“Constance.” Another light joined hers, its flickering glow illuminating Irvine’s eyes, which glittered like green water on a sunny day. The lower half of his face was swaddled in scented scarves. The material was richer than it had been earlier in the day, a shimmer of gold cloth, the glint of silver thread in dark silk. The Swordmaster drew his blade from the hilt at his belt, the slim rapier gleaming in the shifting light, the jewel on the pommel glowing green. He set his lamp on the ground. His voice was muffled. “It’s a long time since we’ve sparred, Constance.” He threw her another blade from one of the two scabbards at his belt. Despite all the years since she’d practiced, she caught it in her right hand easily.

“Really?” she said, lifting an eyebrow.

“Really.” He flashed her a smile and raised his sword.

“Wine, pointy blades, and poor visibility sound like a dangerous combination to me,” she observed.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

She smiled, rested her cane against the side of the fountain, and mirrored his stance, the unfamiliar posture exposing stiffness in her muscles, her left arm held awkwardly behind her back. Suddenly she felt as sober as if she’d plunged her head in cold water. The storm cloud seemed to thicken and wheel around them, a slow carousel turning to its own silent tune, grumbling softly. Constance and Irvine stood at its center, holding their weapons, gazes fixed.

She should have felt like her old self again. She should have felt the past six years falling away like autumn leaves. But this was different. Strange and serious.

He attacked first, a low, simple swipe that Constance knew was designed to test her. She parried, the blade feeling unnatural in her palm. And yet—some memory of the fight remained. Once, it had been her greatest pleasure.

“I don’t believe a word you spoke in there,” said the Swordmaster.

“That’s your prerogative, I suppose,” she said coolly. She swiped at his collarbone, but he stepped back gracefully.

“I so badly want to trust you. I stuck my neck out for you earlier, and the Justice has a sharp and ready ax.”

“So trust me. Aren’t you swordsmen supposed to follow your instincts?” She tried again, pirouetting in a feint, changing direction at the last minute. A fancy move for an ill-practiced swordswoman. Her skirts fanned out, sending the storm cloud into a frenzy, but Irvine neatly parried the blow. Her blade rang, her wrist jolting.

“Ouch,” she said mildly. Her muscles already ached.

“Wherever you’ve been, you haven’t been fighting,” said Irvine.

“Ouch,” she repeated.

“Enough of this game,” he said, his expression suddenly serious. “Tell me the truth. I deserve to know.” He leaped onto the ledge of the fountain. “Why did you leave?” He swiped at her head, and Constance lurched backward, rather ungracefully.

“Hey, careful!”