave mistake. Griffen is far larger than Thomas, and for a moment, I dare to hope that Griffen will trounce him. But to my horror, he bows to Thomas instead.

“I’m not worthy of the prize of your hand,” he says, but it’s hardly a reason. That was true before he entered the ring, and it didn’t stop him from crossing into its boundary.

“You forfeit?” My voice betrays my surprise. Griffen answers by excusing himself into the crowd.

Thomas smirks and folds his arms across his chest, looking back over the faces of the eligible men. No one moves. My heartbeat rings in my ears, and despite the cold air, I feel suddenly flushed.

“Who challenges Sir Thomas?” I ask, and still no one comes forward.

“Well, then,” Thomas says, turning to face me with a wicked smirk. “It looks like I’m the winner—”

“I’ll challenge him,” Will shouts, pushing himself from the throng to step into the circle. Somehow, this only makes things worse.

Rage flashes across Thomas’s face, but he manages to burythe emotion beneath a collected exterior. “Are you sure, Will?”

If the question is meant to force Will into submission, it has the opposite effect. Something in his expression hardens, and he nods.

“You may—” I start, but before I can finish speaking, the two men are at each other’s throats.

The only sounds that fill the otherwise silent square are thethudsof their bodies colliding. Thomas is bigger than Will, more muscular, but he’s also slower. Will dodges most of Thomas’s blows, and for a glittering moment, I’m hopeful that this won’t end badly. But Will’s ability to elude him only makes Thomas more aggressive, and he somehow manages to grab Will by his sable locks. As soon as he does, he yanks Will’s head back. Bile rises into my throat—he’ll snap his oldest friend’s neck for my hand. Cora must fear the same, forshe lets out a pitiful wail, and the sound breaks Thomas’s attention away long enough for Will to throw his entire weight backward onto him. The force sends them both into the dirt.

“One. For both of you. Now separate,” I command, though my voice delivers it as a plea.

They obey, but only long enough to get back onto their feet, and then they’re at it again. This time, Thomas grabs hold of Will’s arm and, with surprising strength, lifts him to throw him over his shoulder. Will drops like a stone onto his back.

“Two-one.”

When Will rises to his feet, there’s a determination in his eyes that makes me sick. What if it’s not enough? But having the lead makes Thomas cocky, and he charges to try to repeat the same move for the final toss. Except this time, Will sees him coming and expertly steps aside to copy Hugh’s tactic, leaving his foot in Thomas’s path. It’s too late for Thomas to stop himself—he trips over Will’s ankle and falls to the ground.

“Two-two.”

---