“Gwenna,” he says. “Could you give us a moment, please?”
“Oh.” I blink. “Of course.” I let go of his hand—reluctantly—and slip out to the hall, to the stairs.
I have no reason to think Kingston’s up to anything. But if he thinks I can’t still hear them talking, that I’m not going to walk as slowly as humanly possible back to my room…he’s wrong.
I take one step, then another, barely ascending, gripping the banister hard, and eavesdrop for my life.
“…dedicated my life to this, and I’m not giving up,” Kingston’s saying, voice low and even. “I’mnot. But I have to know. Whatever it is—whateversheis. Will she have to die?”
A long pause.
“I’m afraid that, Mr. Pendragon, is the question at hand.”
FIFTEEN
LANZ
I yankthe zipper to my chin and give myself a look in the locker room mirror. The jacket's perfect. There's nothing wrong with it.
Pristine white, not so much as a smudge of dirt or a yellow sweat ring around the neck. Double reinforced seams. And on the back,Dell’Acqua USA, in the standard height blue letters. Made to exactly my specifications and shipped in from Italy.
It's also way too fucking big.
“Shit,” I murmur under my breath. I pluck at the side seams, pulling it away from my body. There's a good inch, maybe two, of slack on either side, and the shoulders and sleeves look deflated, wrinkled to the point where I probably wouldn't pass the armorer's check. The tight fit’s for a reason. Folds in the fabric can catch a blade tip, bend it dangerously, snap, all kinds of things. The material is supposed to be flexible but strong, supple but impenetrable. Armor, or close to.
But right now, it'll do nothing but entangle me.
“Shit,” I say again. I chew my lip and tug down on the neck zipper a little. I'm not sure it even matters. Not sure I can think ahead to, what, next season? Another bout? It all seems likesome sort of ridiculous impossibility. Like the sport of fencing is truly the last thing we need to worry about right now.
And yet, I can't help it. Kai had mentioned some of the new gear was in, and I wanted to get mine. Even in the middle of a literal dark night of the soul. Because of all the things I really like about my life that I enjoy and care about, fencing is up there. Always has been, probably always will be, until the day I die.
I pull the zipper back up and go out into the salle. Kai's put all the weapons together in a completely random order so I can't even tell if there's anything spec to me. I like a pretty whippy blade for foil, because I like a back flick now and again—call it showing off, but if you're on the smaller side, relatively speaking, it's good to be fast. Sabre's probably my worst, and from what I can tell, Kai's only put together his own weapons for that one anyway, so…
I run a finger along the handles, brushing across them idly, and finally select an epee.
It's quiet in the salle. No practice scheduled, obviously. Everyone else doing…anything else, I suppose. The windows are dark, but either my eyes are adjusting or there’s enough residual light that I can see okay. I wrap my fingers around the grip, brace my knuckle against the bell guard, shake out my wrist, go on guard, toe the line. Few advances, few retreats, getting back into the motions of it.
I just always figured I'd be fencing for the rest of my life, and I guess I will. But I thought there would be more to it. That, I don't know, one day I'd retire, obviously from college, and then maybe coach, teach people, set up some kind of school, maybe with another epeeist, too…
“Hey.”
I jump at the voice at the bottom of the stairs. It's Cal. I close my eyes and go lax briefly. Of course it is.
“Kit came in,” he says, nodding at me.
I nod back. “Just giving it a test run.”
“Mm-hmm.” His lips are firm together, his arms crossed.
“Yours is probably in there too,” I say, nodding at the locker room, a way to get him to stop staring at me.
It works, I guess, because he strides through the doorway and out of sight. I shake my wrist a little, as if I'm going to keep drilling, but my focus is shot. Now all I can think about is him in there, unpacking his jacket, smoothing it out, maybe taking off his shirt, pulling the whites on?—
Then I blink and my daydream comes to life as Cal returns, fully dressed.
“Not bad,” he says, extending his arms, giving his shoulders a test roll.
“Of course it's not bad,” I say.
