"Possibly." Lord Godwin sighed. "You have no idea what a muddle the rules and traditions of the Court of Honor is. Does the privilege even extend to women, or does it merely derive from their male relatives?

There are precedents for one, and for the other, case by case and year by year, as the members change by fate and election. The dukes and Arlen have the only permanent seats, which is supposed to give it all some stability-and you'll know what that means when I remind you that the Duke Tremontaine is one ofthem!" His lady nodded wryly. "'Honor' appears to be a maze of unwritten rules and fiercely defended traditions. In the end, what is this girl? What's her legal status, and even her social one? Does she pass back and forth from noble to sword at a whim? And if so, whose whim?"

"Her uncle's, I imagine. Unless she kills him first."

"She can't kill him. Not in honorable challenge, anyway; the Court permits no one to profit from challenge within their own family. If she kills, she does it on his behalf."

"Or her own."

"It's all pretty alarming."

"I see. And what will you noble lords do about it now?"

"We watch and wait."

"I cannot like it, Michael. If this truly is his sister Talbert's child, then it's disgraceful for the duke to be encouraging her to run wild like that. A noble's daughter should be gently raised and properly cared for.

Someone should do something."

"Tremontaine is the head of the family, and the family has not complained-not in Council, anyway, where it might do some good. I hear Greg Talbert's locked himself up with a serious head cold rather than answer any questions."

"She's only a girl, they say, no older than Lydia here."

"Well, sometimes I do wonder," Michael Godwin said, "if I should not have taught Lydia the sword. I won't always be around, you know, and if that goatish Lindley tries anything once they're wed..."

"Oh, Papa!" It hadn't been funny the first time, and had grown less so with every repetition since.

Her mother rushed in to the rescue, asking "How is your friend Artemisia, Lydie? I heard she was ill.

Did you visit her yesterday?"

Her mother was so sensible and kind, not at all like Lady Fitz-Levi. It wouldn't be breaking her word to her friend to tell her mother how unhappy Mia was. "She's not so much ill as heartsick, Mama. She does not want to marry Lord Ferris at all, and they are going toforce her. She weeps and weeps and will not eat, and is truly pitiful. Oh, is there nothing we can do?"

Her mother, who had ample experience of young Lady Artemisia's temperament, said cautiously, "Do you know what made her change her mind about her intended, dearest?"

"She will not say. But she is wretched, Mama. I've never seen her so distraught-well, almost never.

Not for so long, anyway."

Her father gave her mother a look across the table. "My word on it," he said, "she's found out about the Black Rose."

"Michael," Lady Godwin warned, "perhaps this is not the time...." "Rosamund, I think it is very much the time, with Lydie about to be married herself and launched into the world. I've been meaning to speak to her about it, in fact." He turned to his only daughter. "Lydia, dearest, what do you know about women who...Lydia. Let me begin again." Lady Godwin sighed audibly, but did not offer her husband assistance. "Men, as you know, have certain interests in life, and these interests sometimes lead them to do foolish things. Things their wives would not approve of. And I hope that if you see your husband doing anything foolish, you will not stand by without calling him to account for it."

Lydia tried to look very adult and trustworthy. "You need have no fears on that account, Papa. Armand and I have vowed always to tell each other everything."

"Just so," said Lord Godwin. "Of course, unmarried men are allowed to be a little foolish sometimes. It gives them something to improve upon, and their wives as well. So I hope you will not be altogether surprised if you learn, someday, that one of your friends' young husbands before his marriage was, ah, friendly with certain women of the town, hostesses and actresses and such, and became their protector.

Most men, in fact, have such a past."

"But never their wives?"

"Oh, never the wives." Eyes downcast, her mother smiled. "Women have no past, just a grand and glorious future."

Lydia kept her face schooled to look as if all this was news to her. "The Black Rose is an actress," she said helpfully. "Is Lord Ferris her protector?"

"Was," said Michael Godwin. "She's a magnificent piece, just the sort of high-ticket, high-profile item Ferris goes for, and he went for her. It wasn't easy, either. The Rose is very picky. Easily bored, she says, and considering how many 'protectors' she's turned away, it must be true. But he likes a bit of a challenge, does our Crescent."

"Michael." His wife's voice carried a hint of steel.

"Just common knowledge," he added doucely. "It didn't last long, though. They had a bit of a row."

"A bit?" her mother said with relish. "I heard he had her thrown out of his house in the middle of the night like a common thing, with only the shift on her back."

Lydia gasped. "If Artemisia did something he disliked, would he have her thrown out in the snow, too?

No wonder she doesn't want to marry him!"

"Certainly not, darling. No nobleman would dare to treat his wife that way. It would get back to her parents and her brother, and he would pay dearly for it. No, don't worry, it's surely not anything like that."

"Think about it, Lydie," her father said. "Your friend has a great deal of pride. She heard about the affair, and she wants to make him sorry. You must admit, she always does like to have the upper hand."

Lydia knit her brow in thought. It was true that Mia had been most interested when the Black Rose's name came up. And, to be fair, Mia had never liked being upstaged by anyone. "But if Lord Ferris has already left his mistress, then why should Mia mind so?" "Because," her mother explained crisply, "it all happened around MidWinter. He was courting them both at the same time, that's why." Lydia let out a low whistle. "There!" Lady Godwin accused her husband.

"That's what all this vulgar talk leads to. Lydia, no whistling in public, you know better."

"If you knew about Lord Ferris and the Black Rose, then surely her parents did as well. Why didn't anyone say anything?"

Lord Godwin said, "Artemisia's father is, ah, a man of the town. Even if he did know about Lord Ferris's affair with an actress, he surely knew it would blow over. He wouldn't let it interfere with a good marriage contract."

Lydia sat slowly digesting all this knowledge. Artemisia had never really loved Lord Ferris, she knew that. Maybe she was right not to marry him. Her parents could not force her, surely. This matter would prove to be just another long contest of wills, such as were not unknown in the Fitz-Levi family. She vowed to visit Mia again soon with a box of her favorite chocolates and some diversion.

"The Black Rose is in a new play," Lydia said, "and all my friends have seen it. May I go?"

"Oh, dear," sighed her mother, "it's that awful piece of trash about the swordsman lover, isn't it? My friends were mad for that book when we were young."

"It's not trash," her daughter said. "It is full of great and noble truths of the heart. And swordfights."

"I'll have to read it," her father said brightly, but no one paid him any attention.

"I so want Mia to see the play," Lydia said. "If I can assure her that Lord Ferris will not be there-"

"He won't," her mother chuckled. "The Black Rose denied him entry to the theatre the morning after, and he hasn't been back since."

"Well, there you have it," Michael Godwin said to his daughter. "Actresses are spiteful creatures. You be sure you tell your Armand that he should be very cautious when he chooses a mistress."

A year ago, Lydia might still have giggled when he talked like that. But love had turned her serious, at least where love was concerned. "Oh, Papa," she said. "You know Armand never would."

"Of course not," her father said. "He knows I've got my eye on him."

chapterVIII JUST KNOWING ABOUTLUCIUSPERRY AND HIS LADYLOVEmade life more enjoyable.

Whenever the duke got highhanded with us, implying that we were young and what did we know? we had to bite the inside of our cheeks to keep from laughing over the things we knew now that he did not.

Marcus and I speculated endlessly on what we had witnessed. I thought the lady was very wise, knowing Perry's proclivities, to refuse to yield to his advances, since clearly he'd lose interest the moment she did. Marcus, though, claimed she must be ignorant of his other lives, or she'd never let him in the door. His colorful theories included the possibility that the woman was really Perry's sister, so a little kissing was all she would allow. "He's steeped in vice," he said; "why shouldn't it run in the family?"

I pointed out stiffly that these things did not always run in families.

We should have been trying to find out who owned her house. It would have been fairly easy to go up to the door with a misdelivered message and use that as an excuse to grill the maid, or the neighbors'

maids.... We talked about it, but we never did anything. That wasn't the game, really. It was more of a challenge to try and catch both Lucius and his lady out together, see what they would betray to our inquisitiveness. What did they mean to each other? What were they hiding, and why? We wanted the secrets of their hearts, something no one else had, something they would be reluctant to yield to anyone else. We would hold it for them, and keep it safe, our treasure, whole and unique. Besides, the maid had a walleye.

It is possible, though, that lurking in late winter gardens was bad for the health. A few days later, Marcus caught a serious cold. While Marcus was in bed, my uncle sent for me. The duke was in his study with his friend Flavia, the unmercifully homely woman he kept around so they could make fun of people and do mathematical puzzles or something-at least, that's what they always seemed to be doing when I saw them together. Today they were constructing some kind of a model-a tower, or maybe a clock, I couldn't quite tell, and I didn't want to ask and be lectured. I was wearing my splendid new cloak, because the day was finally warm enough that I could sling it back by the tassel and not have to worry about puddles.

Flavia looked up at me when I came in and said, "I've got it: You could have a career on the stage."

"As what?" my uncle asked. "She can't memorize anything, none of us can. Dates of crowns and battles leave her hapless."

"I know poetry," I said, but they ignored me.

"Well," Flavia told him, "in case you haven't noticed, the demand for female swordfighters is pretty much limited to Tremontaine House and the theatre, where they are enjoying a certain vogue."

"They can't really fight," he said crossly. "They just know a few moves, and they leap about showing their legs. Whereas Katherine is an excellent duelist-and always very modestly dressed," he added primly.

"Three yards of silk velvet isn't what I'd call modest," she said, but I knew he meant I didn't flash my legs around.

"Look," said my uncle, "speaking of theatre, how would you like to see a play?"

"Me?" I squeaked. "Why not? I've got a box at the Hart, you may as well use it. They're playing this afternoon. You should go. Enjoy yourself." I waited. As a benevolent uncle, he wasn't very convincing. "And when it's done, you might like to go backstage and meet one of the actresses."

"The swordfighter?" Did he want me to give her a few tips? I'd die.

"No, the romantic lead. She's called the Black Rose. I've got something I'd like you to give her." He handed me a brocade pouch with something heavy slinking inside it. "It's a gold chain," he said, "and I'm trusting you not to run off with it. Just give it to her. She'll know who it's from, and what it means. But if anyone asks, it's a tribute from you to her, in admiration of her fine performance."

"Is she really that good?"

My uncle smiled creamily. "The best."

"Dear one, cease the salacious thoughts and hand me that piece-no, the little one. Butterfingers."

"Butterfingers, yourself."

SO THAT WAS HOWIWENT TO THE THEATRE FOR THE first time. I would have thought it was a temple, with its painted columns and bright facade, but the banners proclaimed it theLEAPING HART THEATRE, HENRY STERLING, ACTOR/MANAGER . At the last minute the duke had realized that if the chain was not to be seen coming from him, I shouldn't sit in his box. So he gave me money for a good seat in the stalls across from the stage, and money to tip the seatman, and more for snacks and incidentals. A girl in a lowcut bodice was selling nuts; I bought some but forgot to eat them, I was so excited to be there.

I felt a bit like an actress myself, in my gorgeous cloak and a new hat with a plume that Betty had produced at the last minute. The ticket-taker called me "sir," and I didn't bother to correct him; why not pass for a boy and enjoy the freedom of one? All things were permitted here, it seemed. I couldn't wait to see the actress with the sword.

Candles were lit on the stage, although it was still broad daylight. There was a bed on it, a big one with curtains. There were also curtains at the windows at the back of the stage, which were very tall, and a dressing table and a carpet. It looked like a lady's bedroom.

To the side of the stage, a consort started to play, and the audience quieted. Then a woman entered.

There was a little sigh, because she was so very beautiful, deep bosomed and dark haired, gorgeously dressed in a rose-colored gown with many flounces, but her white throat was decked with simple pearls.

"No, thank you," she said to someone we couldn't see offstage, her maid, I guess. "I will put myself to bed." Somebody chuckled and was shushed. The woman unclasped her cloak and laid it on a chair. She did it with such an air of sweet weariness that you somehow knew that she had been out late, and enjoyed herself, too, but was more than ready for the day to be over. Languidly she reached up to her hair, and pulled two pins out. A fall of dark tresses released itself down her back, like an animal let loose.

She reached for the clasp at her throat. It was then, when we were admiring her private moment of grace and release, thinking it was only for us, that a man stepped out from behind one of her long bedroom curtains. He was devastatingly handsome and carried a sword. His voice, when he spoke, was warm and rich like poured chocolate-but it was not that which made me catch my breath. "Lady Stella," he said. "Allow me."

I had to dig my nails into my palms to keep from squeaking out loud. As it was, I began moving my lips along with the lines. I knew them all, from the opening chapter of my favorite book.

Fabian snuffed the candles, one by one. On the dusky stage he drew Stella to him, and they disappeared together within the bedcurtains. A woman behind me squeaked happily. The curtains didn't stir, but the consort began to play a slow and lovely air. When it was done, her maid came in and pulled back the draperies, first the high ones at the window, and then the bedcurtains.

Stella was revealed alone in the bed, her dark hair falling over her white ruffled nightdress. She rose and went to the window, and we saw that it was open a little, as though someone had left without quite closing it behind him. She turned and looked out over the audience, one hand stroking her hair.

"I was a girl before tonight. I am a woman now."

It was the oddest feeling in the world, seeing something that had belonged so utterly to me alone being made to happen up on the stage with living people doing it, and others watching it. (I'd lent Marcus the book once. When I finally asked for it back he never said anything, so either he hadn't liked it or he hadn't bothered to read it.) When they got to the fight in the clocktower between Mangrove and Fabian, the swords finally came out in earnest. Henry Sterling's swordplay was not bad-he certainly had the flair and the spirit of Fabian-but whoever played Mangrove really knew what he was doing with his wrist. It was almost a surprise when he dropped his sword and fled in confusion.

Mangrove was all wrong, of course-too short, for one thing, because he's supposed to be much taller than Fabian, and Henry Sterling was a truly magnificent Fabian, especially when he tells Stella (wrongly) that he's glad it's Tyrian's child because Mangrove is right and his own seed is cursed-but it must have been hard to find an actor taller than Sterling. And Mangrove should have had a mustache, because in the scene where he kisses Stella, she is repelled by it, but of course they left that out. The gorgeous actress playing Stella, who was surely the Black Rose, did a wonderful job of looking repelled just the same: she did a little thing with curling her fingers behind her back that meant she was filled with disgust, you could tell.

Tyrian. I wasn't sure how I felt about Tyrian. You could tell it was a woman, if you looked hard and thought about it. But everyone onstage referred to her as "he" and treated her like a man, so you sort of had to go along with it. She did take big swaggering steps like a man, and held her head a certain way, and she had cut all her hair right off, so that it stood in fair little curls all over her head. Even in the book there is a certain softness to Tyrian, a gentleness that makes you like him and think it would not be so bad if Stella chose him over his friend. The actress was very good at that, the way she looked at Stella when Stella wasn't looking, and the way she stepped back when Stella was thinking and all. Maybe they just couldn't find a man to play Tyrian that well. She did look very dashing with her sword at her side; I could hardly wait to see her use it later.

Tyrian made his vow to Fabian, and the two of them left, and everyone applauded. I waited eagerly, but nothing happened. The stage was empty, the consort was playing, and the audience started talking and getting up. I worried that something had gone wrong, but no one else seemed concerned. Vendors came back selling bags of nuts and bunches of flowers. Some had little black silk rosettes and tiny silver swords for people to pin in their hats or on their sleeves as tokens of the two lead actresses to showwhich they liked best. The actress playing Tyrian was called Viola Fine. Her little sword appealed to me, but I thought I should buy a rose if I was going to see the Black Rose. In the end I did neither, but I did get a printed picture of the actor Henry Sterling in the role of Fabian, his arm raised to his brow in an attitude of anguish. They had colored ones, too, for more money, but I thought I could color it myself when I got home. I would ask my uncle to give me watercolors.

Then they blew trumpets, and we all found our seats again.

The second half wasn't as good as the first, because they had to cut too much out, like Stella's horse race and the terror of the hunting cats. Instead the actors made long speeches about love which were never in the book, and weren't as good. I watched Tyrian more closely. Viola Fine was supposed to be an actual man, not a woman swordsman, but if you thought about it realistically, that's what she was.

Like me. Only not for real: my uncle was right, her swordplay was just for show. That huge disengage of hers would get her killed in a real fight. I wondered if she liked playing a man. When Viola Fine first went on the stage, had shechosen roles where she could stride about, her cloak swirling around her, or had she really been hoping to play Stella or someone with gorgeous gowns and luxurious curls and jewels that couldn't have been real but glittered fantastically, and men saying they would die for her?

I was not the only person in the audience holding her breath when Tyrian approached Stella for the kiss.

"You have done tonight," she said, "what ten thousand men could not."

"Now," the Black Rose murmured low, but we could all hear it, somehow, "let me show you what one woman alone can do."

She leaned towards Viola. Viola's eyes closed languidly. The Black Rose came closer-and then her eyes opened wide, following the entrance of Mangrove's minions on the roof (instead of the hunting cats).

It might be nice to be an actress, after all. I was a better swordsman than Viola Fine already, wasn't I?

Maybe someone would write a play just for me, one where a real woman could fight with her sword, and had many fine adventures and changes of costume. Maybe Henry Sterling would play a man who loves me madly but thinks I love only the sword, while really I am smoldering with passion for him. Or maybe Viola could play the hero, and I could play a woman who disguises herself as a man in order to get close to her and-what? We could have a terrific fight at the end, maybe, and kill each other, and the audience would be sobbing, the way they do at the end of the play when Tyrian cradles Stella's head in his arms, rocking her and letting her think he's Fabian, who's already taken the potion, but Stella doesn't know it.

I can make myself cry just thinking of it. And the way Viola rose to her feet, looking for someone to fight but there is no one left-there was such a look of desolation there. I wondered if she was lonely, too.

All around me, people were jumping to their feet and clapping and yelling and throwing things-flowers, nuts, handkerchiefs stained with kisses-and wiping their eyes, as well. A girl behind me said to her friend, "I've seen it eleven times now, and I always say I won't cry, and then I do."

"I know," her friend said. "I keep wanting it to end differently, but it never does. Oh, there she is!"

The Black Rose swept back onstage, glowing with a tragic dignity. Her magnificent bosom swelled as she took a deep breath and bowed low to the crowd. The girl behind me started gasping, "I'll die, I'll die...Oh, just hold me! Isn't shefine ? I've written her a dozen letters, but she never answers."