Glancing upward to center myself, I stare at the ceiling. In what I imagine to be an attempt to make us feel like we’re not trapped beneath solid earth and rock, it’s painted with a less-gruesome landscape than the great hall. The bright blue scenespattered with thick white clouds and ringed by the imposing Dolomites, it allows me to pretend I’m looking at the northern Italian sky through a fish-eye lens. The longer I stare at it, though, the more I miss the real outdoors.
My gaze falls back to Cec, as the instructor yells, “Let’s get started.”
We do as she asks, following her every direction until she has us practicing the moves on our own with our partners.
“This class is duller than the swords they gave us,” I note, feigning to the left and easily avoiding Cec’s arching swing.
His blade slices through the air a few feet from me, the effort loosening his grip on the hilt. He’s been fighting me with his left hand—which I’ve learned is his dominant one when it comes to weaponry—but he lifts the sparring sword with both hands now. Hair pulled back, sweat drips down his face, his clouded eyes squinted in determination.
“Yes, well, some of us are unable to rely on our ocular sense, so we must train ourselves to trust in the others.”
A few beads of sweat have formed on my own forehead. “And some of us have been sword-fighting all our lives.”
“I’m not sure I’d put fencing and sword-fighting in the same category. It takes more strength to wield a blade like this.”
He’s not wrong about that: this broad sword is heavier than any fencing sword I’ve fought with before. Luckily for me, training with Cec means I’ve barely had to lift it.
All around us, dozens of order members clash with their practice swords. The ringing of clanging metal poisons the stale air. Others on the outskirts can be found boxing or lifting weights or doing some form of yoga.
Refocusing my attention to the task at hand, I watch Cec try to sense where I am over the cacophony of noise in here. It’s not going well. When he approaches a tall, muscled man he somehow thinks is me and taps his calf with the broad side ofthe sword, I nearly burst out laughing. The man curses at him in French, and Cec scuttles away.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Cec mutters. Scowling in my direction, he raises his sword again.
In truth, though, I wish Cec and I could fight on equal ground. Partly so I don’t feel guilty about beating him, but mostly because Bes was right: Idoneed to work out my anger.
Although I absolved Bes and Cec of Ansaldo’s plans, I can’t help wallowing in the remnants of my anger at them. Though they might not have known Ansaldo would force me to join the order, they knew outsiders aren’t exactly welcome to come and go as they please without swearing a blood oath. Though Bes claimed otherwise, they could’ve been aware of my family’s involvement in the order from the beginning.
Then again, if Ansaldo framed it to them as he said earlier, which positioned nonna as a friend and nothing more, then they were as much in the dark as I was about his plan once I arrived. They might’ve thought he was merely offering shelter for an old friend’s granddaughter.
You have to let it go, Mel.
“Giudice, Hawkins, what are you doing?” the trainer at the front of the room screeches. She observes us with thinly-veiled rage, the blue throbbing vein in her forehead visible even from a distance. “Stop moving your mouths and start moving your feet.”
“She’s an absolute joy,” I utter under my breath, squaring up again.
“About time someone knocked you down a peg.”
I grimace. “I’ll knockherdown a peg.”
“Don’t let her hear you,” Cec warns. “She’ll whip you with an actual whip, and not in the fun way.”
I open my mouth to reply, but someone cuts me off.
“I’ve been asked to relieve Cec of his duties.”
I turn to find Bes standing behind me, and my traitorous heart leaps in my chest. I didn’t even notice him enter the room.
He glances between us. “Though I don’t see much sparring going on.”
I shift my grip on my practice sword. I’ve never seen Bes fight with a blade before. Or any other weapon for that matter, besides a handgun. I think about the scars I’ve noticed on his knuckles, and figure he’s more of a fighter than I give him credit for.
This will be very interesting.
“Thank the gods,” Cec grumbles.
Before I can form a half-hearted protest, he hands his sword to Bes and takes off in the direction of the yoga group.
Turning to face Bes, I drink him in. A loose white tank top exposes his toned arms—the bullet wound from Claude somehow nothing but a pink fleshy scar. He covered the knife wound from the Blackshirt in the tunnel outside the club in Civitavecchia with gauze. His top is tucked into black shorts that reach to the middle of his thighs, followed by tall white socks and white sneakers. I glance down at my own boots, wishing I had my Chuck Taylor All Stars.
