by Molly Tanzer
“I’ll speak to her guardian about it,” said Henry.
“Who, Basil? Well, get him back, too. He’s missed. Good night!”
“Good night,” said Henry.
“Why did Uncle Basil leave your group?” asked Dorina, knowing Henry could not escape with a parlor full of guests.
“Personal reasons,” she said smoothly. “Ah, Mrs. Hill looks to be leaving. Shall we?”
An hour later, they had at last got rid of Dr. Sauber; he had remained behind, after everyone else had gone, declaring he would remain until Henry had “absolutely, unequivocally” promised him that she would indeed oversee an interview with Dorina. Jonas thought this was absolutely hilarious; Henry, less so.
“His discretion really is absolute,” said Jonas after Henry finally pushed the doctor into his coach.
“I’m not the one who’s worried,” said Dorina.
“At last,” groaned Henry, darting back inside. She shook the rain from her shoulders with a swift, almost feline gesture, and glanced up at the clock on a pedestal table. “I thought he’d never go. Well, well . . . did you have a good time, Dorina?”
“Fantastic.” Dorina had been waiting for this moment all night. “But . . . it’s ever so late,” she said, affecting a yawn. “I wonder if it would be easier if I just stayed the night . . .”
“Not at all. James will be happy to take you home.”
“But the rain . . .”
“Has turned into a pleasant steady drizzle. James is well prepared, I assure you, and it is not far to go. Jonas, won’t you be a dear and tell him to bring the coach around?”
“At once,” said Jonas. He cast a sympathetic look Dorina’s way once he was out of Henry’s sight and disappeared into the interior of the house.
Dorina wasn’t finished trying yet. “Are you certain? It’ll be less trouble for everyone if—”
“I’d have to send a servant round to Baz’s to tell him where you were anyway,” said Henry, “which would be just as much trouble.”
She spoke crisply, almost dismissively. It was the first time she’d been so brusque with Dorina, and it brought a blush to the younger woman’s cheeks.
“Of course,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Henry glanced at her, and cracking open her cigarette case, withdrew one. She lit it off the big cut-glass lighter that squatted on a pedestal table. “Never apologize for wanting what you want, or for going after it.”
Dorina had really no idea what to say to that!
“I’m glad you had a good time,” said Henry. “You did very well—everyone remarked that you’ll be a delightful addition to our group.”
Dorina almost asked if she meant a full member, but decided against it; Henry was so mercurial. “I’m glad,” she said demurely. “It was . . . a wonderfully unique experience.”
Henry took a step toward her, closing the gap between them, and raising her hand, brushed a strand of hair out of Dorina’s eyes.
“Good,” she said as Dorina inhaled her smell, smoke and spice and some subtler scent that made her think of both perfume and something good to eat. “I like providing those. Ah, I think I hear the coach—good night, Dorina.”
And she went straight up the stairs, taking two at a time, not even looking back. Dorina watched her go, and stood shocked for fully a minute before realizing no coach was anywhere near the door.
She had gone from astonishment to fury by the time James came around. She spent the entire drive home fuming, let herself in noisily just to be obnoxious, and stomped upstairs.
It wasn’t until after she’d undressed and thrown herself into bed that she realized how stupid she was being. She’d played this game with other girls! The ones who needed a bit of urging she was kind to; the eager ones, she tormented until she was assured of her position.
Henry was playing games with her! The ruddy nerve!
But to what purpose? Dorina drifted off while considering the possibilities, but knowing one thing was certain:
One can only win the games one plays.
5
As a child, did you have feelings that you could not understand? Questions no one could answer? Demons will certainly provide answers. As to whether they are correct, that is something one must decide on one’s own.
—On the Summoning of Demons
Her first few days in London had been some of the longest of Evadne’s life. With nothing to do that pleased her, and no one nearby whose company she enjoyed, the minutes had dragged and the hours had seemed interminable. She’d had nothing to look forward to but time away from Lady Henry, and the prospect of that being her entire summer had made nothing so attractive as going to bed to seek what oblivion she could in sleep.
Once she began fencing at the academy, Evadne’s days took on new meaning. She rose earlier than Dorina so she would have time to do the exercises Mr. Cantrell had recommended in order to strengthen the muscles associated with fencing. And for the first time in her life she went to bed later than her sister so she could get in some extra practice—going over what she had learned in clinics, practicing techniques she strove to perfect in her lessons.
Also on Mr. Cantrell’s advice, she had caved and was now using Lord Oliver’s rapier for home practice. The heavier weight of the blade had so quickly built up her strength that she ardently wished she’d thought to try with a real sword years ago.
Before heading back to Swadlincote she would buy her own, returning Lord Oliver’s to Lady Henry, apparently unopened. That hadn’t been her intention when she began using them, but when Evadne had opened the box, she had found Lord Oliver’s fancy Chinese sword packed alongside the rest. She had been mortified to see it nestled in among the less valuable swords, for of course its inclusion had been a mistake. Yes, she had thrown it on the bed with the rest, but it was just that Jonas had distracted her, and she had forgotten to put it back on the wall where it belonged. She didn’t even want it—as good as she’d felt while holding it, she’d felt revolted by it once she’d put it down. In fact, she had not touched it again since that first time.
But she could not quite bring herself to return it. It was simply too embarrassing to admit the mistake. Henry and Jonas likely thought her a scoundrel—she had been given the pick of Oliver’s practice swords, not display pieces off his wall. So, for this reason, she planned to return the unopened box at the end of the summer. That way, they need not discuss the matter at all.
In the meantime, she used the rapiers daily and in secret, lunging, performing little accuracy drills, sometimes just standing and holding the sword for various lengths of time. She could already tell she was in better shape than she had ever been before; her dresses were looser in the waist and tighter across the shoulders. To her surprise and pleasure, Mr. Cantrell had noticed, too. He had remarked—politely—on her fitness level, at which point she had confessed how much she had been practicing. He had congratulated her, given her a few more pointers, and begun driving her even harder.
She was glad to have Mr. Cantrell’s advice and instructions to think about, as meals at Basil’s house had become painfully quiet affairs, with only the most basic of pleasantries being exchanged among the three of them as they ate. It struck Evadne as somewhat odd, the quietude. The coolness between herself and her sister was natural, given that they were not on particularly good terms with one another, but when days of silence at the table became a week, and then a second, Evadne could not help but be curious about the strange silence between Dorina and their uncle. The two of them were barely speaking, and when they did, it was terribly polite and stiff. It made Evadne wonder if they, too, had had some sort of falling out—and the longer it went on, the more obvious it became that this must have been the case. They saw nothing of one another; Dorina never went into his studio, nor did she seem to be researching or writing much for her monograph.
Evadne chose to ignore the situation. She was good at that—never being interested in the sorts of things she was expected to care de
eply about had accustomed her to disregarding just about everything.
But no longer. The more Evadne fenced at the Westminster Academy, the more she realized how disconnected she had felt from her life—and how frustrating that had been. It was so pleasurable, being a part of a community, knowing there was a place she could go, every day if she chose, where she could be herself, and where people were happy to see her. It gave her a sense of purpose, a sense of belonging. She felt as though at long last she had woken up from a dream where she’d had no power to direct the action, no ability to control what happened to her.
She realized, too, that she had felt that way for a very long time. It had begun before their mother had announced that Evadne should be her sister’s chaperone in London—before Freddie had told her of his engagement. In fact, the more she thought on it, the more Evadne began to wonder just what she had been doing for so long, why she had let so many days pass her by. It seemed incredible she could have ever wished there were fewer hours in a day, rather than more.
“That was sloppy, Gray!” snapped Cantrell after disarming her so violently her epee went spiraling across the floor, landing several feet away. “I’ve told you before that your defense was weak, and here you are, dropping your arm at a crucial moment!”
Evadne massaged her shoulder; there was a bud of pain where he had tagged her that she knew would blossom into a spectacular bruise. Saint George his friends might call him, but Mr. Cantrell was exceptionally hard on her, uncompromising and ferocious. He was a little terrifying, actually—just as she imagined a real saint would be, if he taught fencing.
She liked it. Liked it a lot, actually. Probably more than she should. As it turned out, all her life she’d been looking for someone who cared about her enough, found her worthy enough, took her seriously enough to be really honest with her. She just hadn’t realized it until Mr. Cantrell showed her how she’d longed for it—needed it, in order to bring out her best.
“It was sloppy,” she agreed, moving to take off her mask.
“Did I say we were finished?” He raised his sword, saluted her, then used the tip to point at her cast-off weapon. “Pick that up! You’re not leaving before you get this not just right, but perfect, five times in a row. We will reset back to one even if it’s the last go-through. Do you understand me?”
Evadne gladly picked up her sword to try again, eager to show him that his faith in her was justified. She burned with the desire to impress him, longed to earn his approval—or at least some acknowledgment that she’d done a bit better.
Her focus was so complete she did not realize that once again the entire school had paused to watch them fence, including Mr. Perkins. Only when she removed her mask did she see them, standing against the wall or draped over chairs or standing with their epees bending into the floor, smiling, frowning, brows raised or furrowed.
“That was five,” said Cantrell unnecessarily. “The last was not as good as the rest, but I’ll count it. You seem tired.”
“I’m not tired,” she said, drawing deep from some well of ferociousness inside her. Truthfully, she was exhausted; her arms felt like jelly and her legs, something even more jiggly—blancmange perhaps. She was sweating buckets, but it made her furious he’d found fault with her again, after his lecture, when she was trying so hard.
He really was an astonishing teacher. His approval made her feel worthwhile; his discontent with her made her fierce. Both were highly motivating.
“You are tired,” he said, finally smiling. “And that’s all right.”
“Let’s do it again! From one, if you think it’s necessary.”
“You need a cool drink, and to sit down for a moment.” That was Mr. Perkins, now beside her, his callused hand on her shoulder. “It is possible to work too hard, Miss Gray . . . and the improvement in your fencing I’ve seen in such a short time makes me think you are working very hard indeed.”
“Not too hard,” she insisted.
“Gray knows her limits,” said Cantrell, thrilling her by calling her by her surname, without title—just as he did the rest of his students. He flipped his sweaty hair off his forehead, and flashed her a look sharper than any blade. “If she says she’s all right, I trust her.”
“Over the years, I have seen quite a few students burn themselves out,” said Perkins, “and I would hate to see such a promising young lady—no, a promising student—do so.”
“But she is not your student,” said Cantrell quietly.
“Everyone is my student at this school, because it is my school,” replied Mr. Perkins, quieter still. “I would prefer if you chose to remember this, George . . . It would make everyone’s life so much easier.”
Evadne didn’t know what to do. She liked Mr. Perkins, and her feelings for Mr. Cantrell were stronger still . . . but no one who spent any time at all at the Westminster Fencing Academy could possibly make them both happy, that was clear enough. Their methods of instruction were similar, but just different enough to cause strife, and both were possessive about to whom the best students “belonged.” Evadne was an unusually a clear-cut case—she had come for Mr. Cantrell, and while she had taken a few lessons with Mr. Perkins, it had been a frustrating experience for them both. She was “George’s Girl,” as Mr. Perkins had once put it rather pithily.
Evadne had tried to ignore the inappropriate thrill that phrase had given her, pushed away the joy she had felt when Mr. Cantrell did not deny it, but had instead looked pleased. Very pleased.
Of course, since that moment she had thought about being “George’s Girl” every day, several times a day, alone and in company, when she was practicing, or just having a cup of tea. George’s Girl. She’d never been anyone’s girl before, and while of course she was George’s Girl in a platonic, student-teacher way, it felt good. More than good. It felt wonderful, like she was wanted. Like she was valued. Desired, even.
She also felt important watching Mr. Perkins and Mr. Cantrell face off over her. The two of them cared what she did, and how she did it.
George’s Girl or no, it was Mr. Cantrell who cracked. Looking exhausted, he nodded his assent with a wince; reaching into his jacket, he withdrew his pouch and took one of his pastilles without a glass of water. Her heart went out to him; her teacher’s digestion was always plaguing him.
“You’re right,” he conceded after swallowing. “Perhaps my enthusiasm for Gray’s potential is clouding my judgment.”
A flash of annoyance passed over Mr. Perkins’s face, but just as quickly it was gone. He glanced at the clock. “It’s late,” he observed tactfully. “I wonder . . . Miss Gray, would you like to get a bite to eat with us? Before you go home? Strange hour, more of a meat tea than a supper, but I daresay you must be hungry after such a spectacular display.”
Evadne looked to Mr. Cantrell. He nodded ever so slightly. The secret permission gave her another thrill . . . which was odd, as she very rarely enjoyed being told what to do.
“I’d be delighted,” she said, her former compunctions about dining in public forgotten in her eagerness to spend more time—casual time—with Mr. Cantrell. Anyway, Basil had mentioned at breakfast that he intended to go out to his club that night. As for Dorina, likely she had her own plans—and, even if she didn’t, she wouldn’t want Evadne hanging around anyway. “I’m not needed or wanted anywhere.”
“Of course you are,” said Cantrell. “We want you.”
“The only thing is, I’m afraid I must go home and change. I came in my practice clothes,” said Evadne, turning toward the changing room to hide her blush at his words.
“Oh, pfft, we’re just going down to the pub. They know us there, and don’t mind at all if we come in after practice,” said Mr. Perkins. “They’re used to it.”
“Well . . . all right,” she agreed. “I’ll just put away my things, and—”
“Tootles, come take Gray’s things and put them up for her,” shouted Cantrell, and Frank Tunesbury, one of the school’s less talented students, ca
me to take her epee, mask, and gear.
“I’ll go on ahead,” said Mr. Perkins as the rest of the school took this as a cue that they should begin to clean up for the evening. “See that everything’s settled, and join me when you’re ready.”
Mr. Cantrell called a few people to him—Trawless the secretary, and three of the most senior students, Phillip Bourne, Ger Stockton, and Adam Reid. Evadne had crossed swords with all four of them over the previous weeks. At first, she had lost more matches than she’d won against them, though the balance was about even now. All were very good, though Evadne came to understand that they, too, had their faults, which was reassuring. Reid was a gorilla of a man; he went for brute force when finesse would be better. Bourne tended to drop his sword hand when flustered, and Stockton’s footwork frankly needed to be rebuilt from the ground up.
Trawless was perhaps the best, though the least aggressive of the gang; he was graceful, and had a keen interest in the nuances of fencing, rather than merely executing the sorts of brutal attacks and wicked parries that ended matches more quickly but less beautifully. But irrespective of any of their strengths or weaknesses, she had come to enjoy their company; they were friendly young men who had learned quickly that if they laughed at her or treated her “like a girl” she was likelier to beat them during a match. They had come to respect her for this, and now she was more or less one of them—in that when they took tea breaks, they invited her to join them, and tapped her more to practice with them than many of the students who had been there longer.
“Where are we eating?” asked Evadne. Mr. Perkins hadn’t mentioned a location.
“The Red Lion,” said Cantrell. “It’s not far.”
“And after?” grunted Reid.
Was it Evadne’s imagination, or did Mr. Cantrell glare at Reid? She couldn’t be sure; his annoyance passed quickly, if it had even existed.
