I paced the room, every sinew taut with tension. The match—the killing match—began in half an hour. Hamlet would meet me. I’d see him face to face. I’d get revenge on behalf of my family.
Once, the night before as I slept, I thought I heard the rustle of tattered clothing. Perhaps it was my mother, perhaps not. I had a plethora of ghosts to haunt me now.
Sweat coated my clammy skin. Henri had already left to take his place at the match, since his family’s money financed most of the bet on my side. Julien stayed behind, under house arrest in my quarters. His eyes tracked my movements. Perhaps it was my own jumpiness, but Julien hadn’t settled either. Neither of us had eaten or drunk anything. Julien hadn’t read. I hadn’t practiced.
I needed to stretch, to practice footwork. I needed to…
