I have one last chance. I cannot avoid being bound, but I can push my wrists apart in such a way that when he ties them, I have a bit of room to move. I pretend to strain against the rope, feigning that it is bound tight, as I curse and wriggle and kick back at him.

“No wonder you like wearing men’s clothing,” Jenkins says when my boot smacks him in the shin. “Not much of a lady, are you? Unnatural little beast.”

He shoves me hard into the wall again. I spin on him, ready to kick, before I stop myself. I would do little damage kicking in long skirts. Also, I do not wish to give him any reason to bind my ankles as well. Instead, I lift my chin and channel Portia.

“Do you think your words will sting me?” I say. “I would rather be an unnatural woman than an unnatural father.”

He strikes me. I do not see it coming. I have suffered many slights in my life, but no one has ever slapped me, and the shock and outrage leave me gasping.

I grit my teeth. “You were not so quick to strike me before you bound my hands.” I spit at his feet. “An unnatural father and a coward.”

He slaps me again, but this time, I meet it standing firm, chin up, even turning my face to meet the blow. That infuriates him all the more, and I bite my cheek against a smile of satisfaction as he snarls and calls me an “unnatural woman.”

“That is untrue,” I say. “I am no more unnatural than every woman who does not conform to your ideas of what a woman should be. I am going to guess that encompasses much of the female population.”

His face purples, and he pulls back his hand again, and I turn my cheek to meet the blow when Emily’s voice rings down the hallway.

“Miranda? Nicolas?”

I make out Nicolas’s voice then. “Crécerelle!”

The clang of metal punctuates the word.

“Crécerelle?” he calls. “Answer me if you can!”

I run for the door. Jenkins grabs me, but I wrench from his grip. While he still manages to catch my skirts, I lunge into the hall, enough to see Nicolas.

Another clang. Nicolas is facing off against the guard, Rodgers. Both men have their swords in hand. Nicolas dances back from a feint and then executes a perfect lunge that catches Rodger in the arm. The guard hisses. I watch the blood stain his sleeve, and my stomach clenches.

This is a duel. An actual sword fight.

I should not be so shocked. Is this not what I’ve studied? Did I think those swords were for show? For play?

I knew what they were for, but I have never seen them used for such. My lessons are pure play. Sport, at least.

This is something altogether different. Nicolas has already drawn blood, multiple times, and there is a slice through his trouser leg, blood flecking as he dances back out of Rodger’s way. Then he sees me. He sees me and falters, and the guard’s sword comes swinging at him. I only get the first note of a scream out before Nicolas comes to himself and ducks, just as the sword catches the sleeve of his shirt.