“Aye, Tav has a knack with the wee ones,” Jamie said. He held up his hand beside his waist. “You must be ye high or smaller to enter the ‘gentle Tav’ ride. We’re all out of luck.”

Portia turned back to see the kids were lined up in a row, all holding multicolored lengths of Styrofoam attached to basic wooden hilts out before them. Tav stood watching with his arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed, but he was smiling.

“We didn’t have much to do, growing up around here, and we got in trouble from time to time. Tav likes trying to keep the kids out of trouble, and all that. Has classes for teens, too.”

“Do you want to wash up before dinner?” Cheryl asked. She plucked at her own ponytail. “I’ve got to deep condition before dinner.”

Portia nodded and followed them out. She heard the children break out into peals of laughter behind her, but didn’t look back. She didn’t need anything that could remind her that Tav was a friendly human being—her imagination was already having a field day without that fuel.

“YOU SURE YOU don’t want a beer? Or a digestif? We have Tia Maria.” Cheryl stood before a cabinet stocked with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes while Jamie hopped up from where they sat around the battered wooden table and jogged to the wailing electric teakettle.

“I’m sure,” Portia said, trying not to be weird about it. Cheryl was better than most hosts in that she didn’t keep pressing until Portia was forced to make up some reason why she wouldn’t have a drink since “I don’t want one” apparently wasn’t good enough.

The kitchen in the armory was large and comfortable in a way that her own at home wasn’t. It had obviously been used well over the years, though it was clean. Portia usually ate out or ordered takeout so hers, done in shades of white and gray, hadn’t been used much. Her parents’ kitchen was always sparkling clean, bright and modern, even though her mom cooked often. The armory’s kitchen was rustic, but not like something you’d see on a home renovation show. The walls were painted a cheery orange and dark wood cabinets lined the walls and floor. It had two fridges, one normal-sized model and one huge industrial steel one, and along one wall was a professional kitchen prep station that served as the home base for Cheryl’s small food stand.

“Tea?” Jamie asked, placing the electric kettle down in the middle of the table. She nodded and accepted the mug he poured for her taking a moment to absorb her surroundings. Her first night in a strange country, after a miserable morning, and she was sharing a delicious meal and talking about how to slay, literally.

“So then I told the kids that they had it all wrong,” Tavish said, pushing his chair back and standing. “They had to grip the hilt like this, plunge up like this, through the opening in the side of the armor, and then twist, like so. That ensures they’ll hit the most vital organs. Theoretically.”

He made some strange jabbing motion that was a swing of his arms followed by a thrust of his hips, and Portia forgot how to swallow, barking out a cough as her swallow of tea tried to go down the wrong pipe.

Jamie and Cheryl laughed as he demonstrated the technique, but Tavish was serious. She could tell by the way his gaze settled on each of them as he spoke, as if willing them to understand why this particular fact was important. She’d sported that same look while escorting her parents around exhibits at the museums and galleries where she’d interned, where they’d respond with tight smiles and “Isn’t that nice?”

She tried to think of what she wished her parents would have asked all those times she’d shared something she cared about with them. What Ledi and Nya asked when she was going on and on about her latest interest.

“How did you get into all of this stuff? The swords and the European martial arts?” she asked, her voice gravelly from fatigue.

He glared at her for a second, either because he thought she was poking fun at him or because he just didn’t like her, then dropped into his seat. “I dunno.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you do.”

“I like swords,” he said, peeling at the label on his beer bottle.

“I like architectural history,” Portia pushed. “That doesn’t explain why I could take you on a tour of this place and point out the tics from each era it was remodeled in. What is your origin story, Knife Man?”

He looked at her for a long time. “Fuck’s sake, you Americans and the Dr. Phil shite.” He took a sip of his beer then sighed in annoyance. “There was a fencing lesson put on by the European martial arts club, the first week of uni. Something for the first years to do other than get pissed and vomit fried pizza. And it was grand! Holding a sword, feeling the weight of the metal in your hand and the shock of a blow up your arm, and knowing that only your skill determined whether you won or lost. I was hooked after that.”

She could imagine him young and bright-eyed, with dark hair and a devilish smile. “Because you won?”

“No, because I lost so badly.” He plucked at the beer label and chuckled gruffly. “I became obsessed with getting good enough to win a competition. I’d always loved reading about knights and medieval history, actually. I started studying old treatises and history books in the university library, collecting information about swordsmanship and swordmaking. I went down a rabbit hole and never quite made my way out, even when the real world came a calling.”