Mouse ran into her room, slamming the door shut behind her and hurrying over to the table to snatch up the little wooden box. With trembling hands, she opened the lid, taking out the vial of dark, shimmering liquid and held it up to the light to ensure that its contents remained undisturbed. To her estimation, the vial was no less full than before, and so it was with a degree of relief that Mouse placed it back inside the box and immediately began searching the room for some manner of disposing of it. Her first instinct was to cast the vial and its wicked contents into the hearth, to set them ablaze so that they might never be recovered. However, caution forbade such an act, for even Mouse knew that a poison held over flame may produce a deadly air.

  Her next inclination, as she wiped at the sweat that had collected on her brow and now ran down the sides of her face, was to conceal the vial, to stow it away, hide it somewhere no one would ever find it. Her concern was not only ensuring that the poison would not fall into unsuspecting hands, but what might happen if she were discovered to have such a thing in her possession. She had been told that it was a beauty tincture, and though it may well be, it was not only a beauty tincture.

  Mouse crossed to her desk and began to pull out the drawers, rifling through them one by one. There must be a place to hide the foul vial, a means of concealing it where it would not be found by a maid or some other person who made their way into her rooms. For all she knew, it had been given her with the deliberate purpose of being discovered. Perhaps Lady Signy had known that Mouse was not the Empress and had other reasons for sending the poison with her. Mouse’s stomach was sick with the thought.

  She pulled open a drawer and took out the folded parchment within it, the letter from the Foilunder that now accompanied the little archer tafl piece. She squeezed them both in her palm for a moment before returning them to the drawer and moving onto the next. In this one, there lay a tome. Mouse closed the drawer again, but then stopped and pulled it open once more, this time taking out the book. She held it in her hands, feeling the weight of it, running her fingers along the title engraved into the find leather binding, The Bellman's Elegy. It had been given to her by Ludger, one of the first recitations she had learned. She peeled back the cover and admired the elegant copy of the words, the elaborate illuminations that decorated the manuscript. She leafed through the pages, stopping on a familiar passage.

  "Bear ye out no unkind deed upon the meek and fraught!" she read, the words no more than a whisper on her lips. "All beasts upon the earth esteem, their stature matters not. Better to remove the hand that proves a wicked thought; The blade that cut the mouse’s tail will not be soon forgot."

  She closed the book and pressed her lips together. It would be a shame to ruin such a beautiful book, she thought to herself, but it would make a very inconspicuous hiding spot. After a moment’s hesitation, she went to her table and came back with a knife, a small, flat-handled dagger, the kind that would be sewn into her bodice on a long journey in case she needed to defend herself. She leafed to the middle of the book, and with one last rueful moment’s hesitation, drove the knife down into the book. With shaking hands and a cold determination, she sawed her way through the thick stack of pages, until she had cut a square in the middle, tearing the pages free with her hand. But before she could dispose of them, there came a knock at the door.

  Mouse held her breath, waiting for the knock to come again, which it presently did. She dropped the cover of the book closed, the torn pages sitting beside it, and slid the dagger into a drawer before padding quietly to the door.

  “Who’s there?” she called, but no answer came back. Slowly, Mouse cracked open the door and peered out into the hall to be greeted by a familiar face, a sigh signaling both her relief and her annoyance. The little page girl once again held in her hand a small white flower, thrusting it toward the cracked door, but before she could utter so much as a word, Mouse had slammed the door shut. She did not have time for Ludger and his games. She was done with this back and forth, this push and pull, this determination of his masked in cold indifference.

  Without the slightest regret for her own rudeness, she now returned to her task, wedging the small wooden box that contained the vial of nightshade into the square she had cut into the pages of the book. She closed the cover and opened it again. The first many pages had been left intact, concealing both the box and the destroyed portion of the book. Satisfied with her work, Mouse took the book over to her bed, kneeling beside the mattress and shoving the book beneath it, before rising again. But then she stopped and reconsidered her actions. If the book were found beneath the mattress, would it not be more suspicious than if it were lying in a drawer? Mouse chewed her lip in thought.

  The Bellman’s Elegy had, for a brief moment in time, been banned, its contents deemed too inciting for public consumption. For though it was largely regarded as a moral tale, the author, Kuno of Yarbruck, was a known critic of the monarchy, and his writings were therefore subject to scrutiny by the ruling class. However, the ban had quickly been reversed once it was realized not only that prohibition would only make the book more enticing, but that the population that stood the most to gain from propagating the allegedly dangerous ideas within the text could not read.

  The book had therefore made its return as a popular source of recitations for children of the upper classes, and concealing it beneath a mattress was like to draw more suspicion than leaving it in plain sight. Reluctantly, Mouse retrieved the book from its hiding place and returned it to the lowest drawer of the desk before collecting up the scraps of parchment torn from it and carrying them to the hearth.

  There came another knock at the door.

  "Go away!" Mouse shouted, casting the torn pages into the fire, watching them curl and blacken in the flames. It was a shame, she thought again, to ruin such a beautiful book, but not such a shame as it might have been had she given the tincture to the Empress. Mouse’s stomach cloyed at the thought. What might have happened to the Empress had she consumed the stuff? And what might have happened to Mouse? She watched the parchment shrivel and twist in the flames, her stomach sick with the idea.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She realized now that she had no notion as to whether the tincture had truly been meant for her or the Empress. But either way she looked at it, someone seemed to wish her dead, either through using the poison herself or being sentenced to hang when the Empress used it. She supposed the nightshade, as it was called, might have been given her with innocent intent, but she somehow doubted that to be the case. An involuntary shudder ran through her just as another knock came at the door.

  Her task now complete, Mouse crossed to answer it in exasperation.

  "I told you," she said as she swung the door open, "go—" But the last word died on her lips.

  "Alright, Mouse?" The guardsman on the other side of the door gave her a funny sort of smile. In his arms was a thick bundle of fabric, which he held out to Mouse now. She took it from him, blinking in surprise. “Go on, then,” he said, waiting for her to unfurl it. Mouse felt her annoyance begin to dissolve, her anxiety beginning to drain away. She held the object out in front of her and looked up at the guardsman.

  "It's a gambeson," Bo said, nodding to the padded woolen garment in Mouse's hands. "You'll need it if you're to learn the sword."

  "Yes," Mouse murmured, still recovering from the surprise of finding the guardsman at her door. She turned the thing around to examine it, the thick padding, heavy stitches, and row of fastenings that went all the way down the front. "Yes, of course."

  "It's the smallest one I could find," said Bo, shuffling awkwardly. "Hope it fits well enough."

  Mouse let out a breath, her frayed nerves relaxing slightly in the guardsman’s presence.

  "I'm certain it will," she said. “I thank you.” She cast a distracted look over her shoulder, suddenly uncertain as to whether she had remembered to put the dagger back into the drawer. The guardsman, marking her apparent unease, frowned at her in concern.

  “Something the matter?” he asked, his brow drawn together.

  Mouse shook her head.

  “No,” she said, trying to force a note of lightness into her voice that was entirely unconvincing, even to her own ears. “Nothing whatever.” She suddenly found it difficult to hold the guardsman’s gaze as he peered at her through cool grey eyes.

  “Would you tell me if there was?” he asked.

  Mouse felt the heat rise in her neck, caught out by the unexpected question.

  “I suppose that depends,” she said somewhat reluctantly. “I shouldn’t like to burden you with every little thing that bothers me.” She tried to force a smile.

  Bo nodded thoughtfully. He turned, as though to leave, before stopping and turning back to Mouse.

  “Say, Mouse,” he said, “what are you doing right now?”

  Mouse stood in her padded gambeson and leather gloves with her hands wrapped around the hilt of the sword, her arms straight and the blade angled up and away from her.

  "Like this?" she asked.

  "Bring your arms in a little," said the guardsman. Mouse obeyed. She did not remember much of what she had learned as a girl, and the number of different stances made it difficult to remember, but if there was one thing at which Mouse excelled, it was doing as she was told. "That's it," said Bo. "You feel the difference?"

  Mouse nodded.

  "The second one is easier," she said.

  "As it should be," smiled Bo. "Now, if you lower your point," he nudged the tip of Mouse's downward with his own until it came near the ground, "that's fool's guard. Makes it hard to parry but saves a fair bit of energy and might even trick your opponent."

  "I like the sound of that," said Mouse.

  "You would," smirked Bo.

  Mouse rested the tip of her sword on the ground and tilted her head, peering past the guardsman's freckles and into his clear grey eyes.

  "What is that supposed to mean?" she asked.

  Bo shrugged.

  "I think you like that people underestimate you," he said.

  Mouse raised her eyebrows at him.

  "You think that people underestimate me?" she asked, somewhat amused by the statement.

  "Sure," said Bo, raising his blade and assuming a forward stance. "Now, try to hit my hands."

  Mouse held her stance.

  "Do you care to elaborate?" she asked.

  "The things on the end of my arms," said Bo.

  Mouse shook her head and lifted her sword.

  "That's not what I meant," she said, watching the guardsman's mouth widen into a grin, "but I suppose you knew that."

  She thrust forward, smacking the guardsman's hands from the inside as he gripped his sword.

  "Doesn't have to be so hard," Bo winced. Mouse smiled apologetically before repeating the movement.

  “Why the hands?” she asked.

  “Well,” said the guardsman, “hurts like hell if you’re not armored. Good way to disarm a man without doing too much arm. And besides, they’re generally easy to reach. Now, from the other side," he instructed. Mouse followed his command, this time striking at his hands from the outside rather than the inside. "Good," Bo said. “Now I'll do the same to you." He motioned with a jerk of his head for Mouse to raise her guard.

  Mouse took a deep breath and tensed the muscles in her arms, elbows low, blade up and away. However, when the guardsman thrust forward with his sword to strike at her hand, Mouse could not help but flinch, pulling her arms in toward herself and with them her sword. Just as she did so, Bo took advantage of this opening and brought his blade up toward her neck. "Might want to rethink that," he said.

  Mouse swallowed a sigh of frustration and resumed her stance. It was hard being so bad at something. But this time, when Bo struck for her hands, she stepped back lowered her sword into fool's guard before bringing it back up and knocking the guardsman's blade to the side. She knew he had moved slowly on purpose, and she was grateful for his patience, but still, she was somewhat proud of herself.

  "You're a natural," said Bo, beaming at her.

  Mouse shook her head, even as she felt the color rush to her cheeks.

  "I'm terrible," she said, "but I suppose that's your problem to fix."

  The guardsman raised his eyebrows at her.

  "Is it now?" he asked. Mouse nodded. "Alright," Bo said. "But don't think for a moment I'm going to underestimate you."

  Mouse returned to her rooms with limp arms and hair damp with sweat. Wielding a sword for an hour, even a practice one, was far more tiring than it looked, and the gambeson a good deal warmer. Though she had built sufficient strength from years of drawing a bow, swordplay, she had discovered, required much more of a sustained effort. What was more, one had to be quick. There was little time to ponder your next move, and no way of predicting your opponent’s. It was therefore necessary to drill each move, each pattern until they became second nature and you could react based on instinct. And such as the case, Mouse knew she had a long road and many hours of limp arms ahead of her.

  Mouse leaned her weight against the heavy wooden door of her chambers, pushing it open and practically falling inside. But no sooner had she stepped into the room than she sensed that something was amiss. She did not know what it was—a chill in the air or a scent that did not belong there—but something was wrong.

  Mouse tiptoed slowly inside, as though afraid to wake whatever ill spirit was lurking within. She was not certain at first how she had arrived at the notion, but someone had just been there, she was sure of it. And as she looked around, a chill tickling at her neck, she realized just how it was she could be so certain: they had left something behind.