"You give away
your moves.” Her fencing instructor scolded. “You must not lead
with your eyes. You must dance on your feet.”
Helen tried to
attack again, but Monsieur Roussell countered her easily and scored a
hit to her arm. “Too slow! Again!”
A dozen more times and
Helen broke away: sore, disheveled, and frustrated. Yet still
determined.
She saluted her instructor with her foil.
This
time, she thought of her cat, Sammy. When her attack was parried, she
anticipated it, dropped into a twisting passata sotto.
She
missed, but Roussell smiled. “Better.”
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