Page 12 of Hearts of Locke Hill

“Perhaps, Miss Violet,” Mr. Leopold said, “we should give you a longer epee.” He looked her up and down. “And a pair of stilts while we’re at it.”

Violet placed her hands at her hips, her dueling sword quivering at her side. “That would give me no advantage whatsoever.”

Cyril shrugged. “Do you think it an advantage to duel a pixie?”

“Apixie? I’m taller than Clara Montrose, and she is a year older than I am.” She stepped toward him. “If I’m a pixie, then you’re … you’re …”

“About to trounce you,” he said, replacing his mask. “En garde.”

“En garde,” Mr. Leopold repeated. “And, Miss Violet, try not to rip off your mask during a bout. It has a purpose.”

Scowling, Violet replaced her mask and took her stance. “A plus that I can’t see your smug face,” she muttered at her opponent.

“A bonus that I can’t see your sour one,” Cyril countered.

“Allez,” Mr. Leopold said, the command to begin.

“How does it feel?” Violet continued. Their repartee didn’t stop as they feinted, lunged, parried, advanced, and avoided. “To be beaten by a pixie, then?”

She sensed more than heard Cyril growl. “I. Wouldn’t. Know.” He disengaged ever so briefly. Then, with a shift of his stance, Violet gulped.

With that subtle movement, he became more hunter and she more prey.

He attacked.

Never had he dueled with her like this. “You’ve been going easy on me,” she said with some accusation as she parried his lunge.

“No,” he said, “I’m simply applying what I’ve been learning all these years.”

“Just now?” she asked, beating his epee to the right and following with a straight thrust.

He parried and advanced in a progressive attack she struggledto counter. “Why not?” he asked. “Pixies can be dangerous. Not a fear in them. Have you any?”

She stopped his hit at close quarters. “Any what?” She found herself wishing she could see his face to read him better.

“Fears.”

They stood, weapons pressed together even in their unequal heights.

He knew she did. She had many fears.

“Fight them,” he whispered. “Fight them right now.”

As she hesitated, he reassembled. “En garde.”

She reprised, gathering her emotions like horse-chestnut conkers ready to be thrown. She raised her epee with a steadying breath. “En garde.”

They advanced, and in the clash that followed, she rose to meet her opponent, Mr. Leopold calling out critique and encouragement as she and Cyril dueled. Violet gave as good as she got, the power of coordination, timing, and courage coursing through her until she was grinning, blinking away perspiration, both their chests heaving with every breath. Amidst all the balance and push and fight—a thrill of a dance building inside her—a laugh burst forward. A wonder-filled, fear-shedding, delighted laugh.

She disengaged—to Cyril’s obvious surprise—lowering her epee, standing in her knee skirt and fencing jacket, ripping off her mask in unaccounted-for triumph. And she laughed without reserve.

She was tall for a pixie.

Chapter 4

The Wendy League stood in front of heavy, paneled doors. Violet read the newly engraved brass plate aloud. “Locke Hill College for Exceptional Young Women.”

Florrie bounced her Jack Russell terrier, Nibs, as Lydia and Ruby grinned. “Oh, I do like that,” she said.