Page 86 of The Black Table
“Really?” I say.
“Oh sure,” she says airily, linking her arm through mine. “I got dragged to plenty of these back when Kingston was still coming up. Guessmyhobbies weren’t ever worth wastinghistime on,” she grumbles. “At least back then.”
“I see.” I realize I don’t even fully understand their whole setup. “So, wait,” I ask her, “you’ve been in this little blended family since…”
“Feels like forever,” she says.“Toddlerhood at least. My mom was the side piece.”
“Oh,” I say. “Congratulations?”
Morgan cackles with laughter. “She’d love that. But yeah, got her claws into a rich one and brought me along with. That meant spending a lot of my formative years watching boys play withswords. At least until I finally got my way and they packed me off to boarding school.”
“There are worse ways to spend an evening,” I say. Like a…formal hall, for instance. “How long does this thing last?”
“In this case?” Morgan says. “Not very long. These guys make quick work of their enemies.”
We step into the field house, and although it’s ostensibly a gym, it sure doesn’t feel like it. The floors are polished wood, and the walls are paneled rather than cinderblock. There are steel beams crisscrossing the ceiling, but they’re all disguised in draped banners, almost like the ones at the formal hall. The windows are arched in typical Caliburn style, crisscrossed with latticework showing just the bleak expanse of the cold winter lake. Bleachers are set up around the edges and a single long strip of play area, I suppose, laid out in the middle of the room. There’s a table of judges, some sort of electronic scoring equipment, and the air smells like adrenaline, steel, and excitement.
On one side of the room hangs the familiar Caliburn banner, its crest and colors vibrant as ever, and on the other an unfamiliar one, green and yellow.
“The Université de Sainte-Odile,” Morgan says. “Quebecois, very snooty, or so I’ve heard.” She looks around, sweeping a gaze over the bleachers. “Don’t look now, but you are public enemy number one out here.”
I believe her. I only flick my gaze sideways to the bleachers, but I can feel the intensity of dozens of pairs of eyes on me. Elena’s made quick work of spreading rumors around the campus.
I hate this. I hate being seen, hate being perceived at all, especially by this many people at once. But Kingston wanted me here. And I don’t think I had a choice in the matter.
At least I could bring a friend.
“Pick a seat, any seat,” Morgan says, in a low tone so only Ican hear. “I don’t know that any one is gonna be any better than any other.”
“Fair enough,” I grumble back, thinking idly about quick exit strategies. I nod toward a gap in the second row on the opposite side, near to the stairs up.
“Works for me,” Morgan says.
As we cross the boards of the floor, my boots squeaking along the polish, I hear someone yell out, “Check out Ash Wednesday!” And a ripple of laughter sounds through the crowd. My cheeks go hot, but I keep my shoulders back and head high, the way Mom always claimed would give me confidence. It didn’t work in middle school, and it isn’t working now. But the only way out is through.
Morgan and I take our seats, a good three empty spaces between us and the rest of the crowd, but that’s probably for the best. I try to look for a bright side, try to be excited about something, and I realize I never have been to a fencing match—meet?—so that’ll at least be something.
“So what exactly are the stakes here?” I say to Morgan. “Like an NCAA thing, or…”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “Caliburn’s in a pretty small league, only…” She scrunches up her face. “Twelve or so schools, I think? They do this different kind of fighting, hence the small squads. Three swordsmen, three weapons, three bouts, that’s it. Anchor scoring, multi-weapon relay.”
“I see,” I say, even though I’m not really sure what most of those words mean in context.
Just in front of us, the team from Sainte-Odile is warming up, wearing their padded fencing attire with the high necks and broad shoulders, rigging themselves up to the wires that I suppose are the electronic scoring system. From somewhere in the back of the stands, I hear laughter getting louder and louder until someone calls out boisterously.
To me.
“Hey, I was just wondering,” he says, the smirk on his face tamped down unsuccessfully, “if you, uh, liked Alicia Keys.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess she’s fine. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Oh, you know,” he says, his breath beery, “becausethis girl is on fiiiiiiire.”
Oh my God. My eyes shimmer with a hint of tears, the back of my throat catching. It isn’t funny, even though he and his friends are cracking up. I tense my jaw and focus on the announcements, trying to drown them out.
A man has taken center stage, or the equivalent, and commanded attention, getting the crowd to murmur into quiet.
“My distinguished guests, Caliburn students, and those of our visiting opponents,” he says, “it is my pleasure to welcome you to the opening match of this year’s fencing season.”
