“It was an act, S?ren,” I say quietly, though I can’t meet his gaze. “All of it. I saw you, I knew what you wanted, and I became what you wanted. But it was never me. That girl was only smoke and mirrors.”

S?ren winces before his own mask falls into place. He takes another step back from me, his fingers releasing my arm. The skin he was touching suddenly feels too cold, even in the Sta’Criveran heat.

“As I said before,” he says, the words crisp-edged, “I’ll go back to holding my tongue.”

He leaves me standing alone in the garden. What anger I felt toward him slips away quickly, but I’m not sure how to describe the feeling left behind. It’s like walking down stairs and thinking there’s one more step than there is. My whole world seems suddenly off-kilter. Nothing I said was a lie—it might even be the most honest thing I’ve ever said to S?ren—but the words still tasted wrong.

THE SWORD SWINGING TOWARD MY face is blunted, but it’ll still hurt plenty if it actually hits me. I duck my head, throwing my arm up to protect myself. The blade hits with a dull thwack that I’m sure will leave a bruise.

“Ow,” I say to Artemisia, shoving her sword away.

We’re in my room after lunch, finally having one of those lessons we discussed on the Smoke. It’s difficult in my room, with all its heavy, oversized furniture, but we’ve managed to clear a space big enough for us both to move around. I bore no illusions about my skills with a sword, but I expected Artemisia would at least go easy on me at first.

No such luck. She hadn’t even wanted to use practice swords, though I’m glad I insisted—if our swords were sharp she would have killed me by now. As it is, I’m on the floor by the fireplace and she’s standing over me, one hand on her hip, the other still holding her weapon like it’s an extension of her arm.

“Your arm is gone now,” she says, bored. “Not your dominant one, though, so I suppose you still technically stand a chance.”

A chance. I could have four arms and still not stand a chance.

“I surrender,” I tell her. “Can we start at the beginning? How to stand? The proper way to grip a hilt?”

Artemisia raises one contemptuous eyebrow. “I suppose,” she says, disdain dripping from every word. “Get up.”

It’s not as easy as it sounds. She’s already left her mark on both of my legs and my left arm, and every one of my muscles screams as I make my way to stand. At least she brought a set of clothes from the Smoke for me; I’m not sure I’d be able to so much as lift a sword in one of my stiff, embellished Sta’Criveran gowns. It’s easier to move in leggings and a tunic, though it’s difficult to imagine I could fight worse than I already am.

“Legs shoulder width apart,” Artemisia says, kicking the inside of my calves until my feet are sufficiently separate. “One slightly in front of the other for balance.”

I oblige, though I feel somewhat ridiculous. Artemisia examines me with a critical eye before giving me a firm shove with her free hand. I wobble, but manage to hold my ground. She nods.

“Good enough,” she says. “Now lift the sword.”

I do and she grips my hand, adjusting my fingers. Again, it feels awkward, but steadier than it did before. It’s bigger than my dagger and much heavier, but Art says it’s a good size to start with.

“When you’re defending yourself, you’ll want to cross your body with your sword. Let’s say the attack comes from above.” She poses my arm so the sword is above my head, parallel to the ground. “Then they go for your left leg,” she continues, moving the sword across my torso until it’s in front of my left leg and slightly to the side. “Attacking from the outside will only push your opponent’s weapon into you—hardly the desired effect.”

“You couldn’t have told me this before you covered me in bruises?”

She smirks. “I thought they would add a little more weight to the lesson. Shall we go again?”

“I suppose we have to,” I say with a sigh. “You aren’t going to teach me how to fight back?”

“Of course I will,” Artemisia says with a shrug. “As soon as you get the hang of defending yourself. One step at a time.”

This time I manage to fend off a couple of hits before her sword thwacks my elbow hard enough to send a jolt of pain through my whole body. I drop my sword and it clatters to the ground.

“I get the feeling you’re enjoying this,” I mutter, holding my sore elbow.

Artemisia doesn’t deny it, and her eyes twinkle as she picks up my sword for me, passing it to me hilt first. “My mother was not exactly a nurturing teacher. It was largely a matter of learning from my own errors.”

“Well, if your skills are any kind of testament, it works,” I say. “You’re one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”

It might be the first time I’ve made Artemisia smile in a way that seems completely genuine, not mocking or sarcastic or at someone else’s misfortune. It’s a small, brittle smile, almost shy, though that’s never been a word I’d use to describe Art.

“My mother never really knew what to do with me,” she admits. “I thought that if I could become good enough, strong enough, hard enough, she would be proud of me, though I think that possibility died when my brother did.”

Her brother, the one who died in the mines. The guard who murdered him was the first person Artemisia killed, though certainly not the last.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She shrugs again, but her shoulders are tight and the movement looks sharp and violent. “Around that time, I stopped wanting my mother’s approval anyway, so we arrived at an impasse.” She frowns at me. “Talking won’t make you better, you know. We’re going again.”

I’d rather keep her talking, but I lift my sword and fix my stance, even though my arm is starting to shake under the weight.

This time when she hits, there seems to be an extra dose of power behind it, and even though I block it, the force makes me take a step back. She doesn’t give me a chance to recover, instead matching my step and swinging again, to my right hip this time. I block it, stumbling another step back, but my foot tangles up in the edge of the rug and I fall back to the ground, landing hard on my rear.

“Does it help?” I ask, scrambling back up to my feet. “Hitting someone instead of talking?”

She only glowers at me. “Would you like to try? If you fought half as well as you talked, we would actually be getting somewhere.”

I feel my face heat up. “Queens are supposed to speak better than they fight,” I point out. “One day, Astrea won’t be at war and she’ll need a leader.”

“Better you than me,” she says. “Let’s go again.”

I groan. “I need a break and some water,” I say. “Ten minutes.”

Artemisia purses her lips. “Five,” she says, though mercifully she sets down her sword and sits on the sofa that has been pushed back against the wall.

I walk toward my basin and pour us each a cup of water. After I pass one to her, I sit next to her.

“S?ren’s being difficult.” The words force their way forward even though I don’t really mean to say them. His confession in the garden is weighing so heavily on me, though, and there is no one else I can talk to about it. Blaise and Heron are out of the question and the idea of confiding in Dragonsbane is laughable. I take another sip of water and continue. “I thought everything was all right between us, but yesterday he said he didn’t want me to marry someone else because he still has feelings for me.”

Artemisia takes a long sip of her water, glaring at me over the rim of her cup.

“And?” she asks me when she’s done, wiping away the droplets left on her top lip with her sleeve. “Do you expect me to ask you how you feel about that? I can’t stress how little I care about your feelings, Theo,” she says.

“I was only talking,” I say, trying to hide my hurt. “It’s what friends do.”

She gives a snort of laughter. “We aren’t that kind of friends,” she says before leveling a look at me, like she can see straight through to my heart. “I’m not her, you know. I’m not your Kalovaxian friend.”

Artemisia knows Cress’s name, but she won’t say it out loud. I’m almost glad she doesn’t, because I don’t think I’d be able to hold on to a neutral expression. Even now, I falter.

“I didn’t say you were,” I tell her. “I only meant—”

“The extent to which I care about S?ren is limited to his use to me,” she says. “If you want to talk about alliances he may have to other countries or intel he might possess about Kalovaxian battle strategy, I’m happy to hear it. But if you want to wax poetic about his muscles or his eyes or whatever nonsense you find handsome, I would recommend finding someone else. Or better yet, keep it to yourself. It makes you look like a weak sixteen-year-old girl, and that’s hardly the image you want to be presenting to those who would look to you for leadership.”

Her words sting and burn through me. I set down my water cup and pick up my sword.

“Let’s go again,” I tell her.

She smirks and gets to her feet, picking up her own sword.