by Alyssa Cole
“You’re the apprentice, then? The American?” The woman who had been working out beside her was now dabbing her face with a towel and looking at Portia appraisingly.
“I am. My name is Portia. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand, her finishing school lessons kicking in.
“I’m Mary,” the woman said. “I run the bookshop down the street, Bodotria Books. Not a very imaginative name, I know.”
Portia shrugged lightly. “Hey, it serves its purpose. I know where to go if I need books in Bodotria.”
Mary responded with a friendly smile. “Right. I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot of you since Tavish always has book orders coming in.”
“Really?” Portia asked, and then realized that was rude, and also that she already had her answer. His office had been jammed with books, though she’d been too concerned with losing her apprenticeship and having to return home with yet another failure stamped on her forehead to pay much attention. That and his eyes, hazel green and arresting, bracketed by crow’s feet. His mouth wasn’t half bad either—wide, just this side of plump. And his hands . . .
What the hell?
Portia cut off her fantasy rundown of Tav’s attributes. He wasn’t a newly acquired statue at a museum that had to be measured and catalogued. He was her boss. He was a jerk. He was off-limits. Fin.
“Oh yes, that boy has always been mad for books, the older the better. I just tracked down a quite rare one he’s been searching for, Techniques of the Consummate Swordsman.” Mary looked proud, as if she’d found a Rembrandt work on the back of a poster-board. “Dates from the mid seventeenth century. Just waiting for it to come in now.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased,” Portia said politely, although she doubted much pleased Tavish besides glaring at people while brandishing a sharp object.
“He also pays for the books for the children’s book club each month,” Mary said. “He’s a good man, lass. Keep that in mind because sometimes it takes a bit of digging to see that. Good men can be stubborn asses, too.” She nudged Portia with an elbow. “And as far as asses go, he certainly has a fine one.”
Oh. Ohhhhhhhhh.
Mary was trying to play matchmaker. Portia didn’t know how to say “No way in hell” politely, so she just smiled.
“Ah, you’ve noticed, too! Good taste, you.” Another conspiratorial nudge. “Well, you’re always welcome to come by the shop, and you should let me know if you need anything. We have the latest releases for adults and children, the classics, and rare books.”
Portia had been struck by inspiration for a project while walking the halls of the building earlier. The armory was old and beautiful and probably had an interesting history, like any structure that had lasted so long.
“Actually, if you have any books on the history of the neighborhood, I have some plans for the website they might be helpful with,” Portia said. She left out the fact that the plans hadn’t been approved yet, but she was sure Jamie would be supportive of them. He’d seemed really interested in her ideas. That had been one of the reasons she’d been so excited for the apprenticeship—and so put out when she came face-to-face with the surly brick wall that would be her real boss. “I’ve found some stuff about the docks and local guilds, but I was thinking more architectural history.”
Mary looked off to the side, as if going through her mental shop inventory, then nodded. “I have a book or two that might interest you, if you want to come ’round. You should also check the library—they have deeds and newspapers and the like on microfiche.”
“Is it available online?” Portia asked.
“The library is two blocks away, love,” Mary said gently. “Getting out to see the neighborhood wouldn’t hurt for a newcomer, now would it?”
Portia appreciated the woman’s subtle shade too much to be bothered by it.
“Okay, I’m off.” Mary gave Portia’s arm a quick squeeze, then leaned in to whisper, “I know you Americans do things differently, but may I suggest some trousers with more breathability for the next class? Denim causes thrush, dear.”
Portia made another note to self to look up thrush, but nodded her appreciation and waved as Mary strode away. The crowd around Jamie and Cheryl was breaking up, so she headed over to them. She felt a little awkward, and sweaty, but they both seemed nice and Jamie had told her to come find him when the boot camp was over.
“Hey,” Jamie said over Cheryl’s shoulder. “How did you like it?”
“I loved it! It’s such a great concept. I feel like I can crush my enemies and take over the world,” Portia said.
Jamie grinned. “Brilliant! That’s exactly how I want people to feel. I sometimes wonder if I lay it on a bit too thick, so I’m glad to hear that.”
Cheryl turned, eyes going wide when she saw Portia.
“My champion!” She ditched Jamie and ran toward Portia, her ponytail trailing behind her like a streamer. She didn’t lay a giant kiss on Portia, but she did pull her into a hug, which she quickly released her from.
“Oh sorry. I just didn’t get to thank you this morning, or introduce myself. I was too busy fetching the milk and compresses.” She was trying to joke about it, but Portia still cringed at the reminder of her grand entrance that morning. “I’m Cheryl Hu. Partner of Jamie. Tolerator of Tavish.” She beamed up at Portia with a smile so welcoming it made Portia’s throat go rough.
“There’s nothing to thank me for, no worries,” Portia said with a shrug.
“Nothing to thank you for? You thought I was being attacked and you ran in like bloody Eowyn ready to take out the Nazgul, and all. It was grand!”
Portia didn’t know what Cheryl was referring to, but being on the receiving end of the closest human incarnation of Portia had ever seen made her cheeks go warm.
“It was silly,” she said shifting uncomfortably. “I should have realized what was going on instead of just rushing in and ruining your practice. And hurting your boss.”
Classic Portia. Think first, regret later. She twisted her mouth at the memory of how proud she had felt for that one moment before humiliating reality had set it.
Cheryl placed an arm on her shoulder. “Ach, no. Don’t feel too guilty about the mix-up. Tav deserved it, even if he wasn’t really attacking me. Comeuppance for being such a wanker all the time. You’re fine.”
“Well, glad I could do my part in wanker comeuppance delivery,” Portia said, trying to sound normal even though Cheryl’s compliments made her want to stick her head in the ground.
“Is that so?” a deep voice asked, cutting into the conversation.
Portia sighed. Of course, Tavish would sneak up behind her in time to overhear that. She turned to face him, propping her hands on her hips because they suddenly felt large and ungainly and she didn’t know what to do with them.
He’d obviously just come from his workshop, judging from the dirt smudges all over his clothes and exposed skin—the unshowered tradesman look really, really worked for him. He was like a rustic wooden table that grew more attractive from weathering, if tables could be sexy. 13 out of 10, would hit that—if she was hitting anything, which she wasn’t.
“Yes, that’s so,” she retorted.
What? What kind of weak comeback was that?
He was holding her heels, their straps slid over two of his thick fingers, and Portia had no idea why the sight of it prompted a pulse of want in her.
“I suppose this is your heroine pose, for when you’re out impulsively saving strangers,” he said, his dark brows arching upward. “Freckles McGee, vigilante at large.”
His tone was dry, but his gaze slid over her body like a pour of molten metal. She was already sweating, and looks like that didn’t help. Neither did the fact that the sleeves of his Henley shirt were pushed up to the elbow, revealing his veined wrists and forearms.
She reached out and snagged her heels from him, suppressing the shiver that went through her as their fingers brushed. “Yes. I’ve been busy keeping Edin
burgh’s streets safe from the likes of the villainous . . . Knife Man.”
Tavish blinked several times. “Knife Man?”
“You had a knife this morning,” she said stubbornly. “You are a man. Knife Man.”
Jamie and Cheryl burst out laughing beside her. Tavish rolled his eyes and wiped his hands against his jeans and she noticed that Thigh Man would have also been a good name for him.
“Jamie, are we going to talk details of my schedule now?” she asked, turning away from Tavish. “Do I get to make a sword soon?”
Jamie looked sheepish. “We’re gonna start off slow, I think. Data entry is almost as fun as swordmaking, right?”
He elbowed Cheryl.
“Totally as good,” Cheryl said cheerily, but shook her head and gave a thumbs-down as soon as Jamie looked away from her.
“It’ll be a wee bit before you’re allowed to work with sharp objects,” Tavish cut in, drawing her attention back to him, though it hadn’t wandered far. “Especially since I’m the one who has to train you for that. Let’s see if you can go a week without doing me bodily harm and then I’ll consider it.”
She had messed up, badly, but she wasn’t down with being infantilized for the next three months because of it.
“A keyboard is a dangerous thing in the right hands, too, you know,” Portia said.
“I agree. Jamie for instance, used a keyboard to place the apprenticeship advert, and look what that got me.” He gestured in her general direction.
Portia faltered; Tav’s verbal jab had hit a soft spot, one that had been hidden under a sea of distractions for years and had only just begun to harden. She had no witty comeback for someone telling her they didn’t want her around. It reinforced what that ugly voice in the back of her head whispered at the most inopportune moments: no one would care if you left and never came back.
“You really are a wanker,” Cheryl said with a tsk, moving closer to Portia. She rested her hand on Portia’s back, not even pulling it away when it landed on a damp sweaty spot.
Jamie came to stand at her other side. “He’s always been like this, you know. I’m pretty sure my first words were ‘Mum, Tav is a right wanker, aye?’ And her reply was, ‘Yes, son. Su hermano is the one true wanker, the wanker to rule them all.’”
Cheryl giggled and Tav rolled his eyes. “Why are you bringing Mum into this? And why are you both surrounding her like I’m the threat? Might I remind you that I was the one attacked today?”
“Do you fancy some dinner, Portia?” Cheryl asked, ignoring Tavish. “I have some Char Siu pork in the slow cooker.”
She kissed her fingertips and threw her hand up to the sky, the universal expression of “this is going to be fucking delicious.”
“Cheryl runs the little restaurant out front, Doctor Hu’s,” Jamie said. “Trust me, you want this dinner.”
Portia had planned to pick up something from the chip shop, aptly named Chip Shop, that she’d spotted down the street, and eat it in her room. Companionship and home-cooked food were unexpected surprises, and pork was clearly the only protein she should be thinking of to satisfy her cravings.
Cheryl bit her lip and fidgeted a bit. “I just thought it would be nice to welcome you properly. I understand if you have other plans, though, or you don’t want to.”
Portia had thought of her apprenticeship from so many different angles, but she hadn’t factored in new friendships. Not really. Actual humans had kind of been hazy peripheral players in her journey, but now Cheryl and Jamie were standing there looking at her expectantly and she realized she’d made a huge miscalculation.
“Dinner would be lovely. Thank you, Cheryl.”
“Yes, yes, it would be,” Tavish said in a mockingly formal voice. “Assuming my place hasn’t been usurped?”
“Of course not,” Cheryl said, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Even wankers need delicious slow-cooked meat.”
“I’ll be there after this lesson, then,” he said, then walked toward the center of the gym. Portia looked away from him and noticed several kids sitting on the bleachers, fencing masks atop their heads.
“All right, young squires. Are you ready for your lessons?” Tav asked in a booming voice.
“Yes, Master Tav!” the kids replied obediently, but many were bouncing in their seats.
“People entrust him with their children?” Portia remembered he’d mentioned a program for kids but seeing it in action was different.
“Aye, Tav has a knack with the wee ones,” Jamie said. He held up his hand beside his waist. “You must be ye high or smaller to enter the ‘gentle Tav’ ride. We’re all out of luck.”
Portia turned back to see the kids were lined up in a row, all holding multicolored lengths of Styrofoam attached to basic wooden hilts out before them. Tav stood watching with his arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed, but he was smiling.
“We didn’t have much to do, growing up around here, and we got in trouble from time to time. Tav likes trying to keep the kids out of trouble, and all that. Has classes for teens, too.”
“Do you want to wash up before dinner?” Cheryl asked. She plucked at her own ponytail. “I’ve got to deep condition before dinner.”
Portia nodded and followed them out. She heard the children break out into peals of laughter behind her, but didn’t look back. She didn’t need anything that could remind her that Tav was a friendly human being—her imagination was already having a field day without that fuel.
“YOU SURE YOU don’t want a beer? Or a digestif? We have Tia Maria.” Cheryl stood before a cabinet stocked with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes while Jamie hopped up from where they sat around the battered wooden table and jogged to the wailing electric teakettle.
“I’m sure,” Portia said, trying not to be weird about it. Cheryl was better than most hosts in that she didn’t keep pressing until Portia was forced to make up some reason why she wouldn’t have a drink since “I don’t want one” apparently wasn’t good enough.
The kitchen in the armory was large and comfortable in a way that her own at home wasn’t. It had obviously been used well over the years, though it was clean. Portia usually ate out or ordered takeout so hers, done in shades of white and gray, hadn’t been used much. Her parents’ kitchen was always sparkling clean, bright and modern, even though her mom cooked often. The armory’s kitchen was rustic, but not like something you’d see on a home renovation show. The walls were painted a cheery orange and dark wood cabinets lined the walls and floor. It had two fridges, one normal-sized model and one huge industrial steel one, and along one wall was a professional kitchen prep station that served as the home base for Cheryl’s small food stand.
“Tea?” Jamie asked, placing the electric kettle down in the middle of the table. She nodded and accepted the mug he poured for her taking a moment to absorb her surroundings. Her first night in a strange country, after a miserable morning, and she was sharing a delicious meal and talking about how to slay, literally.
“So then I told the kids that they had it all wrong,” Tavish said, pushing his chair back and standing. “They had to grip the hilt like this, plunge up like this, through the opening in the side of the armor, and then twist, like so. That ensures they’ll hit the most vital organs. Theoretically.”
He made some strange jabbing motion that was a swing of his arms followed by a thrust of his hips, and Portia forgot how to swallow, barking out a cough as her swallow of tea tried to go down the wrong pipe.
Jamie and Cheryl laughed as he demonstrated the technique, but Tavish was serious. She could tell by the way his gaze settled on each of them as he spoke, as if willing them to understand why this particular fact was important. She’d sported that same look while escorting her parents around exhibits at the museums and galleries where she’d interned, where they’d respond with tight smiles and “Isn’t that nice?”
She tried to think of what she wished her parents would have asked all those times she’d shared somethin
g she cared about with them. What Ledi and Nya asked when she was going on and on about her latest interest.
“How did you get into all of this stuff? The swords and the European martial arts?” she asked, her voice gravelly from fatigue.
He glared at her for a second, either because he thought she was poking fun at him or because he just didn’t like her, then dropped into his seat. “I dunno.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you do.”
“I like swords,” he said, peeling at the label on his beer bottle.
“I like architectural history,” Portia pushed. “That doesn’t explain why I could take you on a tour of this place and point out the tics from each era it was remodeled in. What is your origin story, Knife Man?”
He looked at her for a long time. “Fuck’s sake, you Americans and the Dr. Phil shite.” He took a sip of his beer then sighed in annoyance. “There was a fencing lesson put on by the European martial arts club, the first week of uni. Something for the first years to do other than get pissed and vomit fried pizza. And it was grand! Holding a sword, feeling the weight of the metal in your hand and the shock of a blow up your arm, and knowing that only your skill determined whether you won or lost. I was hooked after that.”
She could imagine him young and bright-eyed, with dark hair and a devilish smile. “Because you won?”
“No, because I lost so badly.” He plucked at the beer label and chuckled gruffly. “I became obsessed with getting good enough to win a competition. I’d always loved reading about knights and medieval history, actually. I started studying old treatises and history books in the university library, collecting information about swordsmanship and swordmaking. I went down a rabbit hole and never quite made my way out, even when the real world came a calling.”
Portia realized that they were both leaning across the table, gazes locked on each other. Tav’s eyes were dark with passion, and even though it wasn’t for her, the fact that he felt so deeply about anything made her stomach do some kind of pirouette.
She leaned back in her seat and cleared her throat. “Interesting.”
