“Guess what my number is now?”

I parried Francesca’s thrust and snapped out a riposte. She leaped back on the balls of her feet, neatly avoiding the touch, and lunged forward, trying to get inside my reach, as I was now the taller of the two of us. It worked; the touch landed. I raised my finger. She took the lead, three to two.

“Twenty-eight,” I guessed.

“Oh, close! Only twenty-seven. It would have been twenty-eight but her fiancé caught us first.”

I shook my head, mask heavy, and ambled back to the center of the piste. “Someday, somebody’s going to challenge you to a real duel.”

“I can only hope.”

“I hear it’s less fun to actually be stabbed.”

Francesca waved a dismissive hand. “I’d stab him first. En garde.”

Back and forth we went, blades whipping and crashing. Her blonde braid began to unravel.

“So what’s your number?” she panted, making her way back to the center after a failed flèche resulted in my landing a touch on her back. Three to three.

“Four.”

“Oooh, a new one! Tell me!”

“The tightrope walker in a traveling acrobat troupe.”

“Ooh la la!” Francesca mimed fanning herself. “What fun! Just a kiss?”

“What a crass line of inquiry,” I said mildly.

Francesca squealed in delight. “You did! You cad! You probably have every venereal disease from here to Inghil!”

“You’re one to talk, Miss Twenty-Seven.”

“That’s Lady Twenty-Seven to you. En garde!”

I won the bout, five to four. I celebrated my victory by dumping the contents of my waterskin over my neck, then pulling my shirt off to fan myself. Even the armory was hot today; the summer sun had soaked the stone straight through.

“Wow,” Francesca said, suddenly quiet.

I turned. She was staring. For one baffling instant, I thought she was commenting on my physique—but as soon as I caught her eye, she pointed. “The marks on your back are really distinct when you’re flushed.”

“Are they?” I tried to look over my shoulder, without success.

“Yes,” she replied. “Here—” She rifled through her dueling satchel and extracted a looking glass. “Have a look.” She held it up.

It took me a moment to find the right way to stand to see my reflection—the looking glass was even smaller than my shaving mirror—but when I caught it, I stared as wide-eyed as she had.

She was right.

They looked like scars, running from kidneys to scapulae; two long, symmetric arabesques of pallid skin, completely white against the pink flush of my sweaty back. I was reminded of the ouïes on a violin. I reached around to touch one, but knew I would feel nothing. There may have been no full-length looking glass in my room by which I could have seen myself naked, but I’d lived in this body my whole life. I had never felt anything.

“Wow,” I agreed softly.

“That must be what Grandmama’s neck looked like,” Francesca said, practically whispering for once. Her tone was almost reverential. “Before it got all turtle-y.” She touched her own neck absently. “Does it feel like anything?”

“No. Just skin.”

The view in the looking glass began to drift as Francesca leaned forward for a closer look. “How on earth did your tightrope-walker not comment on this?”

“My shirt never came off,” I said sheepishly.

Francesca let out a great caw of mirth, and put the looking-glass away again. “What, were you up against the circus wagon or something?”

It had actually been the wall of the stairs below the church. My face burned. “Something like that.”

Francesca hooted lasciviously. Then, abruptly, she sobered. “Grandmama wants me to get married.”

“Yes, I know.” I began to mop the water from my neck with my damp shirt. “To me. For years. The scheme hasn’t exactly been subtle.”

Francesca worried the end of her braid between her fingers. “Would you?”

“Would I what?” I wiped my face.

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“Marry me.”

I froze, then forced a nonchalant laugh. “Are you proposing?”

“Yes.”

I straightened up. “What?”

“I just…” For once, Francesca seemed unsure, almost despondent. “You understand me. And I understand you. By all accounts, that’s a lot better than most marriages.”

I stared at her, stunned. She plowed on. “I—we could be happy together. You could have all the mistresses you wanted. You know I wouldn’t mind.”

“Francesca,” I said quietly.

“I’m eighteen,” she said relentlessly. “Half my friends are already married, and half of them have children. I have a title to protect.”

“Francesca, stop.”

“Grandmama is threatening to disinherit me.”

I quelled the hot flare of fury that welled up in me for the Duchess. Now was not the time. “I’m sorry.”

“You’d be a Duke.”

“Would I?”

“They’d arrange it special.” She could not keep the resentment from her voice. “Grandmama has the writ of entitlement all ready. I saw it once in her desk when I was stealing her amaretto. Our family is no stranger to atypical inheritance.”

“Why don’t they just let you be Duchess, then?”

“I don’t know!” Francesca cried, suddenly wild. Spots of color rose on her cheeks, and her eyes glittered. “Something to do with heirs, I assume! It’s stupid!”

I held very still. “Do you want children?”

“I don’t know!” she yelled again. She worked one glove off and flung it to the floor, then started on the other.

“I thought you wanted to take to the high seas as a privateer captain with an entirely female crew, and you’d be damned if you’d let a baby in your belly to get in the way of climbing the rigging.”

She threw the second glove at me. “Don’t make fun of me, Leo. I’m in a terrible position here.”

“You are,” I agreed. “It isn’t fair.”

“No,” she said miserably, “it isn’t.”

“You’d make a very good Duchess on your own.”

“I would.” She put her face in her hands briefly, then looked up at me. “Do you want children?”

“Yes,” I blurted, and was startled to realize it was absolutely true. “I do.”

“Why?”

I shook my head. “I just… do.”

“Oh.” Francesca looked down again and shuffled her feet. “I suppose we could have babies.”

“No. Francesca.” I stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Stop. Stop. We’re not getting married. It would ruin us both.”

“Easy for you to say,” she said bitterly. “My life is ruined no matter what.” She scrubbed tears away from her face. “You’re right though. Unfair of me to drag you into it.” She pulled away and grabbed her satchel, then gave me a false smile. “I’ll just have to disappoint Grandmama by myself.”

“There has to be another way.”

“Well, let me know if you think of it, then.”

“I will.”

“That was rhetorical, you ass. There is no other way. I’ve had years to think through this.” She grabbed her epée and made for the stairs.

“What about all those girls you’re kissing?” I called after her. “You don’t think they’d like to figure out another way with you?”

“I’m sure they would,” Francesca called, voice dripping with sarcasm. “They’d make a fine crew.” And then she was gone.

I groaned and scrubbed my face with my hands.

We were both uncharacteristically sullen at dinner. Renella and the Duchess, sensing what I’m sure they misinterpreted as—or hoped was—a lover’s spat, did a serviceable job of keeping the conversation running between themselves. Francesca and I left them to it. I was ravenous after our bout, and avoided conversational obligations by keeping my mouth full at all times. Francesca simply picked at her food.

My father, as always, remained silent, present in body only.

Consequently, Francesca was the one subjected to Renella’s overtures first.

“You must be so glad, Lady Francesca.”

Francesca jerked her head up with a deeply unladylike, “Eh?” of confusion. The Duchesses’ shawl jerked abruptly, as though the elbow beneath it had delivered a jab. “I’m sorry—I beg your pardon, Lady Renella? I’m afraid I was lost in my own thoughts.”

“Quite all right,” Renella replied, ever the gracious host. “I was simply thinking you must be glad.”

Francesca stared at her blankly.

“To finally be done with school,” Renella prompted. “Forever! I recall being so excited, I’m sure I stayed up all night for practically a week!”

“Oh.” Francesca looked down at her plate again. “No, not especially, actually.”

The Duchess swooped in. “And you about you, my dear,” she said, addressing me. “Have you given any thought as to what you will do, once you are done with school?”

And that is when inspiration struck.

I looked directly at Francesca as I answered, “Yes, I was thinking I might see about enrolling in University.”

Everybody ceased dining immediately to stare at me. Even Father froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. So he was listening, after all.

“What?” Renella and Francesca spoke in unison.

“I’ve been giving this some thought for a while now.” I was making this up on the spot. “I was thinking I might study astronomy.”

“Good heavens,” said the Duchess. She sounded appalled.

“My thoughts exactly,” I replied gravely. Francesca choked.

“But—but surely not!” cried Renella. I had never seen her this discomfited in front of a guest. “Surely you already know astronomy! You’re in the Observation Tower every night!”

My father, sensing danger, put his spoon down very carefully.

I avoided his gaze. “I’m sure there is much more to learn.”

“You’ve never spoken of this before,” Renella accused.

I cast my eyes down and went for the jugular. “I wasn’t sure… the expense…”

The blood drained from Renella’s face. “Of course we can afford it!” she cried, eyes flicking quickly to the Duchess and back. “Dear me, that’s not trouble at all. I’m simply… surprised… Astronomy? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” I lied.

Renella began to babble about applications, and whether it would be better go to Firense or Nepoli, and didn’t I have a great-uncle who’d gone to the Queen’s University ages ago—until the Duchess cut in sharply, “How long does a typical course of study in astronomy take?”

Once again, I looked directly at Francesca as I answered. “Years, I expect.”

I couldn’t solve Francesca’s problem.

But I could buy her more time to solve it on her own.