“Ready?” Christian’s voice was without inflection.
The thin-wristed second approached to give Simon back his sword. “Ought we to wait until it’s brighter? The sun isn’t even up.”
“No.” Simon took his sword and pointed with the tip. “Put the lanterns to either side of us.”
He watched as de Raaf and the other seconds followed his directions.
Simon flexed his knees and raised his left hand behind his head. He caught de Raaf’s eye. “Remember Lucy.”
De Raaf nodded grimly.
Simon turned to face his opponent. “Ready.”
“Allez!”
Christian sprang like a fox—healthy, young, and feral. Simon brought his sword up just in time, swearing under his breath. He parried the blow and retreated, his rear foot sliding in the crust of snow. He stabbed under the other man’s guard, almost catching him in the side, but Christian was too fast. Steel rang as his sword was deflected. Simon’s breath rasped loudly in his own ears. The air bit his lungs with cold on each inhale. He grunted and parried another attack. Strong and swift, Christian moved like an athlete of old. Simon grinned.
“You find this amusing?” the younger man panted.
“No.” Simon coughed as the cold air seemed to drive too deeply into his lungs and fell back again under a flurry of slashes. “I merely admire your form.” His wrist ached and the muscle on his upper arm was beginning to burn, but it was important to make a good show.
Christian looked at him suspiciously.
“Really. You’ve improved enormously.” Simon smiled and darted at an opening.
Christian leaned back. The tip of Simon’s sword grazed his left cheek, leaving a scarlet line behind. Simon’s smile widened. He hadn’t thought he would make contact.
“Blood!” Christian’s second called.
De Raaf didn’t even bother. Both duelists ignored the shout.
“Bastard,” the younger man said.
Simon shrugged. “Something to remember me by.”
Christian struck at his flank.
Simon pivoted, his feet slipping again in the icy snow. “Would you have hurt Lucy?”
Christian sidestepped, his arm still moving easily despite the blood painting half his face. “Would you have killed my father?”
“Maybe.”
The younger man ignored his answer and feinted, drawing Simon’s blade down. Fire slashed across his brow.
“Damn!” Simon jerked his head back. The blood was already running into his right eye, blinding it. He blinked, his eye stinging. He heard de Raaf swearing in a low, steady monotone.
“Something to remember me by.” Christian repeated his words without smiling.
“I won’t have long.”
Christian stared, then lunged forward violently. Simon blocked the blow. For a second they were locked together, Christian bearing down, Simon holding him off with the strength of his shoulder. Then, slowly—incredibly—Simon’s arm gave. The sword point slid, screeching, toward him. De Raaf shouted hoarsely. The sword point stabbed into Simon, high on his right chest. He gasped and felt the steel scrape against his collarbone, felt the jar as the point hit his shoulder blade and stopped. He brought his own sword up between their sweating, surging bodies and saw Christian’s eyes widen as he understood the peril. The younger man jumped back, the hilt of his sword slipping out of his grasping hand. Simon cursed as the buried sword tip pulled like a damned viper, but remained steadfastly planted in his flesh.
It wasn’t time yet.
Simon ignored the agony in his shoulder and slashed at Christian, keeping the man away from the bobbing hilt. Sweet heaven, he must look like a puppet with a stick jutting from his shoulder. What an ignoble way to die. His opponent stared at him, out of reach but unarmed. The sword in his chest sagged, dragging on his muscle. Simon tried to reach the hilt. He could just grasp it but hadn’t the leverage to pull it from his own body. Blood soaked his shirt, growing colder with each passing minute. Christian’s second was standing shocked in the bloody, churned snow. Christian himself seemed nonplussed. Simon understood the other man’s dilemma. To win the duel, Christian must pull his sword from Simon’s shoulder. But in order to reach his sword, he must first face Simon’s sword unarmed. And yet what could Simon do with the damn thing sticking out in front of him? He couldn’t pull it out, and he couldn’t really fight with it weaving and bobbing before him.
Impasse.
De Raaf had grown silent, but now he spoke. “It’s over.”
“No,” Simon hissed. He kept his eyes on the younger man. “Take it.”
Christian eyed him warily—as well he should.
Meanwhile, de Raaf still pleaded. “He was your friend. You can end this, Fletcher.”
Christian shook his head. Blood from the cut on his cheek already stained his collar. Simon wiped the gore from his eye and smiled. He would die today; he knew it. What point in living without Lucy? But he would have an honorable death. He would make the boy work for his kill. Despite the blood soaking his shirt, despite the fire eating at his shoulder, despite the weariness weighing down his soul, he would have a real fight. A real death.
“Take it,” he repeated softly.
Chapter Twenty
The light from Lucy’s candles shone on the conservatory floor. Glass shards sparkled there like a carpet of diamonds. Lucy stared dazedly at them a moment before she noticed the chill. She looked up. The wind was whistling through what had once been a glass roof, making her candle flames flicker and threaten to go out. She held the candelabra higher. Every pane in the greenhouse was jagged and broken. The sky, graying with the threat of day, hung too low.
Who . . . ?
She moved into the greenhouse almost without volition. The glass crunched beneath her boots, scraping against the brick walk. Terra-cotta pots were in drifts on the tables, broken and crushed, as if a great, angry wave had tossed them there. Lucy stumbled down the aisle, the bits of glass sliding beneath her shoes. Upturned roses in various states of bloom were scattered everywhere. One ball of roots hung from a windowpane overhead. Pink and red blooms bled petals on the floor, their familiar perfume curiously absent. Lucy touched a flower and felt it melt and shrivel beneath the warmth of her hand. It was frozen. The bitter winter air had been let in to savage the sheltered blooms. Dead. All the roses were dead.
Dear God.
Lucy reached what had been the dome in the middle of the conservatory and stopped. Only a skeleton, bits of glass skin still clinging here and there, remained. The marble fountain was chipped and cracked as if a giant hammer had been taken to it. A frozen plume of ice stood in the fountain, stilled in mid-splash. More ice spilled from a crack in the fountain and widened into a frozen lake around it. Beneath the ice, shards of glass glittered, horribly beautiful.