A fist appeared from the bottom of Squirrel’s field of vision, and she twisted her knee, jerking her head to the side, allowing Jon’s hand to sail past her jaw ineffectively. The fist transformed into a claw that snagged the back of her neck, pulling her even further off balance as Jon delivered knee strikes to her stomach.

Squirrel warded them off with her forearms and sent a surge of strength into her legs, pushing forward in an attempt to knock Jon off balance. Jon let his knees fold and dropped backward, using his legs to send Squirrel flying, until she finally landed on her back, panting.

Jon came to stand above her, seemingly unwinded. “Not bad,” he admitted, wiping a bit of blood from his nose where Squirrel had got in a lucky shot. “Can you tell me what you did wrong?”

“Agreed to this deal?” Squirrel offered. Jon stared down at her humorlessly, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket. “Fine, I dodged in instead of out.”

“That’s not all,” Jon said, offering her his hand. “You relied on your remarkable strength and put all your weight on the one leg you had balanced when you rushed me. If I had kicked your knee at that exact moment, you’d be a cripple. Thank Count Firelle that I’m forbidden from causing any more permanent harm to you.”

“Right, because he’s a beacon of mercy,” Squirrel said, rolling her eyes as she was brought to a stand. Sweat dampened the shirt she wore, and the soft sand of the practice field stuck to her skin.

“A deal’s a deal,” Jon said, brushing sand from himself. “Now get yourself cleaned up and ready for Ms. Jenette’s lesson.

Squirrel brushed sand from herself and glanced up, catching the eye of the young man she’d held hostage earlier. He glowered and turned away, leaving her standing in the practice room alone. With a shrug, Squirrel walked to her room, where Jenette waited in front of a table fully set with a grandiose meal. Sitting to the right, at the head of the table was Count Firelle, and to his right was his wife, who watched Squirrel with innocent eyes.

Squirrel sighed, approaching the table.

“Do not sigh,” Jenette said, pulling the chair out for Squirrel. Squirrel straightened her back and sat in the chair, with Jenette leaning over her.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Squirrel said, nodding to Firelle. “It’s lovely to have you join me for a meal.”

“The honor is mine, your highness,” Firelle said, nodding back to her before returning his attention to the food in front of him.

Marie fidgeted in her seat. “Oh, look at the color in her cheeks, my love,” she said, beaming. “She’s got the look I had when we went horseback riding so many years ago. What happened to put you in such a good mood?” Marie leaned forward inquisitively.

“I bloodied Jon’s nose today,” Squirrel said before popping a cube of meat into her mouth. Marie paled, her fork going limp in her hand.

“Do not eat and speak at the same time. Finish your conversation before returning to your food,” Jenette said, rapping Squirrel upside the head. Squirrel rubbed the sore spot and gave Jenette a glare.

“All my life I’ve wanted a daughter, and yet she’s more masculine than our sons,” Marie said, her shoulders slumping.

“Perhaps we should try to pass Gerald off as a princess then,” Firelle said as he sawed at the steak in front of him. “Marry him off to the king.”

Unexpectedly, Jenette leaned past Squirrel and used her rod to rap Firelle upside the head. “No belittling Royalty at the table,’ she said, seemingly unafraid.

Firelle gave little response to Jenette’s discipline, nonchalantly putting a cube of steak into his mouth.

“Toren could have done it,” Marie said with a sigh, “But the little shit wasn’t as clever as he thought, may he rest in peace.”

Squirrel paused in the middle of raising a daintily cut piece of food to her mouth. Jenette twitched with her rod, but one look from Marie stopped her in her tracks.

“Toren?” Squirrel asked. “You’re his parents?”

“What, the family name didn’t give it away?” Firelle asked. “Or the eyes, face and hair?”

“It’s just…” Squirrel struggled for the words. “Hard to see the resemblance.”

“Excellent, your highness,” Jenette said, hovering over her. “That statement was very contextual. If they love their son, it was an insult, and if they hate him, it was a compliment. Of course this all depends on your-“

“I think that’s enough etiquette for now,”Firelle said, setting his knife and fork down in front of him. “Would you excuse us, Jenette?”

Jenette nodded and left the room, her dress fluttering behind her.

“Toren,” Firelle said, regarding Squirrel with a piercing stare. “Was an enormous investment of time and money, regardless of my personal feelings. And the only thing that came of that time and money was you.”

Firelle turned his head back to the plate beneath him, and picked up his silverware, sawing at the steak on his plate. “The king hasn’t remarried since you and the Queen went missing twelve years ago. He has no successors, and his time is running out. Another ten years on the throne at most. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“You want me to pretend to be a princess,” Squirrel said.

“You are a princess,” Marie chimed in. “Assuming the Oracle was right.”

“And whoever marries you becomes the king.” Firelle said, taking another bite of his steak.

“that’s stupid,” Squirrel said. “What qualifies my spouse to be king?”

“Virtue of being the highest bidder, I suppose,” Firelle said, watching her with predatory eyes. A chill went down Squirrel’s spine.

“You can try,” Squirrel said, masking her unease. “But I guarantee any man who thinks they can take what they want from me will be eating his own balls.”

“Language,” Marie chided.

“You don’t have to be allowed outside to be a princess,” Firelle said. “We could strap you in place like an unruly mare, and get what we need from you that way, only taking you out of your box when we need to show off a pretty, pregnant princess.”

Squirrel glowered at Firelle, anger and fear swirling inside her, stealing her sharp retort from her tongue.

“Now dear, you’re scaring the child,” Marie said with a sharp edge to her voice. She turned back to squirrel and reached across the table to pat Squirrel’s hand. “It’s not so bad, being married to a complete stranger. At least it wasn’t for me.”

“That’s because you’re a simpering idiot,” Squirrel said.

Marie stood, her face flushed and her hand cocked back as though she were about to lash out. She stood there, poised on the edge of slapping Squirrel who watched impassively. Her eyes watered, and with a stifled sob, she ran out of the room, her silk dress floating behind her.

“Damn,” Firelle said, watching his wife leave. “I didn’t think you’d alienate the only woman who’d sympathize with you.”

A small pang of guilt echoed in Squirrel’s heart as she and Firelle finished eating. Knives scratching against plates was the only sound in the room until Firelle stood and left.

The door closed and locked, and Squirrel threw herself on her bed. Worry for her family and the fear of the future came to a head, and she soaked her pillow with tears.

After an hour, Squirrel flopped over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. It had been two weeks since she had agreed to take Jenette’s classes in etiquette in exchange for learning to fight from Jon, but she felt like she was no closer to escaping than before.

Squirrel saw the thick poles that attached the four corners of her bed together, supporting the heavy velvet curtains that could be drawn shut around it. Squirrel stood and tore the curtains down, jumped up to the pole and began doing exercises, letting her mind wander as she she started with pull-ups, leading into leg lifts, and handstands.

‘What’s she going to do against a dozen men with swords?’ Jon had asked a skeptical Count Firelle. ‘Better that she be given a reason to behave for now.’

****

“This is training to fight a dozen men with swords,” Jon said, a leather covered length of wood in his hand. “Absolutely never stop moving, attack me once, here, here, here, here, or here,” Jon pointed to his kneecap, crotch, throat, eyes, and temple.

“Then immediately move away,” Jon said. “The purpose is to incapacitate one man each time you strike without getting caught. Do not let me corner you, keep moving and use the environment to your advantage.”

Squirrel looked around the practice room, which had been filled with rough tables and chairs, and there was even a pot filled with kitchen utensils on one of the tables. She turned her gaze back to Jon.

Jon lunged forward, attempting to slash her with the leather-clad wood. Squirrel knew from experience that the man never gave a signal when to start, and he pulled his attacks only enough to not break bones. The practice sword in his hand left ugly purple welts wherever it hit, but squirrel didn’t intend to let him hit her this time.

Squirrel lunged backward, flinging sand towards Jon’s face as she ran. Jon bulled through the sand, his eyes closed. Squirrel aimed a kick at Jon’s groin, but the swordmaster blocked it with his knee despite being blinded.

Squirrel twisted out of the way of Jon’s counter and leapt to the side of one of the tables, kicking the pot of utensils toward Jon, sending a cloud of shattered pottery and wooden spoons toward him.

Jon rolled out of the way, and Squirrel pressed her advantage, aiming her knee at his face as he came to his feet. Jon knocked her knee aside and readied a swing with his sword, causing Squirrel to jump backward, just in time to receive a strike across her ribs.

Squirrel hissed in pain but Jon didn’t stop the lesson, charging toward her and swinging down with his sword. Squirrel dropped and rolled underneath a table, knocking chairs painfully out of the way. The wooden sword resounded off the rough wood of the table.

Squirrel came to her feet and kicked the table, shoving it harshly against Jon’s abdomen. Jon recoiled away from the table, sliding to reduce the impact.

Jon and Squirrel stared at each other for a moment, before Jon straightened and put away his sword. “Good, I got you once, but I wouldn’t expect the average swordsman to be able to deal with you. I especially enjoyed the kick to the pottery.” Jon motioned to his arm, where a small sliver of pot was embedded in his skin. “Made me think twice.”

“Still lost though,” Squirrel said, her tone sour.

“That depends on what you consider to be a win,” Jon said, retrieving a bandage and ointment from the cupboard against the wall. “Let’s say you’re a princess-”

Squirrel snorted.

Jon gave her a steady look before continuing. “And I’m an assassin of some repute, who’s caught you momentarily without your guards,” he said, wincing as he pried the sliver of ceramic from his arm.

“So, how would I have won that one?” Squirrel asked, crossing her arms.

“By staying alive the fifteen seconds it would take for your guards to arrive.” Jon said, daubing ointment on the puncture wound before wrapping it in white cloth.

“Fifteen seconds?” Squirrel asked, crossing her arms. “That doesn’t seem like a very long time.”

“Oh, it is,” Jon said, his gaze piercing. “I know just how long fifteen seconds can be when you’re trapped in a room with a man who wants you dead.”

“Case in point,” Jon said, pointing to the scattered chairs and shattered pottery. “That little scuffle there was between five and eight seconds. You’d have to fend a man off for three times as long if you wanted to be rescued.”

“How ‘bout I just kick his ass in the first five seconds?” Squirrel asked.

Jon broke into a beaming smile. “That’s a great attitude,” he said, standing in front of her. “But it’s the wrong one. I’m not teaching you how to be a prize fighter, I’m teaching you how to survive.”

Jon’s hand tightened on his practice sword. That was all the warning Squirrel got before Jon began rushing her again, his blade making soft sounds as it sliced through the air.

At the end of the training, Squirrel limped to her room, cursing Jon’s ability to only strike her in areas covered by her clothes, implying he could leisurely pick and choose where he wanted to hit her in the heat of combat.

Squirrel was dragging herself through the stone hall to her room when a small voice caught her attention. “Are you all right miss?” Squirrel turned her head and peered down at the owner of the voice, a young boy, holding a book that seemed as though it might set him off balance in his arms.

The boy shared the characteristic traits of the Reinbahm family, and Squirrel distantly remembered seeing him reading in the garden. “I’m fine, boy,” Squirrel said, turning away and continuing to lean against the wall as she walked.

“Lyle,” he said, hopping forward to catch up with her. “And are you sure? You’re moving awfully slow.”

“Just a little training with Jon,” Squirrel said, gritting her teeth. “I’m fine, I just need rest.”

“You could have internal bleeding,” Lyle said unhelpfully. “I read one account where a soldier’s own rib punctured a lung and he suffocated on his own blood!”

“All bruises are internal bleeding, and I don’t have a broken rib,” Squirrel said, turning to face Lyle, and wincing as she pulled a sore muscle doing so.

“But your organs could-“ Lyle began, before Squirrel interrupted him.

“I’m a fucking humorless paragon of virility!” Squirrel said, glaring at the boy. “My organs are fine!”

Lyle stood stock still for a moment, his eyes round. “Hah!” Lyle broke into a giggle, and nearly dropped his book. After Lyle took a few steadying breaths, he caught up with Squirrel as she neared her door. “Maybe it’s your period? I read that women feel-“

Lyle’s words were cut off as Squirrel slammed the door on the annoying boy.

Squirrel leaned against the door for a moment, exhaustion worrying at the corners of her mind like dogs with fresh, bloody leather scraps. Squirrel pried her eyes open by force of will and made her way to her bed.

Painfully coming to a stoop, Squirrel leaned down and peered underneath the bed, confirming her escape tools strapped to the frame of her bed. Squirrel had fashioned a rope braided from long strips cut from her silk bed curtains, about twenty feet of it. It was enough to get her down the wall now that Firelle had ordered the tree removed, along with the flagpoles, thanks to the small witness she had met in the hallway just now.

Tucked with the braided rope was a silver knife swiped from the apron of a distracted maid, and a small box of Tanzier powder from the pantry, a poison used for controlling vermin. The stuff tasted atrocious, and so couldn’t be used to poison humans, but it still had its uses.

Squirrel stood with a grunt and flopped down onto the bed. She only needed two more things now: money and a map. Squirrel looked up at the wood ceiling of her prison, counting down the hours she had until the Count discovered what she was doing. The bed curtains were changed once a week, and so she had two days left until she would have to escape, ready or not.