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were a far cry from the bravos trained by Ruggeri, or the gentlemen duellists tutored by D’arzenta. Giancarlo wasn’t a teacher you respected, they said; he was one you feared.
    Lucien regarded himself in the looking glass, adopting a stern demeanour. Certainly he could benefit from some additional muscle. A lean-limbed slip of a boy looked back from the oak-framed mirror. He hoped he’d be bigger next year, after he turned ten. Some boys remained small until they turned sixteen or seventeen, then sprouted suddenly, surprising everyone. These thoughts weighed on him with increasing frequency. He shivered in the cool morning air then flicked his fringe back from his face. His black hair had grown long in the year since Rafaela had taken him to the Contadino Estate. Since that awful day at the schoolhouse.
    Why doesn’t your friend Luc have any ears?
    He recalled the words all too often.
    He dressed himself in his practice clothes before belting his blade and checking himself in the mirror once more, keen that his disfigurement remained hidden. He waited for Rafaela to appear on her morning round. The long-case clock in the hallway chimed eight, audible through the stout oak door of his sitting room.
    Still no Ella.
    He didn’t want for a nanny but no one had brought breakfast. And there was the fact he’d not spoken to anyone since dinner the previous night. Sharing the top table with Lord and Lady Contadino should have been a pleasure, but instead proved awkward. The nobles had a duty of care to him, though he was not their son and there was sparse affection. All interaction was bound up in formality and reserved in the extreme, conversations stunted on the rare occasions they flourished. The Contadini had their own children to dote on, and so Lucien would sit at the end of the table, slipping away as soon as etiquette allowed.
    Still no Ella.
    He fussed at his sword belt, checked himself in the mirror one last time, then set off on the long walk to D’arzenta’s practice chamber. Disappointment dogged his steps, a rumbling stomach his only companion. The Majordomo had also failed to make his customary appearance, but this fact was largely unheeded by the armed boy stalking the corridors of the castle.
    Rafaela was not alone in being unavailable to him that day. D’arzenta took ill barely twenty minutes into practice, blaming the damp climate of Landfall for setting off his racking cough. The pale maestro di spada gave his apologies and departed, wheezing his way down the curving corridors of House Fontein, leaving his student alone. Outside the wind howled, rattling the windowpanes. Lucien continued his forms, concentrating on cut and slash, thrust and riposte, making his footwork meticulous. Spine straight, chin tucked in, knees bent ever so slightly, weight on the balls of his feet. D’arzenta’s words repeated in his mind like a whisper, chanted over and over.
    Tempo. Velocità. Misura.
    Finally he gave in to pique, swearing at the absent adults. Angry at Rafaela for not greeting him, cursing the Contadini for being aloof, sneering at D’arzenta for his weak lungs. Was there no one in this damned edifice that would keep him company? He slunk out of the practice room clutching the hilt of his blade, a sour gaze reflected from the looking glass near the door. He chewed his lip a moment.
    It wasn’t until Lucien reached the kitchens that he became aware of the quiet inhabiting House Contadino like an elderly guest. He’d managed to walk off the greater part of his petulance, arriving at his destination in a curious state of mind. Camelia was there, humming to herself contentedly, her only companion a small boy sitting on the kitchen table. He gnawed mindlessly on a crust of bread and butter. The kitchen was a cavern of a room, packed full of blackened pots and pans of every dimension. Barrels and bins of produce littered the sides of the chamber. A selection of knives hung from hooks at the far end, glittering