I barely felt it. As the pilgrims scattered, I had a clear line of sight to the assassin. He advanced toward me.

Then Tom stepped in the way.

He reached over his shoulder and pulled the cloth from his sword, his right hand on Eternity’s hilt. He drew the weapon upward, but barely, just an inch, so the forte of the blade glinted, gold letters pressed into shining steel. He held his left hand out toward the assassin, in imitation of the priest, but this gesture was a threat. Don’t come any closer.

I didn’t understand why Tom hadn’t drawn his blade. Then I realized it was for the same reason my own brain had taken so long to work in the first place. This is a church.

The assassin sidestepped, left and right, trying to catch sight of me again. Tom shifted with him, keeping his body between us.

Finally, the assassin cursed. He flung the dagger low, trying to hit me by flinging it past Tom’s feet. But the blade wasn’t meant for throwing. Unbalanced, it skipped off the floor and bounced to my right, clanging off the fleur-de-lis rail.

Then the man turned and fled.

Everyone, just as shocked as I was, did nothing but stand and watch. The priest who’d shouted was the only one who moved, stepping forward to block the assassin’s escape.

He got a fist in the gut for his efforts. The priest bent over, wheezing. The assassin rammed his elbow behind the priest’s ear, then fled, and I lost him in the crowd.

Tom made as if to follow, then thought better of it. He looked around instead. I could almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes. Was there any more danger?

When he found nothing, he came and helped me up. “Are you all right?” he said.

I nodded, too rattled to speak. The King’s Men trained him well, I thought. He reacted; he was aware.

And as I stood, it struck me: I wasn’t. I had two pistols on my belt. I hadn’t even thought to draw them.

I remembered a couple of months back, after Lord Ashcombe had rescued us in Devonshire, the King’s Men had started training Tom in earnest. One morning, as I watched him spar with Captain Tanner, Tom parried the soldier’s attack. He’d stood there, proud of himself—then the King’s Man socked him across the face.

You punched me, Tom had said, more shocked than in pain.

The man shrugged. You let down your guard.

But… we’re supposed to be fighting with swords, not fists.

Captain Tanner had shaken his head. There are no rules in battle, Bailey. A real fight isn’t exercises and carefully practiced maneuvers. Your enemy will be unpredictable, and you’ll be scared, and you won’t have time to think. You’ll need to act. Or you’ll be dead.

Tom had learned that lesson well. He’d acted—whereas I’d just sat there like a fool, my two pistols no more useful in my belt than if I’d left them back at Whitehall. If Lord Ashcombe had been here, there’d have been one dead assassin. I imagined him seeing how I’d frozen and thanked God he hadn’t been here to watch it. I didn’t think I could have lived down the shame.