“You are thinking,” Nicolas says.

I smile. “I am making up stories.”

“May I ask to hear them?”

I tell him the history of the blades, and the meaning of the Roman invasion and my fanciful alternate story of this gladius’s origins.

“I believe you are correct,” he says. “Clearly, it was the sword of a Celtic warrior maid, and Fate has now passed it on to you. Do you know how to use a short sword? I fear I do not.”

“I am still learning swordsmanship,” I say. “I began with fencing but found it quite dull. My instructor has let me try his short swords.”

“Has he?”

I waggle the blade at him. “None of that. My instructor is a gentleman, who is very enamored of his wife, and I have nothing to fear in that regard.”

Nicolas sobers. “I ought not to jest. I am certain it would not be easy for a young lady to find a sword-fighting instructor who is both respectable and respectful.”

“I have been fortunate. To return to the question, I know a bit about short-sword fighting. The problem, of course, comes when fighting against a longer sword, such as yours.”

He walks to where he left his, having removed it once we were safely on the ship. He takes out the blade and returns to me.

“If I initiate . . .” I feign doing so. “The sheer length of your sword . . .” I wave the gladius at him. “And no comments on that, sir.”

“I would not comment. My sword”—he lifts it in the air—“is of a middling length, perhaps only slightly longer than average, which suits me, being a man of just above average height.”

“Yet your sword is much longer than mine, and if I initiate attack, and you retaliate . . .”

We attempt it, showing that his sword will easily reach me, while mine falls short of any target other than his arm.

“I could go for your hand,” I say. “I am better not to initiate offense and instead allow you to do so.”

He does, and I stop his sword with mine and then feign stabbing with my smaller pocketknife.

“Ideally, this would be a dagger,” I say. “Or a buckler, with which I could bash you while your sword is stopped.”

We continue on like that, sparring as I explain, until I manage to get him backed into the mast. That’s when I notice the rigging lines blowing in the night air and the crow’s nest far above.

“How does one reach the crow’s nest?” I ask.

“One climbs,” he says, returning his sword to its sheath.

I tug a rope experimentally. “I should like to do that.”

“You are asking to climb my mast, crécerelle?”

I wave my blade at him. “You are a terrible flirt, Dr. Dupuis.”

“Am I? I thought I was rather good at it.”

“You are, which makes it all the more terrible.”

His eyes glint as his mouth opens to say something. Then he stops and shakes his head. “And despite the bracing night air, I am still inebriated and unable to stanch my flow of ribaldry. I will do so, however, if you wish. You have been a good sport about it, but if it makes you at all uncomfortable, you may tell me to stop.”