Morgan’s eyes grew wide with unease. “I, well, no. I found few opportunities to brawl while living in a parsonage under the nose of a vicar.”
“Few?”
“Uh. None, actually.”
He began removing his coat. “That won’t do. I must teach you to throw a punch. Remove your coat.”
Morgan pulled his coat tighter. “I will not remove my coat.”
While Steadman rolled up his sleeves, his creeping suspicion rose on hind legs to sniff the wind. “Very well. I will try to not damage your cherished garment. Now, make two fists.”
Morgan did. “Like this?”
“Not with your thumb inside your fingers. You will break it with the first punch. Besides, unhindered thumbs remain free to gouge eyes and other orifices.”
The color drained from Morgan’s face, but he complied and then copied Steadman’s boxer stance. Fairly effectively, he noted. He stepped towards Morgan.
“Jab, uppercut, ribs.” He threw his fists at the boy in alternation, leaving each punch short by an inch, eliciting a wince from his pupil. “These are the tools of your combat. Now, show me.”
He followed Steadman’s instruction, throwing the three-punch combination in the air. “Good. Again, but with more aggression. As if your father stood before you now.”
Morgan complied with marked improvement. He couldn’t help but smile. “I believe you may have tickled his jaw just then. Repeat, but faster, sharper, and with more violence, and then again.”
While Morgan flung her fists at the air, Steadman prodded. “Faster! Harder! Hit the man!”
After two minutes, Morgan was huffing for breath.
“Stop,” Steadman said. “Rest a moment.”
Morgan leaned with hands on knees, breathing hard. “I believe…I have just…defeated my first shadow.”
“Perhaps. I will verify with the shadow later.” He peered at Morgan, daring to see what he suspected. “But a shadow does not punch back. Stand up.”
Morgan stood, cheeks flushing with exertion. “Yes?”
“Hit me.”
“Sir?”
“Hit me, hard.”
Morgan threw the combination, tapping him lightly.
“Hit me, I said. This is not a tickle fight.”
The next combination came harder, but not enough to leave more than a momentary sting. He stepped towards Morgan. “Hit me, by the devil! As if I mean to kill you if you fail to knock me to the dirt!”
Morgan’s eyes flew wide, his jaw flexed, and he threw a murderous combination at Steadman. The jab caught him on the bridge of the nose, the uppercut rocked his jaw, and rib shot sent a pulse through his backbone. He staggered back in surprise and rubbed his nose while Morgan shook the sting from his hands with a persistent grimace. When the lad glanced up at Steadman, a look of horror rippled across his face.
“Sir! Your nose! Your jaw! I did not mean to…” In an instant, Morgan closed the gap between them and laid a palm against his jaw. Softly. They froze together, as if insects preserved in amber for all time, exchanging stares. The touch ofherhand became his entire universe for the space of two heartbeats before he grabbed it and peeled it away from his cheek. The action unlocked Morgan.Sheblanched and yanked away the hand.
“Steadman. I…I am…” Morgan spun away without another word and disappeared into the inn.
Steadman stood rooted to the spot for another minute as the impossible notion consumed the entirety of his mind. Only when he had decided how to address the notion did he follow Morgan inside.
Chapter Eight
Morgan flew awake in the night, consumed by the twin monsters of dread and regret that loom largest when the hours are smallest. After tossing in her bed for a long time, she surrendered all hope of sleep and rose in darkness. When she had tossed and turned the night before, she had used the cover of darkness to steal to the river to bathe. A peek through the window told her that dawn was coming. Dare she venture out again? Before anyone stirred? More importantly, before Steadman stirred? After vacillating, she pulled on her pantaloons and slipped outside with towel and soap to repeat her new ritual.
