Chapter 9
The frigid night air bit at my face, and I struggled to keep up with Casimir as he strode across the grounds and into the darkened wood.
I silently cursed myself for forgetting my winter jacket.
I had on only a wool sweater, which did little to protect against the bone-chilling cold.
My toes and fingers were practically numb by the time we reached the derelict chapel—The Grotto—where Casimir coaxed the iron lock to click open once again.
“How exactly do you plan to train me?” I asked once I was seated in one of the pews, my arms crossed reflexively over my chest.
“You’ll see,” came Casimir’s vague reply. He strode around the pew and sat sidelong on the bench before turning to face me, fixing me with an assessing look. “Tell me about fencing.”
The truth was, I was woefully out of practice.
Even before our break-up, my sparring bouts with August were few and far between.
Instead, I told Casimir about Beatrice, the soft-spoken middle-aged woman who’d taught me the basics of fencing in her studio when I was in secondary school.
Despite her small stature, Beatrice was as tough and unforgiving as the steel swords she wielded.
She warned me I would not graduate from initiate to duelist without putting in the hours.
So, without my mother’s knowledge, every Tuesday afternoon I came to the studio and learned how to parry and bind, riposte and advance.
My father and I agreed it was best to tell my mother I was taking piano lessons.
My father had beamed with pride when Beatrice promoted me to duelist senior year.
I summarized my history as best I could, to Casimir’s growing amusement.
“Piano lessons?” he repeated.
I shrugged, grinning in spite of myself.
“It’s strange, though,” Casimir murmured. “Did you ever wonder why your father wanted you to take fencing lessons?”
“Not really.” I shrugged. “I assume he wanted me to learn so I’d fit in better at a place like Ouverham.” Admittedly, it had bothered me a bit, lying to my mother about what I was up to.
“And later, you trained with August?” His tone was neutral.
Cautious even, when trespassing on the rocky territory of my ex.
My brow furrowed in confusion. While I could believe he’d heard of August’s reputation as a legendary fencer, there was no way he could’ve known about our private training bouts. Maybe Bryce had told him?
“Yes,” I replied stiffly.
Casimir merely nodded and strode to lean over the altar.
Furtively, I took in his appearance. Tonight, his ebony waves were even messier than usual, and the hollows beneath his eyes were lined with shadows.
I wondered if he’d slept at all since that night in the Tusk.
Yet, in spite of the exhaustion that traced the planes of his face, his rich brown eyes shone like burnished gold.
“So,” he spoke brusquely, arching a brow in silent question, “are you ready to begin?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I was uncomfortably aware of the thundering pace of my heartbeat, the clamminess of the palms that I pressed to my lap. “How exactly will this work?” I wanted to ask, but as he approached, the question died in my throat.
“It won’t be pleasant.” He leaned toward me, close enough that I could make out each individual lash shadowing his brows. Trace the flecks of gold that touched his irises.
How had I failed to notice those luminous specks before?
He reached for my arm, and I instinctively pulled away. “What are you doing?”
“We need to maintain skin contact in order for the glamour to work,” he explained.
“Oh,” I said, feeling my face heat. I held out my arm awkwardly, and my muscles stiffened as his fingers slid around my cold wrist.
“You’ll need to try to resist giving in to the emotions that come up. Try to fight off the glamour, just like you did with Devereaux.”
Panic hit me like an oncoming train. “But—I don’t know how. I couldn’t shake off Devereaux’s control,” I protested. Indeed, that night in the Tusk, he’d manipulated my limbs with the ease of a puppeteer.
Casimir’s grip on my wrist tightened. “Remind yourself that what I show you isn’t real,” he urged. “Banish the vision and push me out of your head.”
My heart thudded so noisily I was sure he could hear it. I fought the urge to tear my wrist from his hold. Instead, I asked, “How will I know when it starts?”
He huffed a laugh in response. “You’ll know, Farrow. Just trust me.”
I wanted to trust him. But panic and my instinct for self-preservation took over, smothering my earnest desire. My lids shuttered, and I was swallowed by darkness.
The chapel was dead quiet. I could still feel Casimir’s hand on my wrist. I waited for something to happen.
The sound of a door bursting open, and then a sudden light pouring into the room, breaking into my cloak of darkness. The familiar scent of lavender in my sheets told me I was in my dormitory.
“I’m not going to let you rot in that bed another second, Arden,” came August’s brusque voice from close by.
In response, I burrowed deeper into my cave of blankets. But August was not to be dissuaded.
“Up, please!” he sang, and the next moment I cringed as a cold rush of air assaulted my body.
“Go away,” I mumbled feebly, attempting to curl into a ball to warm myself.
“Nope, not going to let you mope any longer. You’ve already missed an entire week of classes, and they’re going to expel you if you don’t get it together.” Then, in a gentler voice, he added, “I’m tired of watching you waste away. Malcolm wouldn’t have wanted this.”
That did it. I bolted upright and glared up at August. To his credit, he did not show a glimmer of surprise as he took in my red-rimmed, puffy eyes and unkempt hair.
“Fuck off,” I growled, grasping at the stolen blankets. But August was too quick. Yanking them out of the way and tossing them on Gwen’s bed, he turned to frown down at my shivering form.
“You’re not getting those blankets back until you eat something,” he said, gesturing to the fresh plate of eggs and toast sitting on my desk.
Huddling in the cold, I shot him the most withering glare I could muster, which only made him smirk in amusement. He leaned in closer. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
The Lost Week, as Gwen later dubbed it, began on the morning of January seventh, the one-year anniversary of my father’s death.
For one week, I spoke to no one, buried myself under my covers, and nestled in the sanctuary of my grief.
For one week, I refused to attend classes or take meals.
For one week, I endured Gwen’s concerned glances and ignored the trays of buttered toast and coffee she left on my desk.
I refused visitors and ignored letters from August, which were delivered with increasing frequency and urgency.
For one week, I neglected to bathe or nourish myself, determined to let my external body mirror the hollowness I felt inside.
On the ninth day of my self-imposed sentence, August decided he’d had enough.
“You have to eat, Arden.”
Now that I had no blankets to insulate me from the world, the heavenly smell of buttered toast wafted into my nose, and my stomach growled mutinously.
Then my eyes fell on the steaming mug of hot chocolate beside the toast. August caught the expression that flashed across my face, and his smile broadened.
Damn him. August’s methods were cruel but effective.
He knew I was deliriously famished and wouldn’t be able to resist hot chocolate.
Tentatively, I reached for the mug and took a small sip.
Rich, creamy flavor burst on my tongue, eliciting an involuntary moan from my throat.
Gods, he’d even topped the hot chocolate with whipped cream.
After that, the battle was over. August watched with a slightly smug expression as I tore off a piece of toast with my teeth.
“Now that you’re back in the land of the living,” he began with a smile, “We can begin phase two.”
I swallowed, nearly choking on a bite of toast. “Phase two?” I asked warily.
August nodded. “Get dressed, we’re going to the courts.”
I paled. “Why?”
He leveled me with a look. “To spar, of course.” He shook his head as though I were being particularly dull. August didn’t wait for my reply as he stepped outside so I could get dressed.
Despite his bookish reputation, August held bragging rights as one of the top fencers on the Ouverham College team.
After watching a few of his matches the previous term, I had to admit his skill was impressive, to the extent that following his family’s financial downfall, his coach privately secured funds so that August could continue fencing.
When he slid the foil mask over his face, it was like he became a different person entirely.
His movements became quick and lithe like a dancer’s, and it was all his opponents could do to keep up.
August’s advances were calculated to put his opponents off balance, his feints rarely anticipated, and his lunges coordinated for speed and precision.
The crowd watched in giddy anticipation whenever August’s name was selected for the next match.
The only reason Alexander Fletcher held the title of champion fencer was that August tended to push things too far, thereby incurring the wrath of the referees.
He’d once performed an illegal corps-à-corps that got him promptly booted from the Northeast College tournament.
Another time, the tip of his sword “accidentally” slipped and ended up nearly poking through his opponent’s mask.
In spite of, or perhaps because of, the inevitable shouting from enraged referees, August’s fencing matches always made for an entertaining show.