Stalking down the hallway of Musketeer headquarters, Jacqueline thought about going for a run so she wouldn't have to think, but the rain had begun again in earnest, so she retrieved her sword from her room and headed for the gymnasium. There she found d'Artagnan, half lounging, half sulking, watching a Musketeer whose name she did not know trounce one whose name was either Thomas or Thierry. Wiping her eyes surreptitiously, she shucked off her jacket, unsheathed her sword, and began to stretch, almost happy again.
The two others finished their bout and flopped down on the edge of the mats, knowing they were in for a show if these two chose to duel.
They did. Jacqueline stepped into the arena, giving d'Artagnan the uncut version of his usual smirk, which he returned half-heartedly. They circled each other for bare seconds before closing, locking hilts in a corps-á-corps almost immediately, and pushing away once more.
Jacqueline fought left-handed to save her shoulder, glad that Gerard, somewhat ambidextrous himself, had practiced both hands with her, since she hated to give d'Artagnan too much of an advantage in anything. Winning or losing did not really matter to her, but she was determined not to be beaten in a careless, stupid way at the very beginning. Not by d'Artagnan.
Jacqueline had noticed that he tended to pair off only with opponents he knew he could beat, and so the two had not dueled seriously in public since she'd first joined the Musketeers. She had grudging respect for d'Artagnan's laid-back, technically perfect swordsmanship, since his technique was diametrically opposed to her own, a combination of instinct and ten years' trial and error. She
wondered idly if his father had taught him to fence, and what fighting d'Artagnan Sr. would be like—until a well-aimed riposte broke through her guard.
"Touché." D'Artagnan danced back. Jacqueline followed, grimacing, taking the offensive, and scored her own corresponding hit. Another would have followed if he hadn't beaten her blade aside.
She ducked away from his fancy double riposte, which kept her tiring arm from having to parry, spinning around and darting under his guard. "Touché."
"I'll let you have that one, since there aren't any cows around this time." Grinning, punctuating each word with a blow to her blade or an attempt at her person, d'Artagnan advanced.
Jacqueline, wary but taking her cue from her opponent's behavior, had hitherto been fighting solely with her sword and not employing any unorthodox techniques: fencing by the book, something most of the younger Musketeers did only when under Captain Duval's close supervision. She had, however, given some thought to the advantages she had, being female fighting males. There weren't many, just
one large one. D'Artagnan could not have known how lucky he was when her boot connected only with his knee.
Something stretched entirely too tightly in Jacqueline had broken at his comment, as though she had been able to shrug off the patronizing and backhanded compliments until that moment, but no longer. D'Artagnan stumbled, and
Jacqueline danced forward, blade flashing. She saw his eyes go wide and then seem to say 'If you want to play that way, all right.' And then it was just like the first day.
He somersaulted forward, arms wide to tackle her shins. She cracked him across the head with her rapier hilt. He rolled sideways and to his feet, barreling into another corps-á-corps and using his greater strength to force her back
against the wall. Grunting, she brought her knee up, but he was ready and spun away into a guard.
Jacqueline pushed off the wall, glaring at d'Artagnan, who smirked and leaned on his sword like a walking stick. "All right there, Jacques?"
She ran at him and he dodged, but her charge had been a feint and she spun to face him once more. D'Artagnan tried to back her against the wall again, and she deliberately tangled their elaborate basket hilts together, aiming a punch at his nose. He caught her fist with his free hand and they grappled for a moment, blades pressed between their bodies, until a hand on each of their shoulders pulled them apart.
Jacqueline bit her lip so she wouldn't scream: the shoulder Ramon had grabbed had been her right. "Take it easy! Be glad I wasn't the Captain, or you'd both be cleaning the dungeons." He stared from one grinning, panting combatant to the other. "Do I have to make you two shake hands?"
D'Artagnan dropped his sword and held out his hand diffidently. Jacqueline, shrugging, did the same and took it. He rolled her knuckles in his grip, and she shoved the palm of her other hand into his nose. Ramon said something rude in Spanish and pried them apart once more.
Jacqueline caught her breath as he dragged d'Artagnan away. It had been a good scrap, the kind she and Gerard used to have once in a while, when pent-up tension and bad feeling needed a physical outlet. A good row, with swords or without, usually broken up by their exasperated father, and things would be all right between them for a month or so. She hoped it would work in a similar way with d'Artagnan, that he'd get the message and start treating her like one of the guys.
Their two spectators had become two dozen, and were only now leaving grudgingly. 'Ramon was right,' she thought. 'It's a wonder Captain Duval didn't hear us.' Pushing hair out of her eyes, she went to wash.
Jacqueline had, out of necessity and a wish to be clean, developed a bathing routine that involved neither d'Artagnan's hot springs nor the public baths adjacent to Musketeer headquarters. What it 'did' involve was heating water and hauling buckets, and ultimately a lot of lukewarm water and strange looks from the other trainees, but Jacqueline felt that the pros outweighed the cons: if she had acquired a reputation for eccentricity, it still had to compete with the fact that she'd out-fenced the son of the great d'Artagnan on her first day, and finessed her way into the corps shortly thereafter.
No servants or silk sheets, Captain Duval had said that day, and he hadn't exaggerated. Though damp and more or less clean, Jacqueline was exhausted by the time she'd finished emptying the buckets in the courtyard and mopping up the water she'd spilled inside. Finally, barefoot and in her shirtsleeves, ignoring the studying she should be doing and the pain in her shoulder, Jacqueline fell into bed and a restless sleep, though it was not yet three in the afternoon.
She dreamed in a confusing hodgepodge of silent images, keeping one ear open. Even so, it took a couple minutes for the knocking to register. "Jacques? Can I come in?"
With the thick door muffling the voice, Jacqueline couldn't tell who stood outside. Even so, she bounded up horizontal and landed vertical, trying to yank on her pants and scrape her hair out of her eyes at the same time. Tucking in her shirt, Jacqueline realized too late that she'd forgotten to do anything about her chest. She looked down and sighed, blousing out the linen to cover what little nature had given her. After dashing a handful of water on her face and wiping it on her sleeve, she pulled the door open.
Siroc stood there, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Did I wake you?" he wanted to know, eyes traveling down her disheveled uniform and frowzy hair.
Jacqueline crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes. No. Not really." She pushed a stray lock behind her ear and stared at him. "Did you want something?" 'Like to yell at me some more.'
"No. Yes. Not really." He looked down, and his hair flopped into his eyes. He pushed it back, but continued to gaze at a point somewhere between his boots and her bare feet.
Jacqueline took a deep breath and made what she felt was a great concession to peace and good will. "I can help you mess up your lab again, if you want."
He laughed a little at that. "No." He had actually done quite a bit toward that end himself, but did not think it tactful to say so. "Thank you," he said, looking up, eyes warm and brown and saying more than his voice could, "for sweeping, and cleaning the forge, and-" a painful admission- "organizing things."
"I didn't break anything, or throw anything away," Jacqueline said, as she had before.
"No, you didn't," he admitted, raking his hair back again. It had grown, Jacqueline noticed, a bit shaggy, probably longer than was strictly regulation to not have tied back.
"I was just trying to help, Siroc, all right? Because you're helping me." And that was as much as the part of her brain slowly learning to be male would let her verbalize.
It was enough. He nodded. "If you want to work on the alphabet some more, we can. I've left a solution precipitating, so there's not much more I can do." 'Until I reassemble the distillation apparatus you dismantled.'
Jacqueline thought about saying many things. 'Siroc, I'm dead where I stand.' 'Siroc, I can't move my arm.' 'Siroc, you really don't have to make it up to me.' But what she 'did' say was, "All right. Just a minute," and sat heavily on the bed to struggle one-handed into stockings and boots.
Leaning on the doorjamb, Siroc looked around the room from under his eyelashes and tried to look like he wasn't. It was not, strictly speaking, empty. There was a locked chest at the foot of the bed and a chair and a desk and a washstand, and since the room was quite small this meant it was quite full. But it 'felt' empty and unmarked by its occupant's personality. Even his own room was an overflow of his laboratory. Perhaps the only addition here was a heavy blue comforter now in disarray on the bed; Jacques had changed very little of this place, and Siroc wondered about this.
Jacqueline didn't let him wonder long. The room was a mess, and it was personal space, and she wanted to get both of them out of it as soon as possible. First, however, she had to get herself up off of the bed.
The cot's mattress had been badly used in the past; now the springs had a tendency to bow in the middle. Jacqueline had gotten used to sleeping around it, but levering herself off it while every muscle in her body screamed at her to lie back down, her shoulder loudest of all, was another prospect.
Sparing her right arm, she tried to lever herself up with the left. As it had yet to recover from the duel, this attempt met with limited success. Teeth gritted, she scooted forward, trying to work up a bit of momentum. The bed moved with her.
She'd just steeled herself to use both arms when Siroc, who had been watching her predicament, stepped forward and held out a hand. Jacqueline took it. With her right hand. He pulled before she could snatch it back.
She yelled, the pain stripping her throat raw, and her only consolation as she fell back on the bed moaning was that what burst out had not been a girlish scream.
Siroc winced and leaned over her, chewing his bottom lip, caught in the predicament of all bystanders in medical crises: how to help without hurting the victim more. "Um-" he began.
Jacqueline sat up. "I'm all right. It's just sprained, I think. You don't happen to have invented any kind of medicine that miraculously relieves pain, have you?"
"No, but that's an excellent idea." He thought about it a moment. "I'll get right on it once I've finished the miracle cleanser."
Jacqueline didn't ask, only half-rolled off the bed and followed Siroc out.