Licking cool-ranch flavoring from her fingers and swigging from a can of grape soda, Claire traipsed out between the duelists. She was a vision of Juliet seen through a steam-punk lens, clad in black flight pants rolled up to midshin that exposed six inches of skin before her combat boots took over. Her herringbone pea coat was unbuttoned, revealing brown suspenders that dangled from her hips. Bracelets made of multicolored electrical cable gathered at her wrists, and dual ponytails intertwined to slap at her back like the supply hoses of an oxygen mask. Her round cheeks were bunched into one of her mirthful smirks.

For the first time that day, I did not think of trolls.

“Your weapon, gentle Benvolio,” she said, holding out her hand.

Jasper shrugged and turned over his foil. Claire bounced it in her palm, testing its weight.

“Sufficient.”

The blade whirled through the air in a figure eight, then another. Her ponytails danced.

“Adequate.”

Her boots hopped to their rubber toes and she scuttled forward and back, the foil whirling through the air like a lasso, above her head, at her sides, as low as the floor.

“Tolerable.”

Claire extended her weapon and playfully tapped the foil held between Frank’s hands. He gulped and extended it as far from his body as he could. That was when all sense of reality went flying out the window and Claire Fontaine became a warrior goddess. With her blade whistling, she struck Frank’s weapon from six different angles, each of them executed with an extravagant form that would look good even from the cheap seats. Between blows, she called out bits of advice.

“Circular attacks! Easier to follow the action!”

Frank grimaced and held to his sword for dear life.

“Footwork! Three steps, Benvolio! Three steps, Tybalt!”

Jasper watched her feet, making frantic mental notes.

“Act! This is a play! Recoil from the blows, gents!”

I was as slack-jawed as the rest. She choreographed a routine right then and there, and made it so believable and comprehensible that the whole cast was dying for a go at it. At last she disarmed Frank with a twist of her wrist. His foil went clattering to the stage, and Claire lowered her own. She exhaled upward, blowing loosened strands of hair from her sweaty forehead. She saluted Frank with her can of soda and took a drink. Not a drop had been spilled. Everyone was hushed until Lord Capulet remembered his favorite line.

“What noise is this? Give me my long-sword, ho!”