“The small fence?”
“The small fence at the far end of the meadow at the foot of the orchard. Approximately ninety yards.”
“Ninety yards.”
“Yes.”
“That is very far.”
“It is.”
“Your Grace?”
“Yes.”
“Have you shot already?”
“I have.”
“Where did your arrow go?”
He pointed, and she looked.
His arrow was a small dark line in the grass, perhaps one hundred and twenty yards away, well past the fence, halfway up the apple orchard.
“You are mocking me, Your Grace.”
“I am not mocking you.”
“You are plainly mocking me.”
“I have been shooting arrows since I was eight, Alice. It is not a fair contest.”
“Then I am allowed to cheat.”
He raised an eyebrow. She raised hers.
Then she nocked an arrow, pulled the string, and shot.
The arrow flew not over the fence, but quite respectably into the long grass near the willow at the lake’s edge, perhaps forty yards away.
It was not a serious shot. It was not, in any sense, a winning shot. But the willow was, Alice noted with a bright satisfaction,the closest thing to the lake. She had been thinking very fast in the last six seconds. In fact, it was the closest thing to the small wooden landing.
She lowered the bow and, with a small curtsey, handed it to the Viscount. “My Lord,” she said, “I am ready to run.”
“Lady Alice, I shall give the signal when the others have shot their arrows.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
She waited.
Joanna shot badly and laughed.
Daphne shot more accurately than anyone had expected, perhaps sixty yards into the meadow, and went pink. Two other ladies shot. Three gentlemen shot. The Duke of Ronvale shot with a great careless competence, almost as far as Cassian. Then Lord Greencliff lifted his cane and brought it down sharply on the grass.
“Go,” he said quietly.
Alice went.
