Squirrel flung herself off of the bed, sprawling to the ground as her ripped pants caught around her ankles. With a desperate hiss, Squirrel turned over, sitting up and tearing the pants away even as Gerald’s two guards turned to face her, their swords leaving their sheaths.

The nearest one charged her as she came to her feet, and Jon’s aggressive teachings took control of her body. Squirrel lunged inside the bigger man’s reach, able to smell the sour beer on his breath as she kneed him in the groin and wrested the shortsword from his slackening hand. Squirrel twisted around him, sending him spinning to the floor as she faced the second guard, tromping around the bedside toward her.

Squirrel’s sudden disarming of the other guard phased him, and he paused, staring at the sword in her hand with a slack jaw like a man come face to face with a wild animal. There was no time to let the man regain his composure. He weighed at least fifty pounds more than her, and if she hesitated, he would overpower her in a matter of seconds.

Squirrel’s legs flexed, and she sent herself sailing straight over the bed, pulling her arm back in what appeared to be a wild swing. The man snapped out of his confusion and brought his sword up to guard far too late, forced to block a full swing rather than step forward and abort it before it gained momentum.

Mid-flight, Squirrel tucked her elbow back and lowered her wrist, switching from a swing to a stab. The guard’s face registered and instant of surprise before his panicked jerk on his short sword. His sword scraped against Squirrel’s, throwing up sparks as her blade slid by, gouging out half of his throat before she collided into him with her whole body.

Squirrel and the guard tumbled to the ground and moments later she leapt to her feet, panting. Squirrel’s eyes widened as she took in the sight. A trick like that wouldn’t have even phased Jon, and yet she had just dealt the man a mortal wound. She had simply been following the same aggressive attack that Jon had drilled into her, and she had subconsciously expected him to block or dodge before criticizing her lack of skill.

He squirmed away, his eyes wide as he clapped a hand over his neck. He and Squirrel stared at each other for a breathless instant, stretching out as the life left the guard’s eyes. He lay a few feet away from the carpet, an arm’s length away from Gerald’s wide eyed corpse.

Arms were thrown around Squirrel’s waist, pinning her arms to her side and breaking her out of the moment. “Fucking bitch,” the guard who had been curled around his groin growled into her ear. “You’re gonna die for this.”

The guard’s hands fumbled for the short sword in her hand, attempting to supercede her grip on the weapon without letting go of her arms. Squirrel rammed her head backward in a street fighting move she’d been using since she was a little girl, catching the man’s face with the back of her skull. He grunted in pain, cursing, but not letting go.

Squirrel stood on her tiptoes, arching her back and leaning to the side, twisting to bring her mouth close to his ear before biting down hard. The man screamed, his voice ringing in her eardrums as he pushed her away, taking a piece of his ear with her. He backed away from her, holding his ear and regarding her with a wounded expression, as though she had personally betrayed him.

Squirrel noticed his elbow was raised where he held it to his ear, and without time to reconsider, squirrel hauled back and buried the blade in his chest, feeling a moment of resistance before the blade began following the gap in the man’s ribs, up into the heart and lungs.

The guard coughed out spurt of blood and collapsed, his ribs wrenching the sword from her hand as he tried to support his weight on the bed. He struggled to drag himself away for a few seconds before he stilled.

Squirrel stood in the center of the room, panting as her blood boiled in her chest. Surrounding her were the three dead men, their blood soaking into the rough wooden floor. Each of them had died with their eyes open, looking at where she had been when she had killed them, tracking her.

Squirrel’s world tilted sideways, and she found herself on her hands and knees, her breath not coming fast enough no matter how hard she forced her lungs to pant. The spinning world picked up speed, and Squirrel began retching, her empty stomach trying it’s best to upend itself on the floor.

A clear fluid dripped from her lips as she heaved, spotting the floor with bile. Squirrel’s entire body shook as feeling stared coming back to her. The bruising on her face and the splinters on her arm and hand returned to her thoughts. She had to get out of here, as quick as she could. Sooner or later, someone was going to come and check on them, and if Squirrel wasn’t gone by then, they were going to kill her.

Or worse, not kill her. Squirrel wasn’t sure if Firelle was simply trying to chastise his son or not, but he had made allusions to her being more valuable than him. If that were truly the case, Squirrel would be in for her own private hell.

Squirrel pushed herself up to her knees, bringing Gerald’s empty stare into view as she rose above the bed. Shaking, Squirrel stood, limping over to the guard. She hadn’t felt it until now, but she had bruised her kneecap against the closed door. the leg was starting to feel swollen as she bent down, groaning while she looked through the guard’s pockets. Squirrel retrieved a flask and took a taste.

Her tongue was met with strong spirits, and Squirrel swallowed, wincing as the liquid burned all the way down. Squirrel coughed as the vapor stung her lungs and throat as she tried to breathe. “That’ll do,” she said, and set about pulling the splinters out with her teeth. Each new splinter released a drop of blood that was washed away by a few drops of the stinging liquid.

When she was done, Squirrel wrapped her forearm in a strip of clean sheets, and set about finding another pair of pants, when she heard voices coming down the hall. Heart hammering, Squirrel limped over to the sword dropped by the first guard she had killed, picking it up and backing against the wall. The sword shook in front of her as the footsteps approached, and Squirrel bit her lip until it bled, forcing herself to hold the sword with both hands to keep it steady.

The footsteps stopped in front of the room, and Squirrel held her breath, praying that they would move on, decide against coming in, respect the bastard Gerald’s privacy or something.

Squirrel blinked. When she opened her eyes, the room was back to normal, abandoned even. The three men had disappeared from the floor, the blood was gone, and the bed had returned to a tidy state. A thin layer of dust appeared to coat every surface now.

Squirrel looked down and found that she couldn’t see the sword that she held in front of her, or the hand that held it. Squirrel didn’t have any time to exclaim, or be surprised, because an instant later, a tall man in his thirties entered the room. Squirrel had never seen him before, and her heart leapt in her chest when she noticed the man wearing full armor and the symbol of an inquisitor. Those were the kind of people that made life miserable for her troupe and others like them, taking any suspicion of local theft to their doorstep.

In this case, though, was he a friend? Squirrel held her sword in front of her silently, the shake returning to her hands unbidden, but the inquisitor’s gaze slid right over her place against the far wall. The inquisitor grunted and stepped forward, “Guest room?” he said, scanning the room with disinterest as Marie Reinbahm stepped in behind him, a pleasant smile on her face.

Marie stopped in the doorway, her gaze first drawn to Squirrel against the wall, then her eyes flickered toward her son, who was slumped forward against the wall, a pool of blood staining his ruffled silk shirt and half-removed pants. Her smile flickered like a candle in the wind, before it was plastered unnaturally back on her face.

Marie turned her head, slowly and deliberately locking her eyes on Squirrel even as the inquisitor kicked the rug up to expose the floor only a few inches from where Gerald’s legs lay sprawled across the floor. “Doesn’t seem to be anything here, and no one’s been using this room. Let’s press on.” he said, turning back to Marie and spotting her stiff smile.

“Ma’am?”

“Oh,” Marie said as if she had been distracted. “High Inquisitor, I’m just overcome with fear for my husband and children, with Toren gone and Harold out to war, and now this…” she glanced at Squirrel again as she spoke.

“I understand,” The inquisitor said, nodding. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep your oldest son here to manage your affairs.”

Squirrel saw Marie’s jaw clench and she stiffened, a flicker of anger rising to her expression before it was quickly snuffed out. How was this man missing so much body language? Squirrel watched the inquisitor’s gaze fall away from Marie as soon as he finished speaking to her, and she raised a brow.

“You’re very kind,” Marie said, ushering the High Inquisitor out, She spared one piercing glare for Squirrel back before she closed the door, donning her mask again as she turned back to the hallway leading Franco away. The sound of a dozen boots tromped away in the hall, and Squirrel heaved a sigh of relief as they turned a corner, fading with distance.

The room flickered, darkened, the illusion over it fading, revealing Squirrel and the three dead men, the torn curtains, mangled sheets and bloody floor. Squirrel knew she had to act fast. She only had minutes to get out of here and start running. If Marie was hiding her from the inquisitor, they wouldn’t draw his attention to her, so she had a short amount of time to make her escape.

Squirrel limped quickly over to the drawer with her clothes and yanked it open, letting out a frustrated scream when she could only find bed sheets and pillow cases. The practice pants she wore with Jon had been ruined, and she’d be damned if she would be able to escape in a sheet.

Squirrel’s gaze turned to Gerald’s pants, halfway down his legs, exposing his manhood. The top edge of the pants were lying in a pool of blood, but they had fit well enough last time she’d stolen them…

The door creaked open as Squirrel was turning away, and she leapt up, snatching the shortword off the drawer and leveling it toward the intruder. A thin effeminate olive skinned boy stood in the doorway and swallowed audibly, his eyes glued to the sword in her hand.

“If this is a bad time,” he began, starting to take a step backward. Squirrel lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him into the room, even as the rough weave of his squire’s tunic ripped in her hands. The feel of the weave however, was smooth like silk.

Squirrel looked down at the boy with the thin mustache collapsed on the floor and back at her hand. Before he could raise himself up, Squirrel put a knee on his chest and ran her hand down his shirt while she held the sword at his throat.

The boy paled, squirming uncomfortably. “Listen ma’am, we shouldn’t…”

“Shut up,” Squirrel said, feeling silks under her hands. “Who the hell are you? You’re wearing silk.”

Beneath her, the olive skinned boy widened, his arms and legs fleshed out, his hair darkened, and his eyes lightened to grey. The shape of his face changed until the resemblance to Gerald and Firelle was uncanny.

“Toren,” Squirrel said, her mind racing. She was unsure how to feel about him. Guilt for betraying him at the palace, relief that he was alive, and anger at his family, whose resemblance to him was unmistakable. Just looking at his face caused a worm of anxiety in her heart. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“And you’re not supposed to be here,” Toren said, meeting her gaze. Squirrel let him up, watching him carefully as he came to his feet, brushing himself off.

“Do you think I had a choice?” Squirrel asked, her voice dripping with venom.

“Not at all,” Toren said, his eyes flickering to the side wall where Gerald lay. “I know… my family…” Toren stopped speaking, and walked over to Gerald’s slumped form, and tentatively raised its head, inspecting his oldest brother’s face.

After a moment, Toren stood and faced Squirrel. “We need to get you out of here,” he said, his face pale.

“Not going to avenge your brother?” Squirrel asked.

Toren glanced over his shoulder at the finely dressed corpse, then back to Squirrel, shaking his head. “Ten years ago, when my talent in magic was discovered, my father held a party with the intent of selling me to the highest bidder, constantly bragging about his talented son to all the guests. He dragged Gerald around the entire night, showing him how to socialize. I suppose he was bound to get jealous. Later that night, he and his friends tried to castrate me.”

Toren looked back at Squirrel, his face grim. “Seeing him dead makes me a little queasy, and that’s about it.”

“Huh,” Squirrel said, walking past Toren to kneel beside Gerald. She began removing his pants, sliding off one leg at a time. “So what are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you and my family,” Toren said, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a simple yellow dress.

“How’s that work?” Squirrel said, glancing over her shoulder, and pausing to eye the dress. “I thought you hated them.”

“You can’t hate snakes for acting according to their nature,” Toren said, pulling out underwear, perfume and makeup from the bottom of the satchel and laying it on the disheveled bed. “But Lyle isn’t a snake. He’s my younger brother, and if you get caught here, my whole family will be killed.”

Squirrel stood, eyeing the finery assembled on the bed. “What’s all this?” she asked.

Toren ran his gaze up and down Squirrel, who became acutely aware that she wasn’t wearing pants. “You tried to fight your way out, right?” he asked. before Squirrel could respond, he continued. “And they caught you, beat the shit out of you and shoved you in this room, right?” Squirrel nodded.

“It’s because you’re fighting them like a pleb,” Toren said, his words shaming her. “I assume they tried to teach you to act like a princess while you were here, did you pay attention to any of it?” Squirrel had to admit that she had not, wanting instead to learn from Jon. Squirrel shook her head.

Toren sighed, holding his forehead. “Okay, the long and short of it is catching them while they’re vulnerable, and hitting them where it hurts, just like any other kind of fighting. Right now they’re being searched by a High inquisitor who suspects them of treason. The circumstances would make most people want to exploit the opportunity to cut and run, but this is where you step inside their guard and gut them.”

“Spend a lot of time with Jon when you were younger?” Squirrel asked.

“He gave up on me,” Toren said. “I would rather live a long time than fight in a stupid brawl, but his lessons did leave a mark.” Toren pointed to the clothes. “Strip and put on the clothes, then I can do your makeup.”

Toren turned his back, and Squirrel hesitated for a moment before pulling her tunic over her head and putting on the underwear before struggling into the dress, wary of ripping the delicate fabric. “What’s your plan?” she asked as she settled the dress around her hips.

Toren turned and gave her a grin. “I thought yellow would look good with your tan.”

“The plan?” Squirrel reiterated, with a hard edge to her voice.

“Right,” Toren said, grabbing the makeup and starting on her face while she sat still. Squirrel was no stranger to makeup, as it made the actors look more alive onstage. She was also aware that stage makeup and a noble lady’s makeup were two different things. “Did you see that inquisitor strutting around? He came in here.”

“Yeah, what about him?” Squirrel asked, speaking through her teeth to move as little as possible.

“Notice anything about him?” Toren asked, applying blush with a hair brush, gently stroking her cheeks. Toren’s face was inches away from her own, distracting her from his question somewhat.

“He didn’t pay any attention to your mother,” She said, watching his grey eyes as he focused on her bruised forehead.

“He’s an idiot,” Toren said, putting the brushes down and picking up a wet dish of rouge. He dabbed his finger in it and and applied it to her lips. The sensation tickled, but also sent bolts of lightning straight to her hammering heart.

“Go like this,” Toren said, pressing his lips together and pursing them a couple times. “Perfect.”

“Okay,” Toren said, backing away to admire his handiwork. Squirrel felt as stiff as if she were about to perform, and in a way, she supposed she was. “You’ve tried fighting them like a pleb, now you’re going to do it like a noble.” Toren’s face broke into a grin. “Here’s the plan.”