“It’s the way the weight is distributed. The hilt is ten inches, long enough to use with both hands. The blade itself is three feet. That’s forty-six inches that you’re controlling from your core. Altogether you’re sixty-two inches? Sixty-four? The ratio causes the unbalance.”

She engaged her abs and tried to lift the sword over her head—and realized at once she was in trouble. She was going to fall over. Or drop the sword. Neither was acceptable.

Suddenly he was behind her, her back to his front, his arms around her, both his hands over hers, and her arms and the sword were straight in the air above her. He said in her ear, “Now slash to the right.” The sword sliced the air. “Slash left.” The sword swung to the side. “Step forward with your right foot and thrust.” She did, and he followed.

On his instruction, they moved, pivoted, swung, thrust. She was sweating with the exertion. She was pretty sure she was in pain. But for the first time since she woke on that beach, she felt strong, in control, powerful.

When they came to a halt, they stood like that, together, holding the beautiful sword, and he said, “It’s like dancing to a music only you can hear.”

“Yes.” She liked this kind of dancing—with him.

“I’m going to let go now.” He loosened his grip and stepped back.

The sword wavered again.

She sighed mightily.

He chuckled—the first sign of laughter she’d heard from him—and took it from her.

“Is it sharp?” she asked.

“No, but if you whack somebody with it, they’re going to know they’ve been hit. The blade is solid. It could break a man’s arm.” He wiped down the blade, slid it into the scabbard and used the leather strap over his shoulder to carry it to a hook in the pegboard. “Swords like these are for display, or to strut around a renaissance festival or for use at a battle reenactment. That’s what I’m doing next week. At the—” he squinted as if he remembered something he didn’t want to “—GSPF.”

She might have heard some humor in his voice. “What’s that?”

“The aforementioned Gothic Spring Psychic Festival, designed to bring tourists to Gothic to buy crystals or tarot cards or get psychic readings, and drink and eat funnel cakes and organic pomegranate cookies and make merry.”

Yep. This was definitely humor. “You told me that. But you didn’t mention you’re doing something with the sword. A demonstration?”

He hooked his arm through hers and led her at a slow pace toward the doors. “A mock battle between me and some other idiot who agreed to fight.”

“So a dull blade to prevent accidents.”

“And to prevent anyone who gets too much into the spirit of the fight from slicing open their opponent.”