“Enough!” Siredy shouted, and in the same moment Gasquine cried out for them to hold, but the women ignored both of them, de Vannevaux struggling now to hold her own against the suddenly deadly blade. And it could be deadly, Eslingen knew, even without the point, just the jagged edge could wound, maim, even kill. He saw Siredy fumbling for his own sword, set somewhere out of reach, and launched himself onto the stage, snatching the bated blade from de Besselin’s slack fingers.

“Hold!” he shouted, circling for a space to intervene, but the women ignored him, de Vannevaux swearing as she made a fruitless lunge, the bated blade bending harmlessly against Txi’s side. Txi’s riposte was instant and effective, would have been deadly if it hadn’t caught in the other woman’s corset, sliding across the metal boning to tear into the flesh of her upper arm. De Vannevaux screamed, more anger than pain, and Eslingen stepped between them, blade flashing out to engage Txi’s.

“Enough!” Siredy shouted again, sword in hand, and Jarielle caught de Vannevaux by the shoulders, swinging her bodily away from the other woman. And then, as suddenly as a candle blown out by wind, the tension broke, and Txi sank to her knees, sword clattering unheeded to the stage as she clapped both hands over her mouth. De Vannevaux’s eyes were wide, disbelieving, and she looked from her erstwhile lover to the blood staining her shirt as though she expected one of them to vanish.

“Tyrseis, protector of this place,” Gasquine said. “Would your ladyships care to explain what that was about?”

Txi burst into gulping tears, bowing until she was bent double, skirts pooled about her on the bare stage. De Vannevaux shook her head as though she were dazed.

“Madame–mistress,” she began, and shook her head again. “It’s–I think it’s my fault, we quarreled…” Her voice trailed off, as though she could no longer remember what she’d done, and she sank to her knees beside Txi, reaching for the other woman. Txi jerked herself away from de Vannevaux’s touch, never lifting her head, and Eslingen saw the matching tears in de Vannevaux’s eyes.

“There’s no harm done,” Siredy said softly, kneeling in his turn beside Txi, “just nerves.” The look on his face belied the soothing words,

“Oriane and her Bull,” Gasquine said. “If the two of you can’t control yourselves, I will personally take you over my knee and spank you as your mothers never did. I will not have this–this nonsense interfering with my play. Is that clear?”

De Vannevaux nodded, still not speaking, and Txi lifted her head, showing a face streaked with tears and paint. “Mistress, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

“It was my fault,” de Vannevaux said, almost in the same moment. “Oh, Anile, can you ever forgive me?”

Txi burst into tears again, and threw herself into the other woman’s lap. “I hurt you,” she said, voice muffled against de Vannevaux’s skirt, and de Vannevaux hugged her, heedless of the pain of her injured arm.

Gasquine stared at them for a moment longer, hands on hips, then slowly reseated herself. “This will not happen again,” she said, and Eslingen stooped to help de Vannevaux to her feet. “Now. We begin again, from your exit.”

Eslingen glanced at Siredy, who tipped his head toward the nearer wing. He nodded, and tightened his hold on de Vannevaux’s shoulders, urging her toward the shadows. Siredy did the same with Txi, and together they brought the two women offstage, past the actors waiting to come on. Their eyes were bright and curious, and Txi buried her face in her hands again. Behind him, Eslingen could hear Simar giving a shaky count, and then the tramp of feet as the remaining duelists made their planned exit. The waiting actors made their entrance, not without backward glances, and Siredy patted Txi’s shoulder gently.

“It’s nerves,” he said. “Stage fright. It takes people strange ways. You’ll be all right.”

Txi nodded jerkily, her eyes on the other woman. “But Iais–oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Let me see, madame,” Eslingen said, and turned de Vannevaux so that he could examine the wound. She let him move her, her eyes vacant, let him turn her arm palm out so that he could see the cut. It was little more than a long scratch up the underside of her upper arm, the bleeding already slowed, but he found a handkerchief in his pocket, folded it to a pad, and pressed it against the wound. De Vannevaux flinched, but put her own hand over it obediently enough.

“Anile,” she said. “Oh, gods, will you forgive me?”

“I’m the one who needs forgiveness,” Txi answered, and something moved in the shadows behind her. Aubine, Eslingen realized, and thought for an instant that the landseur held something, in his left hand. Then he came forward into the light reflecting from the stage, eyes wide and appalled.

“Anile, are you all right? What a terrible thing, you should go home and rest.”

His hands were empty after all, Eslingen saw.

De Vannevaux shook her head, but Txi straightened. “Aubine’s right,” she said. “You should have that seen to, and then, yes, you should rest. I’ll never forgive myself–”

“Hush,” Siredy said, and blushed, as though he’d only just realized what he’d said, but Aubine nodded in agreement.

“Quite right. There’s been enough–forgive me, Iais–there’s been enough raw emotion today. You need to be calm, take deep breaths. It will pass.”

What will pass? Eslingen wondered. Stage fright, he supposed, if anyone was going to believe that explanation.

Txi managed a shaky nod, her costume glittering as she did as she was told.

“Iais,” de Vannevaux said. “Iais, I’ll go home–and, yes, to a physician, too, if we can find one that will be discreet–but only if you’ll go with me.”

“You can’t want me,” Txi said, and de Vannevaux managed a watery smile.

“I started it, Anile. I suppose I got what I deserved.”

“Very wise of you both,” Aubine said briskly. “Why don’t you take my carriage? I’ll have my man bring it round, have him take you wherever you’d like to go.” He moved away, still talking, and the landames followed docilely, their attention on each other. Eslingen shook his head, watching them go.

“Seidos’s Horse,” he said, not quite under his breath, and Siredy shrugged.

“Passions run high at the last rehearsals, and theirs were high enough to start with. It’ll be worse tomorrow.”

“Tyrseis preserve us all,” Eslingen answered, and surprised a smile from the other man. “Verre, you can’t mean it, that this always happens. Not like this.”

Siredy paused, his smile turning wry. “Well, no, not quite like this, but then, we don’t usually have the quality onstage. But there’s always something, these last two days. They never pass without tears and screaming.”

Eslingen shook his head, not convinced, and Siredy took a step away.

“Anyway, we need to make sure the half‑pikes are ready. Will you help?”

Eslingen started to nod, but a patch of something pale on the boards where Aubine had been standing caught his eye. “I’ll be along in a minute,” he said, and Siredy sighed.

“See that you are.”

Eslingen bit back an angry answer– and maybe Siredy is right, tempers are starting to fray, my own included–but waited until the other man had turned away before he stooped to collect the object. It was a flower, pale and bell‑shaped, its stem neatly snapped, and Eslingen stared at it for a long moment, unwelcome thoughts crowding his mind. Rathe had said that the right way to disrupt one of the Alphabet’s arrangements was to pull it apart flower by flower–to take the right flower from it, not to break it apart. Had the Alphabet been at work again–had that been the cause of the landames’ sudden quarrel? He shook his head, not wanting to believe it–but Aubine had been there, he remembered, slipping across the front of the pit to fiddle with his arrangements just as the duelists made their entrance. Not Aconin, then, but Aubine; not the playwright, but the sponsor who had put his name behind it, possibly commissioned it. Ignoring Siredy’s glare, he slipped across the back of the stage again, dodging actors and scenerymen, made his way to the front of the wings, looking for another patch of white. Sure enough, it was there, another broken flower, stem snapped and cast aside. He stared at it for a long moment, then craned his head to see the nearer of the two arrangements. There were no other flowers like this one in it, and its simplicity would have been lost among the showier blooms, but he was suddenly absolutely sure that it had been the keystone, the one piece that had made the arrangement active. Which means Aubine, he thought again, and that still makes no sense. Why would Aubine kill de Raзan, and the watchman–well, he might have killed the watchman for the same reason anyone would have, because the man knew what happened in the theatre after hours, and if Aubine had been testing his arrangements, the watch would have been the first to know, but there was no reason to kill Forveijl… Unless he, too, had suspected something. Rathe would know, he told himself firmly, Rathe would be able to figure it out. He tucked the flowers carefully into the pocket of his coat, and started back to join Siredy. The main thing now was to get through the rest of the rehearsal as quietly, as unobtrusively, as possible, and get the flowers and his suspicions home to Rathe before Aubine noticed that anything had changed.