We stare at each other. The wind howls. The flimsy light jerks with the violent swings of the lanterns. I can read nothing in his eyes, dark and becoming darker, but a blank intensity that makes my breath emerge with a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob. My entire body shakes with the effort of holding him back.
I yank my sword toward myself, dodging just in time as he staggers forward, unbalanced. He seemed about to crash into the decaying wall. But with a hard slam of his free hand against the masonry, he vaults himself into a sideways somersault.
I leap atop the wall. As he lands on his feet, I dive from my perch and strike from above. He meets my blade with his own. I pivot as soon as I touch ground so he won’t be able to trap me again.
He does not immediately attack. Three paces apart, we circle each other, our blades gleaming coldly.
Patience, Father has always counseled. Patience and concentration.
I don’t find it difficult to concentrate when there is something to concentrate on—a weapon lashing my way always has my undivided attention. But in a lull my focus splinters. My ears listen to his footsteps to gauge whether he walks more quietly than I do. My gaze flickers over his clothes—what can their style and construction tell me? My fingers flex and tighten around the handle of my sword, and I’m again envious that he can carry his priceless blade into combat and I’m not allowed to use mine even at home.
“Hua xiong-di’s footwork has improved,” he declares softly.
My eyes narrow. He hasn’t exactly paid me a compliment, as I had to rely on footwork to get out of an undesirable position.
“Yuan xiong’s strength has also improved,” I retort.
That is practically an insult, to comment on a swordsman’s vigor rather than his skill.
He laughs. “It will be an epic battle, won’t it, our duel?”
Father has taught me that I should feel only utmost vigilance toward the duel. But each time I’ve met Yuan Kai, beneath my trepidation, there has been a . . . thrill—as if some part of me wants a contest that lasts luxuriously, from dawn to dusk.
I spring and attack, my jabs quick and just a little agitated. I can’t be sure, but I seem to have caught him off guard. He parries, but his blade meets mine a fraction of a second too late each time. If I were fighting like that, Father would have sharp words for me. In fact, I find myself tempted to tell Yuan Kai to do better.
Our swords brace. The previous time, he applied overwhelming force; now, just enough to ensure that I don’t hack into him. We stand toe to toe, nothing but crossed blades between us.
He studies me—not my technique, but my face, as if he has forgotten the precise arrangement of my features. As if he would rather look at me than fight me.
Does he ever think of me?
I think of him constantly. And when I do, it is often accompanied by a sharp pinch in the heart, a pang of loss. For what, I don’t know, because we are only opponents and we can only be opponents. But sometimes my thoughts run away with me, and in my daydreams we roam the shores of Lake Tai in spring, as peach blossoms drift onto our path. Sometimes we even sit on the bow of a small boat and glide across the lake, under the golden and crimson sky of a summer sunset.
In my daydreams the duel does not mark the last time I would ever see him.
Does the frail, flickering light seem to trace a line across his forehead? Is that a crease of concentration—or a scar? If it is a scar, how did he come by it in that perilous spot?
With a start, I realize I have lifted my other hand, as if I intend to touch that perhaps-scar. Our eyes meet again. He does not look away and neither do I.
A gust roars past. The lanterns gutter, once, twice—and extinguish. The near-dawn plunges back into darkness.
We leap apart as if we’ve been caught in something illicit.
I inhale slowly. His indrawn breath too is carefully even. Silence spreads, broken only by the restless wind, bumping lanterns into gateposts and rattling the roof tiles that still remain on the shrine. In the distance, the Northern town that serves as my new home is almost uniformly dark, with only a few lit windows. And the city gate won’t open for at least the time of a meal.
Abruptly he says, “I take my leave of Hua xiong-di.”
I exhale. But my relief at not having lost to him is immediately superseded by the questions that always plague me at his visits. Does he have his family’s permission to seek me out? How is it that he can find me, South or North? And why did he visit me twice in quick succession, making me believe that we would see each other regularly, and then disappear for almost two years—only to reemerge now, little more than a month from the duel?
“Yuan xiong must excuse me for not escorting him farther along his path,” I reply, back to courtesy and politesse. “I trust we will meet again.”
We sheathe our swords and salute each other. He walks to his horse, pins on a cloak, and mounts, his motion easy, fluid.
From atop his steed, he murmurs, “A shame, isn’t it?”
I frown. “What is a shame?”
“That we were born into this rivalry.” He gazes at me. “Had we met under different circumstances, we could have been . . . friends.”
And then he is off, his cloak streaming behind him, a great wind-whipped shadow.
* * *
Click for your copy of The Magnolia Sword.
* * *
Want to know when the next Sherry Thomas novel will be released? Sign up for her newsletter at www.sherrythomas.com. You can also find her on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.
More Books by Sherry Thomas
The Lady Sherlock Books (Historical Mystery)
1. A Study in Scarlet Women
What if the great fictional detective was inspired by the exploits of a real woman named Charlotte Holmes? This is the story of how Charlotte became Sherlock.
An NPR Best Book of 2016.
2. A Scandal in Belgravia
Charlotte’s newest client is desperate to find her disappeared lover—and said lover is none other than Charlotte’s illegitimate half-brother.
An NPR Best Book of 2017
3. The Hollow of Fear
When the estranged wife of Charlotte’s dear friend Lord Ingram is discovered dead on his estate, all signs point to him as the murderer. With Scotland Yard closing in, Charlotte goes under disguise to find out the truth.
An NPR Best Book of 2018
4. The Art of Theft
Mrs. Watson’s old friend is in desperate need of assistance. But in agreeing to help her, have Charlotte and Company taken on too great a challenge?
This is the heist story Sherry has always wanted to write
5. Murder on Cold Street
Inspector Treadles, Charlotte Holmes’s friend and collaborator, has been found locked in a room with two dead men, both of whom worked with his wife at the great manufacturing enterprise she has recently inherited.
“With an increasingly beloved detective crew, this Victorian mystery offers thrills and sharp insights into human behavior.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
6. Miss Moriarty, I Presume?