August nodded. “Get dressed, we’re going to the courts.”
I paled. “Why?”
He leveled me with a look. “To spar, of course.” He shook his head as though I were being particularly dull. August didn’t wait for my reply as he stepped outside so I could get dressed.
Despite his bookish reputation, August held bragging rights as one of the top fencers on the Ouverham College team. After watching a few of his matches the previous term, I had to admit his skill was impressive, to the extent that following his family’s financial downfall, his coach privately secured funds so that August could continue fencing.
When he slid the foil mask over his face, it was like he became a different person entirely. His movements became quick and lithe like a dancer’s, and it was all his opponents could do to keep up. August’s advances were calculated to put his opponents off balance, his feints rarely anticipated, and his lunges coordinated for speed and precision. The crowd watched in giddy anticipation whenever August’s name was selected for the next match.
The only reason Alexander Fletcher held the title of champion fencer was that August tended to push things too far, thereby incurring the wrath of the referees. He’d once performed an illegal corps-à-corps that got him promptly booted from the Northeast College tournament. Another time, the tip of his sword “accidentally” slipped and ended up nearly poking through his opponent’s mask. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the inevitable shouting from enraged referees, August’s fencing matches always made for an entertaining show.
August wasn’t a violent person. In fact, he’d never once been tempted to fist-fight with any of the Gilded brats who’d teased him over his family’s ruined finances. Only once, when Theodore Lancaster had taken a shot at August’s father from beneath his foil mask, had August lost control. He’d thrown his sword on the piste and ripped off his and Theodore’s masks.
“Why don’t you say it to my face, Lancaster?” he’d spat.
Lancaster balked. He’d never expected his rival to stop the match over an insult, so he muttered a weak apology, which August met with a shove before he stomped off the piste, effectively ending the match. This display of unsportsmanlike behavior had earned him a second Black Card.
So, when August suggested that we have a sparring match, I was understandably hesitant. I was weak from my self-imposed starvation and wallowing, and I had no interest in grappling with August on the piste. The pain of losing my father was still raw, and my nerves were frayed. But seeing as he had given me little choice, I begrudgingly dressed and followed August to the fencing court. Reluctantly, I stepped out of the locker rooms to meet August on the court. He was already wearing his foil mask.
He assumed the starting position, with his right foot forward and his sword held aloft. “Prêt?” he asked to see if I was ready.
I hadn’t even bothered to slip my mask on yet. “Not particularly,” I grumbled.
He huffed in frustration. “Put on your mask, Arden, unless you want to risk me poking one of your eyes out.”
I sighed melodramatically but put on my mask and forced my feet into position opposite him. Merely standing en garde had my thighs trembling from the effort.
We had no referee, so August shouted, “Allez!” and then lunged.
Immediately, I realized that despite my condition, he was not going to go easy on me. His aggressive lunges forced me to retreat again and again, though I tried to parry once or twice. Compared to August’s deadly precision, I was sluggish and fumbling.
“Come on, Arden,” August growled as he advanced again and again. “You aren’t even trying to fight me.”
But the lights were too bright, I was too weak, too tired to fight. I wouldn’t last.
August exploited my weak parries with swift ripostes. He was relentless. While dodging one particularly nasty riposte, I slipped and went crashing backward onto the floor. I lay there, sprawled with my sword at my side, glaring up at August through my mask.
“I surrender, alright? You win,” I said, tearing off my mask so I could breathe properly. My atrophied muscles were burning from the exertion. I desperately wanted a shower and a nap.
In answer, August took his mask off as well, his expression furious. “I don’t accept your surrender. He glowered down at me. “We’re not finished here.”
“You can do whatever the fuck you like, August, but I’m done,” I snapped back.
August refused to let up. “I know that fight is still in you somewhere, Arden. I won’t let you give up.”
I stared at the gloved hand he was offering me. His eyes were begging me to accept it.
“Arden,” he said again, and maybe it was the sound of my name that spurred me to do it, but the next moment I found myself reaching out and taking his hand.
He pulled me up, slipped his mask on, and when we began to spar again, something sparked inside me. Rage and grief boiled in my veins, but instead of allowing it to drown me, I poured it into every lunge and riposte, into every thrust of my sword. When I finally collapsed on the mat half an hour later, bruised and sweating, August gave an approving nod.
As we rested on the benches to rehydrate from our spar, August said pensively, “You know, I think I prefer the violent, hot-tempered Arden to the one I saw this morning.”
I rolled my eyes at him, but was unable to suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. Out of sheer irritation and in an entirely illegal move, I had flung my body weight against August’s hip, throwing him off balance and knocking him flat on his back. I was more than a little proud of myself.
“You can hardly blame me for being violent after you unceremoniously forced me out of bed this morning,” I replied, but then conceded, “I will admit that in spite of being an unbearable know-it-all?—”
He scowled.