“I . . .” I stopped, closing my mouth, and glared at him. “That’s low.”
“That’s as may be. Did it work?”
“I still say Etienne would be better for him.”
“Quentin is my foster, not yours, which makes this my decision. I’ve spoken to his parents. They know all about you, and they think you’re the best possible knight for him. He’ll eventually inherit his father’s lands, and they’d like him to be more flexible than most of his generation. He listens to you, considers you a friend, and looks to you as a mentor. Can you really say I’m going to find someone better?”
I wanted to say, “Of course you will, don’t be silly.” I wanted to say, “Absolutely, and I’ll be happy to help.” When I opened my mouth, what came out was, “What would I have to do?”
Sylvester had the grace not to look smug. “You’ll be responsible for his training in blood magic and dealing with the mortal world. We don’t expect you to teach him the courtly arts—we’re handling that at Shadowed Hills— but the practical side of things needs equal attention. Are you still in the apartment?”
“Yeah. Why do you—”
“It would be good if he could live with you at least part-time, but it’s not essential. If it’s a matter of finances, we own a great deal of property all around the Bay Area. We could help you find something.”
“Uh, right.” Sylvester and Luna have been in Shadowed Hills since the eighteen hundreds, and they’ve had a lot of time to shop for land. Fae, especially purebloods, tend to take a long-term view of investments, and land always goes up in value. There are worse ways to build a fortune, if you have the time.
“So you’ll do it?”
I hesitated. Taking a squire isn’t something to be done lightly. Quentin was a good kid, and he deserved to be taught whatever he needed to know in order to stay alive. Was I really the best choice to educate a pureblood? Especially one who’d already been shot thanks to me, and who’d helped to orchestrate the jailbreak to get me out of the Queen’s clutches?
There was only one way to find out.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
Sylvester grinned. “I knew you would. Now come on. It’s been fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, Maeve’s teeth.” I groaned, dropping a half-eaten apple slice and pushing myself back to my feet. “I was too busy thinking to rest. That’s not fair.”
“Neither is combat. Stop whining. You have a squire now, and that means you have to be the mature one.”
“I should have read the fine print.”
Sylvester just laughed.
We buckled on our swords and walked back to the ballroom. I groaned again as we crossed the threshold: we had company. May and Quentin were sitting on a bench against one wall, and they looked like they were planning to stay a while.
Sylvester smiled brightly when he saw them. “Good day, you two!”
“Good day, Your Grace,” Quentin said.
“Hey, Syl,” May said, waving back. Quentin flinched. He’s loosened up a lot, but he still can’t seem to wrap his head around the idea that nobles have personal names, much less diminutives.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked. Sylvester turned and bowed to me. I responded automatically. It’s no good arguing once Sylvester decides practice has started. Refusing to get my sword out would just result in some painful new bruises.
“We came to watch you work,” said May. My former Fetch was dressed like an acid flashback to the mid-80s, combining virulently pink jeans with a silver foil concert T-shirt for a band I didn’t recognize. Rainbow barrettes were clipped in her short magenta-and-green-streaked hair.
May and I used to be functionally identical, before the elf-shot “killed” me. She was supposed to fade out of the world completely that day. That’s what Fetches
“It was May’s idea,” Quentin added.
“I’m sure it was,” I said. Sylvester started circling. I dropped into a defensive position. “I’m not really comfortable with this, May.”
“Cope,” she said.
“Maybe an audience will make you shape up,” Sylvester said, and lunged.
I parried. “Maybe an audience will distract me and get me gutted.”
“Let’s see some
“This isn’t professional wrestling!” I snapped, trying to hit Sylvester’s ankle. He blocked, turning my thrust aside and nearly disarming me. “And I swear if you shout ‘take it off,’ I am coming over there.”
“Take what off?” asked Sylvester.
“Nothing, Your Grace,” Quentin and I said in unison.
“Wimps,” May said.
“Shut up.” I parried again. Sylvester pressed his advantage, and I fell back, trying to keep him from hitting me. The distractions faded away as I focused on the rhythm of his attacks. There was a slight pause after each swing. It wasn’t long, but it was there. I knocked his sword aside and lunged for his stomach, slamming the blade of my own sword into his middle just above the navel.
Sylvester stopped immediately. “I believe that was a killing blow,” he said, sounding both slightly winded and ridiculously pleased for someone who’d just had the wind knocked out of him.
I lowered my sword and stepped back. “Does that mean we’re done?”
“My dear, you just killed me for the first time. This calls for celebration.” He bowed, signaling the end of our bout. I bowed back. “How did you catch me?”
“There was a pause between your attacks while you brought your sword back.”
“I wondered how long it would take you to notice. It won’t be there next time.” He winked as he sheathed his sword and handed it to me. “We’re ready to make things hard.”
“Oh, lucky me,” I muttered, walking over and hanging our swords on the wall before heading toward May and Quentin. “Happy now?”
“Don’t touch me.” May wrinkled her nose. “You’re all icky, and I have a date.”
“Jazz meeting you here?” She nodded. “Will you be home tonight?” May and Jazz—her Raven-maid girlfriend—had been getting serious, despite the little issue of May being essentially nocturnal, like most fae, and Jazz being diurnal, like most birds. We’d already had the discussion about whether or not Jazz was allowed to move in.
I said yes, of course. At least when Jazz is around, May occasionally lets me have the remote control.
“We should be,” May said.
Sylvester walked up, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He didn’t look half as beat as I felt. Sometimes the world isn’t fair. “Ah, Quentin. A word with you?” I glanced to him, and he nodded. “It seems appropriate to do it now.”
I swallowed the urge to protest. “You’re the boss.” We’d have to tell Quentin eventually.
Quentin looked between us, frowning. “What’s going on, Your Grace?”
“Quentin, do you remember that I said I was looking for a knight for you?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said.
“If you assigned him to Etienne, I get to hit you,” May added.
I eyed her. “Why?”
“Because ‘boring’ is not a virtue.”
Sylvester smiled. “No, I’m not assigning him to Etienne.” Quentin’s shoulders relaxed: interesting. I hadn’t realized he felt so strongly about the subject. “I can guarantee that the knight I found for him isn’t boring.”
May gave me a speculative look. “Is that so?”
“May—”
“Your Grace, may I speak?”
Sylvester and I both stopped, blinking at Quentin. Sylvester recovered slightly faster than I did, and asked,
