The master of ceremonies, a portly, ruddy-faced man who owned the pub underwriting the race, made an energetic speech to the large crowd assembled, making sure to insert the name of his establishment at every opportunity. To the (human) competitors, he said, “Take your marks . . .”
A pistol fired, which Clementine hadn’t been expecting, and she jumped. Her startlement lost her precious seconds; she was late in lowering Hermes to the lawn of the village square, which had been closely trimmed for the event.
Oh well. Her friends would simply have to lose their wagers. They were rich enough that it wouldn’t sting. Though she was sorry she wouldn’t be able to hand her prize money over to Olive as she’d planned. She hadn’t been able to shake the notion of Olive’s wheedling pin money from Father not to waste on fripperies but to advance—someday—her extraordinary list. Perhaps Olive ought to apply to her new friend Lord Featherfinch for a loan. Clementine had yet to talk to Olive about what she’d overheard in the corridor. She did not know how to broach the subject—or even whether to. Archie may have been correct in his assessment: perhaps since her knowledge of the situation was ill-gotten, it wasn’t hers to do with as she pleased.
“Hermes!”
Speaking of Olive, her shriek broke through Clementine’s reverie. Clementine had been woolgathering, but the other handlers had kept pace with their turtles and were a few yards down the green. She hurried to catch up and discovered that Hermes had made up for his slow start. He was firmly in the middle of the pack now.
“Look at him!” Olive’s voice carried from the finish line, where she and the gentlemen had positioned themselves. “Make haste, Hermes!”
The reptilian contestants were approaching a barrier—a row of wine barrels—that was meant to inspire them to make a ninety-degree turn. Only about half of them did, but Hermes was among them.
“Huzzah!”
“Hermes!”
“I say, I think Hermes is going to overtake the leader!”
Clementine kept her attention on Hermes, but she could hear the exhortations of her friends and sister rising above the din. Clementine thought she had the largest—or at least the most vociferous—cheering contingent. She ordered herself not to get too swept away. Hermes was still a good shell-length behind the leader, a smaller turtle named Temperance who belonged to Miss Franklin.
Something happened inside Clementine then, something that had nothing to do with turtles even though it was catalyzed by turtles. It felt as if Hermes wasinsideher, which she realized was ridiculous. It was as if, in the style of his namesake, hedidhave invisible wings on his little legs, which pumped furiously. He was trundling toward the finish line, toward a happy, victorious ending, even if he couldn’t see it just yet.
“Hermes!” Clementine cried. “You can do it!” He could! He was!
To her utter astonishment, and slight chagrin, when Hermes came up even with Temperance, hebutted her out of the way. Crashed into her on purpose, and, as Temperance reeled, made a break for it.
As Clementine approached the finish line, she was vaguely aware of thehuzzahsof Lords Marsden and Featherfinch, and of Olive exclaiming with delight, but she only had eyes for Archie.
“Clem!” he exclaimed, and in two giant strides he was by her side. He picked her up and twirled her around. He had done the same thing this morning, and the other day, and it was beginning to feel usual. As if it was simply the way he greeted her. But of course that wouldn’t do. People would talk.
She wishedtheyhad wings ontheirheels, that they could kick their legs and fly away from here.
But that was pure folly, she reminded herself as he set her down and cleared his throat.
The others caught up, and there was a slight moment of awkwardness, as if she and Archie were children again and had been caught misbehaving. But it faded into the joyous hubbub of the awards ceremony. The burly pub owner called Clementine up onto a makeshift stage and made quite the production of awarding her a ribbon and the pound of prize money.
When all was concluded, she was surrounded by her friends.
“I think we ought to celebrate,” said a grinning Archie.
“Yes, after we collect our winnings, we should have quite the pot of blunt,” Lord Featherfinch said. “Together with your prize, I should think we could buy out this whole village. Or at least order up a fine celebratory feast.”
“I have my prize money earmarked for something else,” Clementine said.
“Oh, for what, Clemmie?” Olive asked.
Clementine hesitated. Perhaps she ought not say anything. Excitement won out, and she held out the golden sovereign. “For you, Olive.” Olive was struck dumb, which was both novel and amusing, and Clementine took the opportunity to explain her largesse to the gentlemen. “My sister is saving for something important.”
“You can’t give me your money, Clemmie!” Olive protested. “You earned it!”
“Hermes earned it, and I can do whatever I want. I don’t have need of it anyway.” It was true. She and Olive were fortunate in that they never wanted for anything—for anything material anyway. There were of course other things they wanted, things one couldn’t put a price on. Clementine’s version of that—to retire to a quiet life at Hill House—was free. It required persuasion rather than pounds. Olive’s version, by contrast, was not. Her list was going to be expensive.
“Then I shall give you my winnings, too, Miss Olive,” Lord Featherfinch said. “I’ve merely to go collect them.”
“Mine, too,” Lord Marsden said, talking over Olive’s objections.
Olive, of course, burst into tears.
