We settle on either side of a guy with broad shoulders and thick arms who barely reaches the tip of my nose.
“These seats taken?” Morgan asks.
“Uh, no,” he says, glancing at her and then at me, and then at me again when he notices my scars.
I pretend I don’t notice, pretend I don’t care, and I realize I actually don’t care. Some random guy from—I glance at his pocket square, which is embroidered with a school logo—Mount Stewart College. Not my problem.
“Wonderful.” She brushes a hand at me and I take the seat to his right while she takes his left. “This is all such a thing, huh?” she says to him.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking around. “Caliburn is quite, uh, eccentric.”
“Can say that again,” Morgan says, running a fingertip on the edge of her wine glass and scanning around. “Do you think they’re coming to the tables, or?—?”
Another guy, this one dark-haired and lankier, but with the same Mount Stewart pocket square, puts a hand on the chair to my right.
“Oh, um, sure,” I say. “It’s a free country.”
He laughs softly and takes it.
“We were just talking,” Morgan said, leaning over the table to our new arrival, “about how extra this all is.”
“Oh,” the dark-haired guy says, nodding. “Yeah, for sure. It’s, uh, well, kind of what you get for being in this league.”
“Yeah?” Morgan tips her head. “I really don’t know that much about fencing.”
Something clicks in my brain. She’s playing a little game, I think. Well, so be it. It’s been ages since I’ve talked to anyone outside of the Caliburn universe, let alone a fencer who has no affiliation to the quest for the Holy Grail. I might as well get interested.
“Yeah, I mean, I guess you guys are Villa Loyola?” the dark-haired one starts.
Neither Morgan nor I correct him, but we do lock eyes.
“Caliburn’s kind of the oldest of the old school, except for the Russians,” mutters the stocky guy.
“Oh, well, yeah,” the dark-haired one admits. “But they’re, like, freaks, you know? All that Soviet training and shit. Oh, probably part of some government program.”
“Yeah, but they fly in from Finland,” he says. “I think they have some weird technicality. I just hope I never have to go out there to fence them. This is weird enough.” He glances up at the high table, at the masked faces.
His dark-haired companion follows his gaze. “Sheesh,” he says. “Are those guys, like, always here?”
Morgan blinks, looking attentive. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve heard weird stuff about the Caliburn guys.”
God, she could be a spy, I think, between what she pulled at Renfrew and this. And this doesn’t even involve any perfume magic. She’s like Mata Hari.
“Oh, they’re absolute weirdos,” the first guy confirms. “Like, all they do is fence and study. No parties, no girls.”
“What, like a No Nut November thing?” the second guy says. “Uh, sorry.” He ducks his head at me and Morgan.
“I’m familiar with the concept,” I deadpan. “You’re not offending me.”
“No,” says the first one. “I mean, like, all the time. Like, they are fully, uh, what’s the word? Chaste? I guess it’s to, like, save up their energy or something.” But he blushes a little bit. “Couldn’t be me.”
“Well, naturally,” Morgan says. She puts a hand on his shoulder and laughs. “I’m Morgan, by the way.”
“Brian,” he says. “Brian Shelton. This is Eric,” he says. “Childress. I’m fencing epee.”
“I see,” I say, surveying the first course as it’s set in front of me.
“You,” Morgan squints at Brian, “I’m going to guess saber.”
