Maisey and I check the posted matchup list. I go to post sixteen, and she goes to post five. Judah, once again, stands all the way across the room. Neither of them is close enough to distract or defend me from the lingering looks or stray whispers that I can neither confirm nor deny is about me.

The first pairs have slow, contemplative matches. Destik handily wins his round at number four, but I expect no less from him. The matches pick up some speed by Maisey’s turn in the lane, but they also steadily grow sloppier. Maisey, herself, loses her nearly tied match, but Ach’erti Alderman cares as much about form and fundamentals as he does about the final point score. She should have a good grade in the balance.

Adelaide, though, despite this being her first class session, is already slotted at number eleven. She falters against Nolan at first, but she recovers and wins her bout handily. While the rest of the class offers the same polite applause at her victory as they do after the rest of the matches, I clap wildly. I see Maisey give a “whoop” through her cupped hands next to Judah.

I step toward the center as the next pair don their face masks and enter the lane. I scowl when I realize who my test partner is.

“Oh, dear,” Edith mutters with a smirk. “It seems I have my work cut out for me.”

“Ach’erti Alderman thinks I’m just as good as you are, Edith. Now, stop talking before you get us both in trouble.” I busy myself by re-tying my hair into a bun to fit under my helmet better.

“Don’t you worry your pure and decent heart, Klóe. You don’t have to talk. And who says you have to listen, anyway? You could just tell Ach’erti Alderman it was all my doing.”

Your permission is unwarranted and unnecessary. Oh, how I wish I could snarl that in Judah’s voice. Edith would wilt and whimper like a shamed raptor.

She chuckles to herself again as the two fencers slide back and forth in the lane. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, though. I understand. I made sure the rest of the class does, too.”

I roll my eyes. I can’t be bothered to care what she means.

But what does she mean?

I pivot toward her. “What did you do?”

Edith lifts her chin with a self-satisfied smile. “Oh, a favor. For you. I know you can be shy about these kinds of things, so I—”

“Miss Foster-Price, I will deduct points from your final score should you continue to chatter.”

Ach’erti Alderman faces us from across the fencing lane, about twenty feet away. His face mask rests between the crook of his elbow and his torso. Two of my classmates stand between him and us. They seem to welcome the respite with hunched backs and dangling arms.

Edith drawls out her response. “Yes, Ach’erti Alderman.” She smiles and practically flutters her eyelashes.

His eye twitches. With no further response, he returns his attention to the students immediately before him and starts their round.

I want to be grateful for the silence beneath clangs and soft grunts, but a nagging suspicion makes me desperate to find out exactly what Edith did. I glance askance at her. Each time, I find her watching me with a tiny, growing smirk.

Before long, the match is won. The rest of the students cheer politely. Edith leans toward me while I still barely have the wherewithal to clap.

“I convinced the mouthiest folks in the class not to spread the news that Ach’erti Alderman rejected your advances.”

I clasp my hands over my chest so fast that I knock my face mask from the crook of my elbow. It clatters next to my feet. The applause dies down.

I want to hit her. Or maybe just yell at her. Pulling her precious curled hair out, as cathartic as that could be, would do nothing to disabuse the class of the lie that she fed them. Instead, I seethe in place.

As the pair ahead of us walk toward the opposite wall, Ach’erti Alderman turns to us and extends an arm. “Miss Foster-Price, Miss DiRossi.”

Edith nods. “Of course, Ach’erti Alderman.” As she puts her face mask on, she kicks mine toward the lane. She makes a show of apologizing and picking up my mask for me, turning her back to Ach’erti Alderman.

She shoves my face mask against my chest. I try to pull it from her, but she tightens her grip. She leans toward me.

I can see the sneer through her black mesh as well as I can hear it in her whisper.

“Don’t you ever besmirch my demeanor again, Klóe. I am the most refined diamond you will ever lay eyes on. After I’m done with you, nobody will believe you otherwise.”

I rip my mask from her grasp.

“Why the delay, you two?”

Edith continues to her starting point. “I was just giving Miss DiRossi some last-minute advice, Ach’erti.”

I jerk my mask over my head and pull the straps tightly enough to keep my head from exploding. I take my position across from Edith and pull out my blade.

She turns to Ach’erti Alderman. “Please, grade Klóe just like you would any other student?” She steps back and raises her epee to a relaxed, slightly upward angle. “On guard, Klóe?”

I try to push the snide comments from my mind. I must remember the crux of what Ms. Onlarion has impressed on me: use my tools with clarity and purpose, or not at all.

I square my hips. I hold the epee nearly perpendicular to my thigh. I grind my teeth.

“On guard, Edith.”

In the corner of my obscured vision, Ach’erti Alderman throws down his arm and steps back.

Instead of surging forward and thrusting my epee into her chest, I pull its point up and force myself to take a measured half-step.

Edith must have anticipated a rush; she hops back twice with a light twirl of her blade.

I need to use her presumptions against her, but I can barely think with her smug, obnoxious voice in the back of my mind.

I press forward, and she retracts more. On a flash of insight, I hop back a step. She circles and closes the distance. I retreat another two steps and lower the point of my blade. Edith rushes forward with a strong, but uncontrolled, thrust. I lean back and sweep her blade away with a flick of my wrist. She is so close, and I am so furious, that my blade seems to fold up on itself when I stab her in the center of her chest.

The class exclaims amid a smattering of applause as Ach’erti Alderman announces the point earned.

“You don’t deserve the few fake friends you have,” I whisper before disengaging.

I feel vindicated walking back to my position. I scored cleanly, I quipped well, and the rumormonger had nothing for a response. I reset as rigidly as before and await Ach’erti Alderman’s signal.

Edith, on the other hand, trembles on her way back to her spot. From anger or shame, I couldn’t care less. She should feel how awful she’s been.

The instructor signals. Edith approaches much less timidly than I. Our blades clatter together. We trade and block strikes and thrusts until we fight in so closely to each other that our hilts meet.

“You should thank me,” Edith says. “The other girls were starting to talk.” In my confusion, Edith slides around my guard and slaps my shoulder with her blade.

“Illegal hit,” Ach’erti Alderman calls. He steps toward Edith as we return to our starting points. “Focus on what you’re doing, Miss Foster-Price.”

“Of course, sir.” The false cordiality is gone from her voice.

We reset and restart. Neither of us rush in. We make quick, exploratory swipes and prods, but stay outside each other’s reach. Edith knocks my blade away and steps into my guard. I barely flick my wrist to parry the attack. I try to retreat, but she stays on me well enough to tag my knee. She walks slowly to stay near me as we reset.

“They said such strange things,” Edith mutters. “I thought I should correct their assumptions.”

“You’ve done me no favors.”

Ach’erti Alderman signals, and I come at her with simmering anger. The clatter of our epees is short. I hit her low on the collarbone, and she touches my hip. Ach’erti Alderman awards us both a point.

Edith whips her blade tip across my torso as she withdraws. “No favors, indeed.”

I whirl around at my starting point. “Just shut up and fight me!”

“I have heard enough out of both of you.” Ach’erti Eldermoon stands between us. “I don’t know what has you two hissing and snapping at each other like a basket of basilisks, but when you enter my dojo, you leave those distractions at the front door. If you intend to be good-faith sportsfolk, meet me in the middle, shake hands, and apologize to each other.”

My neck burns. How can I shake that cave hag’s hand? How can I honestly attempt, or even feign, empathy with such a proficient liar? Why do I have to hang my grade in this class on my relationship to such a horrid girl?

But how could I fail Daddy after he persuaded Mom to let him enroll me here? None of my brothers walked away. None of them failed. How can I look Daddy in the eye and tell him I was so arrogant that I couldn’t practice good sportsfolkship with some brat with loose lips and a poison mind?

I clench my jaw and gulp. I approach Ach’erti Alderman; before I’m even halfway to him, Edith rushes forward as nonchalantly as she can pretend, reaching him before I do. Instead of shaking my head, I hold out my hand.

“I forgive your transgression, Edith. And I apologize for my outburst.”

She nods once and steps forward to grab my hand. “I accept your apology.”

I start to recoil just as Ach’erti Alderman speaks.

“Miss Foster-Price, you will reciprocate Miss DiRossi’s apology, or I will look forward to explaining your failure to your parents.”

Edith closes her eyes and sighs. “I’m sorry for damaging your concentration.” She grasps my hand and pumps it once; before I can close my fingers around hers, she throws my hand down and walks to her starting point.

Ach’erti Alderman stares at Edith and exhales calmly. “To your position, Miss DiRossi.”

I grip my hilt and follow his command. Ach’erti Eldromoon himself calls the on-guards, first to me, then to Edith. Once we confirm, he begins the final round.

I’m much more cautious now than in my earlier rounds. I may have regained some of my focus, but Edith quakes with something wild.

We step closer and closer. Her sword starts wavering from side to side, but I hold steady. When she swings around for my shoulder, I deflect her with more strength than I expected to need, which turns out to be just enough to keep me from countering. She recovers and strikes, again and again, leaving me on the defensive for far longer than Destik does. For all the strength behind her thrusts and swings, her speed leaves no opening for me to penetrate. When I pivot to dodge the point of her epee aimed at my shoulder again, I realize something.

Edith has me in a pattern. A long pattern, but a pattern, nonetheless. It’s almost become like muscle memory. I need to break the pattern before Edith does.

I swipe my epee down in front of me to warn Edith farther back. I thrust. She blocks the attack and guides our locked blades to the dojo floor.

“Nice maneuver, Klóe. Did your golem teach you that?”

I gasp and tighten my grip.

I push her back and swing at her midsection. I recover and thrust as hard as I can at where I thought her torso would be. She pivots and leans back. My blade scrapes across hers as she holds it parallel to her sternum. I can’t stop until before I expose myself to her.

She whips around me and shoves the point of her epee into my right shoulder. The added momentum pushes me forward. I fall with my sword hand stretched out in front of me, useless to catch me before I land flat on my chest.

My classmates exclaim softly. Their applause is a little louder, but it can’t cover up the laughter, sprinkled throughout the crowd and vibrating through my guts.

It’s over. I lost the match, probably failed the test. Even my reputation seems to have slipped away from me in little more than an hour.

I let go of the epee and push myself onto my hands and knees. Through my mask, I see white-clad, folken shapes of different heights and sizes still clapping, some… pointing?

How long has it been? And why are they so much louder now? Why are they celebrating Edith’s victory?

Oh. No, of course, not.

They’re mocking me. For losing control, for losing the match. They mock me for a failed seduction that didn’t happen, in which I am neither interested nor involved.

I hang my head and focus on my gloved, splayed-out hands. I turn away from my classmates and their noises. My eyes start to sting.

I scramble forward and clamber onto my feet. I don’t stop moving, not even after I shove through the doors to the dojo.