I make a few halfhearted attempts to hit him until a familiar chittering sound draws my attention toward the fence along the edge of the woods. I gasp. “Eugene!”
“No, I’m Jett, remember?” Jett grins as he swings his sword at me again.
“No, that’s Eugene!” I use my blade to point at my squirrel, who is sitting on a nearby fence post, tiny paws raised and dark eyes following our clumsy dance across the yard. His tail is swishing with agitation, as if he really thinks I’m in danger.
Jett spares half a glance toward the fence, but doesn’t seem to realize that my focus has shifted entirely away from thefight. I turn to gape at the squirrel, just as Jett’s practice sword whooshes toward my ribs.
I see the blade coming out of the corner of my eye and instinctively, I try to jump out of the way. My heel catches in a divot, sending me sprawling backward into the dirt.
“Sorry!” Jett’s laughter rings out across the yard and he extends a calloused hand.
I take it, grumbling under my breath. “In what way was that ‘going easy on me?’”
“Sorry,” he says again, hauling me to my feet. “That really wasn’t bad though, you just need more practice and not to get distracted. Let’s try again.”
Eugene sits on the fence and watches us practice for another half an hour. I feel like I might actually get the hang of it, and I’m in a fairly good mood when a prickle of awareness suddenly travels up my spine.
I’m embarrassed, but not entirely surprised, when I spot Fox leaning casually against the nearby barn, arms crossed and eyes on us.
I motion to Jett to stop, and he turns to see what has caught my attention this time. Seeing Fox, he raises a hand in greeting. “Afternoon, mate!” he says brightly. “We were just practicing.”
Fox pushes off the stable wall and strides toward us, sunlight glinting off his pale hair and the silver sword at his hip. His eyes are narrowed on me. “Your stance was all wrong.”
The smile slides off my face and a prickle runs down my neck. “Excuse me?”
Most people would at least go through the motions of polite conversation, by asking what we’re doing and offering to help. Fox doesn’t bother with any of that. He pauses to unstrap his real sword and toss it aside, then spares Jett a nod before snatching the wooden practice sword out of his hand without asking.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Your stance is wrong,” Fox repeats, widening his eyes at me as though it’s obvious. “Try again.”
“I was almost finished for the day. I don’t need your help.”
Fox raises an eyebrow at me, in an expression that says: “You clearly do.”
Feeling overwhelmed, I look to Jett for help, but he backs away with a shrug and a half-smile that says he’s relieved to be dismissed.
“Don’t you have soldiers to train?” I ask Fox, feeling slightly desperate.
Fox shakes his head once. “They’ll survive without me.”
I close my eyes. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s probably right—I do need his help. Jett is fun to talk to, but if I really want to do this right, I should have asked Fox in the first place. I can’t even think of a good reason why I didn’t, which must mean that there isn’t one.
“Fine,” I mumble. “What am I doing wrong?”
More focused than I’ve ever seen him, Fox gives me an apprising once-over. I’m too aware of my body, like my skin is humming, even though I can tell that he’s not really looking atme; he’s looking at a problem he’s about to try to solve.
“Move your feet wider apart,” Fox says without inflection.
Already regretting everything about this, I shift my feet a few inches wider, my practice sword hanging limp at my side.
Fox circles me, eyes scanning every inch of my body. A shiver travels down my spine and goosebumps erupt along my arms. He taps my ankle with the flat of his own wooden blade. “Wider.”
I shuffle my feet again, and Fox frowns, still not satisfied. He steps between my legs and uses the side of his boot to kick my feet open even more. “There, that’s good. Now raise your blade.”
“I don’t see how this is sturdier than standing straight,” I mumble, as I raise my sword in front of me.
He doesn’t answer, but finally seems satisfied with my stance, and moves on to adjusting what feels like every other muscle in my body. His fingers brush my elbow as he adjusts my grip, his touch impersonal and cool. Then he catches my shoulders and turns them further outward, moves my elbow a quarter inch higher, and taps my hip until I shift my weight onto my other foot. He even grips my jaw lightly, moving my head until I’m facing forward, chin tilted slightly toward the ground.
