LANZ
I overslept.Again.
Oversleeping at Camlann House is all relative—given when we’re supposed to report to the salle for warmups—but the fact that I can see some pale, pinkish sunlight gleaming into the frost on my windowpane means it’s definitely later than it should be. I curse softly, pull my blankets over my head and briefly wish I could stay here, or at least go crawl in with Cal.
I don’t…feel great. Haven’t been lately. At first I thought it was just a side effect of my sucky sabre performance in the tournament, but it’s more than that. It’s lingering, this feeling. Something physical, like it’s sapping the strength out of me.
Regardless, I do what I do best: ignore it.
After ten more seconds, I force myself out of bed, throw on a Caliburn Fencing T-shirt and sweats, and head out. It’s quiet upstairs—well, because everyone is already working out, I think—but I still can’t resist trying Cal’s doorknob as I pass.
Locked.
My chest twinges.
Whatever. I’ll…deal with that later. Procrastination is definitely emotionally healthy. I rub my eyes as I pound downthe main staircase, and then I whip around to the stairs to the salle…
…which is empty.
Dark. Lights are off, nobody’s home.
What the hell?
“Hello?” I call, kind of stupidly. I flick on the switch by the locker room door, the big fluorescents blazing to life and illuminating our steadfast little racks and rows of equipment.
Confirmed—no one here but the practice dummy.
I scratch the back of my head, too half-asleep to process anything. Cal’s with Gwenna, I guess, but Kingston and Kai…
My heart sinks. Did something happen? Did they?—
Did she?—
Panicking, I cast around the room, from the blades to the targets to the masks creepily staring back at me to the cross over the door.
The cross.
Shit. Shit. Of course.
It’s Ash Wednesday.
I completely forgot.
In seven seconds flat I’m back upstairs and getting dressed, throwing on actual pants and a sweater and hopping around looking for my other shoe. Then I’m halfway down the hall when I remember it’sLentnow, so I skid to a stop and scramble back for my scapular, which I grab from my desk and stuff hurriedly down my sweater and T-shirt as I jump down the stairs.
Catholicism’s a lot like fencing, in that way: there’s so muchgear.Can’t fight without swords. Can’t talk to God without a talismanic necklace thing hanging down your chest and shoulderblades.
I sprint for the chapel. Campus is a sheet of ice, gleaming with gold and pink as the steeple bells bong out seven times. I don’t even have a coat on, like a dumbass, and the wind bitesmy cheeks and hands and makes my eyes water. Hard to believe that in just 40 days it’s supposed to be all springtimey for Easter. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me—seasonal affective something or other. Too much white, not enough green.
Chapel. Finally. I pant a little, slowing to a brisk stride as I find a pew. It’s pretty empty—Kingston, of course, who’s probably been up since four, and Kai, looking as sleep-deprived as I feel, but also a handful of other students, plus some professors and staff. And Luther, of course.
“Jesus Christ,” Kai mutters as I slide in next to him.
“Overslept,” I explain, catching my breath.
Kingston glares at us. I elect to shut the fuck up for the rest of the service.
It’s quick, at least, no homily or anything, just some prayers, the ashes, communion. When it’s my turn, I kneel before Father Denis and watch him grind his thumb into the container of ashes.
