About a week after Amalia had sent her letter, Lady Margaret’s reply arrived.

My dearest Soon-to-be Sister-in-Law. How lovely to hear from you for the first time. I would naturally accept your offer, except I am loathe to send such an important document on its own through the empire. It would be a shame if it were lost. Fortunately, I am holding a tea party in two week’s time, upon the eve of summer’s end. Come to tea then, and I shall think about giving it to you. If you do not come, I will assume you are happy to leave it in my hands. With love and affection, Lady Margaret von Silberwald.

Amalia was fucked.

She had expected some resistance. Lady Margaret was no pushover, and would not allow her great enemy to so quickly slip from her fingers. She meant to test Amalia, to see if she truly was as cruel a mistress as she had promised to be. And Amalia would go, just to prove she was.

Here came the problem.

Amalia had not been to tea in many a year. She no longer owned any tea gowns that would fit her, nor did she have any desire to purchase one. She had not worn a dress in many years. She would not start again now.

Standing from her desk, she stretched her back. Striding to her room, she changed from her waistcoat and slipped a simpler tunic over her breeches. Tying her black hair in a braid down her back, she took her saber from its place and strolled to the back garden. 

It was empty. Though the sun shone bright that day, gusts of wind blew across the treetops, cooling the air. Amalia shut her eyes to enjoy the atmosphere, and began to drill with her sword.

She ought to reply to Lady Margaret today, so that her presence would be anticipated. How should she phrase it, such that Margaret would suspect nothing of Amalia’s true goals? She was pleased to receive an invitation and would see Margaret then? Perhaps she could state her excitement to see her brother. Eberhard was staying with her in Silberwald, after all.

She smiled, despite herself. It would be nice to see him again.

Opening her eyes, Amalia noticed she had gained a small audience. Euphemie stood by the tea table, watching impassively. Her face betrayed no emotion.

At the sight of her, Amalia stopped her drilling. Though she could not have been at it for more than an hour, some of the accrued stress of Lady Margaret had melted away. Some.

“May I help you?” Amalia asked. Quietly, she noted the dusting of pink on Euphemie’s cheeks. Was she overheated? Amalia strolled over to check.

Euphemie shook her head. “I was curious. I have seen you cut the air so many times. Just who are you murdering in your mind?”

Amalia frowned. “Nobody. I’m only performing drills. Surely you must have seen Prince Leopold practice the sword.”

“He was always sparring with someone,” Euphemie said. “You practice alone, it seems.”

“My sparring partner is marrying the Lady of Silberwald,” Amalia sighed. “So I am alone.”

Euphemie’s expression changed at the mention of Lady Margaret. Amalia winced; she ought not to have mentioned it. She did not like it when Euphemie’s expression grew so downturned. She looked like a mourner at a funeral; Amalia’s drab old dresses did not help.

Desperate to change the subject, Amalia could not help but pry. “I saw that you purchased nothing in town.”

“I do not wish to burden you, Lady Amalia,” Euphemie replied, as though her presence was some sort of grand inconvenience. 

Fuck it.

“Please,” Amalia said. “Burden me.”

“You... wish... to be burdened? I thought you had some selfish motive, bringing me here.” Euphemie crossed her arms. Amalia caught sight of a fingernail, healthy and pink. 

“I do,” Amalia said. “So burden me, Euphemie.”

Euphemie reached into her pocket. Amalia wondered if she was fingering the knife.

“Fine,” Euphemie muttered. Slowly, she drew the dagger from her pocket. “Teach me to use this properly, then.”

Amalia nodded. Laying her sword on the table, she gestured to the garden.

“Come with me then. I'll teach you the basics.”

Euphemie followed, the dagger clutched between white knuckles.

“First,” Amalia began, holding out her open palms, “your grip.”

“I am holding it, am I not?” Euphemie waved her hand around. The blade pointed upward, to the sky.

“You are holding it like a kitchen knife,” Amalia said. “That is one way, but with a circular dagger like this, you have no need to cut. Stabbing from below may be awkward. If I may demonstrate.”

She placed a hand upon Euphemie’s, and drew the blade toward herself, poking the very edge against her stomach.

“This would still work, would it not?” asked Euphemie.

“In a pinch, yes,” Amalia informed her. “But there are other ways to hold a dagger. May I change your grip?”

Euphemie nodded. Amalia removed the dagger from her hand, turning it so the blade pointed to the earth instead. Then she returned Euphemie’s palm to it, positioning the fingers and thumb properly. Amalia could not help but notice as she did so that Euphemie’s hand was small and soft compared to her own. She swallowed.

“This is better?” Euphemie asked, raising the dagger a little. 

“It is,” Amalia confirmed, raising Euphemie’s hand and the blade with it. “Now when you strike, gravity will be on your side. It offers good defense, as well.”

“Show me,” Euphemie said.

“Just a moment,” Amalia replied. “Let's work on your stance.”

She spent the next few minutes walking Euphemie through footwork, how her stance should be loose but ready, her weight resting on the balls of her feet, which ought to be shoulder-width apart, the front pointed to the target, the back angled slightly outward. Then she helped Euphemie understand how to position her torso, how to hold her arms, the dagger high enough to protect her heart and strike in equal measure.

“For an offensive stance, you can hold the dagger out,” Amalia continued. “If you want something a little more defensive, you can switch your feet and hold out your empty palm instead, to intercept your opponent’s blade.”

Euphemie raised an eyebrow. “To sacrifice it?”

“No,” said Amalia. “To grapple them. I can demonstrate, if you would like.”

“Please do,” said Euphemie. 

Amalia melted into a stance that mirrored Euphemie, her empty palm raised and ready. 

“Strike me,” she said.

Euphemie frowned. “I do not wish to injure you.”

“I haven't even taught you to stab properly yet, and you still have drills to learn,” Amalia stated. “You will not.”

“Very well,” Euphemie said, and struck. As the dagger barreled through the air, Amalia stepped forward, catching Euphemie’s forearm with the back of her own and curling around it, tucking it beneath her bicep. 

All of a sudden, Euphemie was far too close. Her body was near enough to Amalia that she could feel the warmth of it, could see how the orange glow of sunset struck Euphemie’s green eyes like gems, how her hair seemed almost iridescent beneath it. 

When had it become sunset? How long had they been outside?

Euphemie tugged her arm away. Amalia let her go, stepping back.

“My apologies if I scared you,” she said. “That was called a grapple.”

Euphemie let out a great sigh, then straightened. “Teach me that next. Please.”

“Very well. But it is quite late, and I hate to use something so sharp in the dark.” Amalia thought for a moment. “If you like, I could spend an hour teaching you each day.”

“I would,” Euphemie said. “Thank you, my Lady.”

She curtseyed and turned as though to leave, sheathing and pocketing the dagger.

Remembering something important, Amalia shut her eyes. “Wait.”

Euphemie turned, and the wind caught the golden strands of her hair. “What is it?”

“I have received a letter from Lady Margaret, inviting me to tea,” Amalia began. “I will have a chance to convince her to award me your contract. If I am successful, you will be a free woman. I swear it.”

Euphemie cocked her head the way a cat might. “You speak as though you ride into battle.”

“I have never survived a tea party unscathed,” Amalia informed her. “I do not even have a tea dress anymore.”

Euphemie’s green eyes bored into Amalia then. Her gaze traveled down her tunic to her breeches, then her hose and boots, then raked its way back up to her face. Amalia felt it tear through her like a knife, flaying open her clothes and the skin beneath, to see the raw flesh within.

“Do not try to be some delicate lady; you are not one and never shall be,” Euphemie said. 

Amalia winced. “Then you think I shall fail.”

“I said no such thing. You are an arresting figure, Lady Amalia. Go in the clothes you would normally wear, as yourself. See what happens then.”