Tom loosens the top of the bag. “I know a group ofseamstresses. They gather at the farm next to ours a few times a month, and Irepair their scissors, sharpen them when they get dull. These are spare setsthat I’ve taken apart.”
And what do these women look like?
His gravelly-sounding laugh does things to my body chemistry.“Farmer’s daughters, you know. Buxom, bonny wenches.”
Buxom?
“Oh, yes, and grandmothers several times over. The youngest issixty.” Tom puts half a pair of scissors in my hand. “They pay me with pie, yougoose. Though they have hinted at introducing me to a granddaughter or two.”
Don’t you dare!
Taking me by the shoulders, he spins me around. “Which way areyou facing?”
North.
“Spot on. You’re as good as a compass. Now let’s have youpractice throwing a bit before we use actual knives. Aim for the place where Islap the stones. That’ll be the killer’s heart.”
I shake my head, disliking the thought of hurting anyone. ButI don’t want—
“It doesn’t matter what you want right now,” Tom says,interrupting the pattern of my thoughts. “An attempt was made on your life. Wasit the murderer from the Halloween vision? Or the heir of Archimendax? Can’tsay as yet. But we need to surprise whoever’s after you, and make them bleedfirst.”
His serious manner dampens my mood, and I feel cold despite thecloak. Tom rubs my arms and sets me away from him. Then he teaches me athrowing technique where I begin with most of my weight resting on my backfoot, until I bring the shear up and throw it while shifting the balance to myfront foot. We discuss follow-through and blade rotation, with Tom counting offthe circles the weapon makes on the way to its target.
“I’ll take the lamp over to the rocks with me so I can see howprecise you are. Throw the shears directly at the sound that I make.”
How do you know about this kind of thing?
“I have an uncle in California. A blacksmith. He forges knivesas a hobby, collects them, too.” I hear Tom lift the lamp and walk over to thestone. “Taught me to throw when I was a lad.”
Taking a few steps forward, I nearly jump out of my skin whenhe hits the rock. I’m not prepared at all, but I throw anyway.
“Low and wide. You’ve missed the baddie by two feet but theinnocent fellow next to him won’t be having children. Concentrate.”
I do better with the next stone. I hit it at least.
“That’s my girl,” Tom says, laughing. “Scratched the villain’sankle.”
Short. High. Plain feeble. This is how my further attempts aregraded. Close. Not-even-close. Ugly. My shoulder is tired, but I rub thesoreness away as Tom gathers the scissors.
“Again.”
Over-heated and sweating, I remove my cloak after the nextround. I throw until I can barely lift my right arm.
“You’re doing famously, vita mea,” Tom says. “They’ll becalling you The Mistress of the Blade in no time.”
I hate this. It’s too hard.
He picks up my cloak, tucks it around my shoulders. “No. Itisn’t. We’ll work on your left arm tomorrow and allow your right torecuperate.”
There’s no way I’m coming back here tomorrow. I haven’t hada wink of sleep.
Tom swings up onto his horse and then reaches for me,telepathic once more. You’ll be fine after you’ve rested.
Aren’t you tired?
Aye, I’m weary. But the cows will need milking when I gethome, and there are chores to be done. Don’t worry about me.
We make the trip down the mountain and turn onto the main road.That’s all I remember until I wake up some time later. Cordelia is putteringaround in the next room, as though she has just risen.
I am lying in my bed wearing my chemise and drawers. No cloak.Or dress for that matter. And the green scent of alfalfa covers my skin. Isuspect that Tom tossed my clothes under the bed or into the armoire. I don’tknow how he managed my slumbering bulk or why I’m surprised by his audacity,but this confirms what I learned years ago.
The man has magic in his hands.
9
Aliquis latet error.
Some trickery lies hidden-Virgil.
Thenext night is much like the one before. Tom and I meet at twelve, and ride tothe mountains. I throw the scissors with my left hand until an hour or sobefore daybreak, and then we head home, like Romeo and Juliet after a romanticevening of weaponry.
We walk toward The Revels and Tom praises my efforts. You’rea natural attack artist, Hettie.
He takes my hand and twirls me around. My feet get tangled, andTom pulls me against him. We sway side to side, and it occurs to me that we’redancing. Perhaps it is my fatigue or the early hour, but this ridiculousgesture seems so sweet.
You know, Tom. Once I become the Mistress of the Blade, Icould branch out and get a gun. Transform into the Countess of the Colt, theDueling Duchess, the Baroness of Bullets.
His laughter is soft enough to be a short intake of breath. Ibow to My Lady Smith and Wesson.
Actually, that’s brilliant. How difficult can it be toshoot? I need a boot pistol immediately.
One instrument of death at a time, love. Let’s not get aheadof ourselves.
Tom kisses me goodnight, and I leave him with reluctance. Youdidn’t take liberties when you brought me upstairs last night, did you?
Absolutely not. I’m a country gentleman.
I squeeze his hand before entering my home via the library. Tomwhispers in my mind as I close the door and lock it.
I did enjoy the lace on that chemise though. Very pretty.
This makes me smile as I tiptoe up the stairs and into my room.I can tell Cordelia is asleep, but luckily, there is no snoring. Thank heavenfor small favors.
I undo the hooks at the top of my dress and slip it over my head,drop the petticoat, unlace my boots, and get into bed. I mean business now. Ido not
