Sophie drifted to the dark walnut bookcases that lined the walls floor to ceiling. She ran her fingers along the gold lettering on spines and leather bindings with ribbon markers. Demonological treatises, ancient manuscripts, theoretical monographs. She stopped at a battered little book on the bottom shelf, wedged between its larger neighbours.
She drew it out. It was small compared to the rest, and it smelled of old paper and the bitter vanilla of aged ink.
Combat Magic of the Arena. A Practical Manual.
She opened it at random. Faded notes in a boy's hand crowded the margins. The ink had gone pale, but the words were still legible. "Pepe showed me the jump through the bond here." "Try tomorrow blindfolded." "Father must not find out."
"Mother said you trained under a lanista." Sophie kept her eyes on the page. "Under Pepe Miazza."
She looked up at Jean.
"Why did you stop?"
Jean stared at the book in her hands as if at a ghost.
"That... was a long time ago."
She laid the book open on the desk in front of him, turned to the page with the annotations. She traced a line with her fingernail.
"'Connection through the body, not through the head.'" She read his childhood note aloud. "Isn't that exactly what we need right now?"
Jean lowered his eyes to his own handwriting. Uneven letters, scrawled eagerly with a pen. How old had he been? Fourteen? Fifteen? He touched the page with fingertips as though it might burn him.
"Our last conversation..." He broke off and swallowed. "Pepe said, 'Your loved ones won't die at an enemy's hand. They'll die from your cowardice. You're no defender. You're a sentence already passed.' He was right."
"But now you have a demon." Sophie laid her hand over his. "And a reason to learn for real."
Jean shook his head. He walked to the terrace doorway, leaned against the frame, and looked down at the city.
"Twenty years, kitten. That door is closed."
Sophie, teeth clenched, looked at the book, at the balustrade where the ghost of the apple still mocked her, at her own useless hands.
She walked to the desk. Pushed the correspondence aside, clearing space. Drew a sheet of heavy crested stationery from the drawer. The gold nib of the pen clinked against the inkwell's glass rim.
"What are you doing?"
But Sophie, head down, was already shaping the letters, crisp and sure.
Dear Maestro Miazza,
My name is Sophie Lexin. I am the niece of your former student...
Jean stepped closer to read.
"Sophie." Calm and firm. "Put the pen down."
Hearing his tone Sophie froze, her hand suspended over the paper.
Jean reached across her and drew the pen from her fingers.
"This is not your burden to carry." He looked at her. "It is mine."
Sophie stood, yielding the chair.
Jean crumpled the sheet she had started and tossed it into the basket. He dipped the pen in the inkwell and brought it to a fresh sheet, but the nib hovered. Jean closed his eyes, exhaled, and set the first letter down, each one steadier than the last.
Sophie stood at his shoulder, reading the words as they appeared on the paper.
Teacher.
Twenty years have passed. You were right. I was a coward. I hid behind knowledge because I was afraid to live.
But I have found the one who brought me back to life. Now I need to learn to protect her.
I ask you — teach me again. Not for my sake. For those who stand beside me.
If you see fit, come tomorrow for lunch. We have a great deal to speak of.
Your failed student,
Jean Dantes
He set the pen down and blotted the glistening ink. He folded the letter, dropped wax on the fold, and pressed his seal into it.
"Jacopo."
The butler appeared before the echo died. How does he do this? Is he teleporting?
"Deliver this to the lanista Giuseppe Miazza." Jean held out the letter but did not release it at once. "Today. Immediately."
With a nod, Jacopo took the envelope with the delicacy one reserves for carrying male ego, and withdrew.
Sophie laid her hand on Jean's shoulder.
"He'll answer. I know he will."
Jean stared at the open doorway through which Jacopo had vanished with the letter.
"I hope you're right, kitten."
The silence stretched. Jean went on staring at the door as though he could see the letter's path all the way to its recipient. Then he leaned back in his chair and studied his niece's face. The pallor, the fine web of tension around her eyes, the pressed lips.
He had just stepped over his own pride for the sake of the ones he ought to be able to defend. And tonight he would sit down opposite a man to whom appearing worthy had always mattered more than being so. Her father was not capable of what Jean had just done.
"Do you know what I find most infuriating about your father? It's not the title. It's not the pedigree."
"Then what?"
"Izabella deserved a man who was her equal in spirit. Not one who only needed her name."
Sophie flinched. Jean had struck the wound she never spoke of aloud but had carried her whole life. The splinter that never lets you forget.
Kali crossed to the window and looked down over the city. Rooftops spilled down the hill to the harbour.
"How much binds you. Even when reason screams to break free, you're like butterflies in a web."
Sophie went very still in her chair. Jean felt through the bond a rush of heat in his blood, and then a quiet voice.
"Ab-hor-rent," Sophie ground the word out. "Every. Damned. Thread."
The chair creaked under her grip. Jean saw her wound tight to snapping. He walked over, laid his hands on her shoulders, and felt how rigid the muscles were.
"We'll burn them. One by one."
Sophie dropped her head and hugged her elbows.
"How much longer do I have to pretend? Smile, nod, play their game?"
Jean crouched beside her and took her hands.
"You don't have to any more. Not with me. That's why we're going tonight."
"And after that, let the whole fucking web burn to the ground." Sophie smirked. "And everyone who spins it."
Jean smiled back.
"We'll roast marshmallows over the fire."
With a smile and a kiss, Sophie left to get ready. Jean stayed in the study with Kali, lost in thought.
Kali came to him. Her cool fingers touched his temple.
"You still haven't asked the thing that's gnawing at you."
"Patience, Kali. She'll tell me when she's ready."
"Patience is a virtue. But secrets have a habit of erupting at the worst possible moment."
Jean tilted his head back, letting her massage his temples. Warmth seeped through the bond. Whatever Sophie was keeping to herself, they would get to it. Later.