“Then I think you’re volunteering yourself for a fencing demonstration, aren’t you?” Coach asked brightly.
Aiden shrugged. “A display is more suited to my particular skill set.”
Everything else in his life had gone wrong. He wasn’t doing that essay.
The upkeep of the Kingstone town hall was endowed by several illustrious former Kings Row students. There was a large gold clock face set in the gray stone façade of the building, and in gold letters over the double doors was written the Latin legend QUI MALA COGITAT MALITUS EIUS. Inside was a gleaming walnut platform that could be set up as a stage for mayoral debates, civil ceremonies, and—apparently—fencing demonstrations. It could hold upward of a thousand people.
The fencing demonstration in the Kingstone town hall proved extremely popular. Aiden wasn’t as skilled a fencer as Harvard or Seiji, but he had better showmanship than either.
He demonstrated a few simple fencing moves, then opened his fencing jacket to show the body cord beneath to a murmur of increasing general interest and described the parts of his blade and the process of a match. He showed the cross-section blade and bell guard of the épée, while Coach sighed besottedly about sabers.
“We call the end the point both because it’s where the point would be if there was one, and it’s the only part of the blade with which we can score points,” Aiden explained. “Which is the point.”
When he laughed, an amused ripple went through the crowd.
“It isn’t a particularly useful sport, is it?” asked one woman with a crown of stiffly processed gold hair and a rope of pearls.
Aiden winked at her. “Is any sport more useful than another? Besides, I should hope it’s obvious I’m mostly decorative.”
She chuckled when he did, persuaded to be charmed, and Aiden whirled into another demonstration. He explained that the épée he held was made of maraging steel, like the blades rated for international competitions. Maraging steel was ten times slower to crack under endless tiny pressure than carbon-steel blades.
“Some fencers say that maraging steel breaks cleaner, but that’s actually a myth.”
Nothing broke cleanly. A break was always jagged and messy, and inevitable. The only thing to do was put off the day of breaking for as long as possible.
A little footwork, a lot more laughing, and Aiden was ready to be done. His plan was to execute a balestra, then end with a lunge, a bow, and a flourish.
Instead, his gaze was caught by watchful dark eyes, set in the face of a woman standing at the back of the crowd. She was making no effort to be seen, but he saw her. Aiden changed his mind and ended the demonstration with an inquartata, an evasive movement hiding the front of his jacket, partially concealing the point where he could be attacked.
Then he ended the demonstration with a showy bow. He was as he was, and he refused to show he could be hurt by anything.
Aiden’s hair had come loose during the demonstration. He was tying it back up and stowing away his fencing gear when she approached. He’d been braced for her to do so.
Aiden had told Harvard about her once, on their first sleepover, and cried. “She said she wanted to be my real mother,” he’d confided, curled up under the covers in Harvard’s room, much smaller than Aiden’s room at home, and much warmer. “It wasn’t true.”
Safe in Harvard’s house, he’d thought of his own home, so big that cold echoes stayed longer than actual sounds, crammed full of shiny things that never stayed long.
“Most things aren’t real,” he’d whispered.
Harvard had held his hand. “I’m real. So are you. And you’re my best friend.”
Then Harvard had told him a story until Aiden could sleep. It was the first time they fell asleep holding hands.
Aiden believed in Harvard, but he didn’t believe in much more. Belief seemed too great a risk. Harvard was real, but nothing else was. Love was a child’s dream, and Aiden didn’t set himself up to be broken any longer.
Aiden was much taller than the Brazilian now. He imagined she must be shocked, remembering that pitiful kid he’d been, by how much he’d changed.
“Hello, Aiden,” she said. “Do you remember me at all? I used to know you, when you were very small. I was… a friend of your father’s.”
Aiden gave her his father’s shark smile and saw her flinch. “My father has a lot of friends. Check the tabloids.”
“No need,” she murmured. “I know.”
If she was hoping she could get back with his father, she didn’t have a chance. His father didn’t do repeats, and she was still beautiful, but not young in the latest-model way Dad insisted on.
“I’m sure you felt you were a match made in heaven, or at least somewhere else golden and shiny,” said Aiden, “but he’s a busy man. I’d say ask him, but actually, it’s usually best to ask his secretary.”
She laughed then, though the sound was rusty and painful, not like the laughter Aiden usually wished to inspire. He wanted to be wry and in control, wanted to force life to be easy.
Only everything seemed difficult lately.
She said, “We were a match made in hell. Believe me, I didn’t come here to talk about your father. There was only one reason I stayed with him for as long as I did.”
“Let me take a wild guess,” Aiden drawled. “Could it be money?”
Her dark eyes were level. “It was you, Aiden. You were the sweetest kid, and I hated the thought of leaving you in that big empty house all alone. He didn’t even let me say goodbye. I know you must hardly remember me, and it might sound strange to hear, but I really loved you.”
She must need money now.
“That’s extremely touching,” Aiden drawled. “But what can I say? This is so embarrassing. I can’t actually recall your name.”
There was a silence, ringing like a hand slapping hard across a face. Neither of them moved. Far away over her shoulder, Aiden could see the indifferent bustle of his former audience.
With an effort, the woman smiled. Her smile wasn’t even a good fake.
“Ah,” she said, and nodded. “Sorry to bother you, Aiden. I wish you all the best.”
She turned and walked away. Aiden listened to the sound of her retreating steps, and the door slamming. He waited for the screech of car wheels.
Coach Williams approached him instead. The coach was dressed in a gray suit rather than her usual bright sportswear, her hair trying to escape its pins. She was also wearing a different expression than normal.
“Demonstration went well, didn’t it?” Aiden spoke lightly. “Don’t think I will be doing another, however. Next time you must content yourself with a less alluring model. Be brave, Coach. Don’t weep at the thought of unworthy substitutes.”
“What did you say to her?” Coach asked.
“Who?” Aiden returned, slinging his bag carelessly over his shoulder and picking up an épée.
He swished the sword about, watching the play of light on steel, and the dancing shadow against the wall. He refused to meet Coach’s eyes after that first glance.
“She came to one of the very few matches you actually attended your first year on the team, and I saw how she watched you,” Coach informed him. “She came to a match you didn’t attend last year, and I saw she was disappointed.”