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Notwithstanding, her compact weapons versus the length of my swords remained an issue. Even so, she’d constructed them in such a fashion as to defy appearances, stronger than one presumed. I tailored this to her advantage, teaching her ways to best me despite the discrepancy in blade sizes.

She absorbed principal terms I threw at her: distance, perception, timing. She fought clumsily but aggressively, with meanness and defensiveness, eager for my blind spots. When given fully to that, and when perfected, she would not duel fairly, but that would be an asset against opponents.

With all her complaints and foul language, she had not given up. We kept a brisk pace, ducking and swerving, lunging and deflecting, and I couldn’t recall an extent when I’d enjoyed training as much.

It was that, the hard set of her jaw, and the small victories that convinced me. It was that and the intermissions in which I made a joke or she teased me, when the lightness atoned for aches and pains.

It was that and the minutes when we harmonized, swept up in the art of learning and teaching, either clashing or connecting, either sparing in jest or earnest.

In the end, her back hit the ground, the tip of my sword at her throat.

“Do you yield?” I rasped.

“To which part of you?” she cooed.

The lower half of my body heated, stirring in an unpardonable way.

Before I could react, her foot swept beneath me, and our positions switched, my swords landing just out of reach. She leaned over my prone form, the axes crossed in front of her face.

Over the blades, her eyes glinted. “Sure. I yield.”

***

Byyield, her answer was equally a lie and a truth, due to the way her breasts had grazed my chest. She possessed an alarming skill for deviating from an actual meaning to its sordid alternative. I should have been disgusted.

Yet I’d begun to notice more things about her, from the tilt of her feather hat—which signaled whether she was either vexed or pleased—to her unapologetic flirtations, to her gluttonous affection for marshmallows, to her entitlements, to her snide remarks, to her vulnerable questions, to her persistence, to her love for a sick mother, to her unconditional bonds with a woodpecker and a runaway son.

Each of these details, each of my feelings about them, each one a milestone that tugged me closer to simple and, therefore, unsimple questions.

When next given the chance, would I take her hand again?

If I did, would I hold on?

22

Fantasy

An evening breeze flew through the open shutters and traced my knuckles, the touch of air taking me by surprise. Typical of the wind, brushing against anything it liked. Limitless. Everywhere.

I held the acorn between my fingers and glared at the little bitch. That damn fairytale groove mark wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t leave me alone. I’d gone through so much illegal trouble to get this nugget, but my trips into the forest had been disasters. I’d been avoiding the woods ever since, its latest revelation nailed into my head, impossible to extract.

Please let it be wrong. Please.

A knock caused the door to tremble. Only one person knocked like that, the thump making the framework pulse like a heartbeat.

“Just a second!” I tore open the dresser where I’d been standing, deposited the acorn inside the drawer, and jammed the compartment shut.

In the mirror above, I adjusted my neckline. I’d recently carved a new closure for my chest, to fit over my acorn heart like a hatch door. Mother usually made the closures for me, but without her here, I really should have done the job sooner, considering Nicu had spotted the acorn when we met.

And since practicing with Aire, there had been a few near misses.

I smoothed out the side ponytail under my headpiece and scowled at my colorless cheeks. I also should have rebelled against Punk and brought some pink stain with me.

My axes rested on the chair by the hearth. Glancing at them, my frown shifted into a grin. Thoughts of the glade and swing terrace pushed thoughts of everything else under the rug. These past nights had been worth the soreness.

Our training had inspired me. I’d been sketching more weapon designs, many of them pitiful, but a few as promising as my hatchets.

Rushing to the window, I poked my head out. Aire leaned against the bungalow wall, slapping a pair of gloves against his leather-clad thigh. My gaze roamed over the fit of his clothes, billowing in the right places, clutching his muscles in theveryright places.