Eight days, a voice echoed in my head.
I switched on the lamp beside the bed. At least my insomnia gave me plenty of time for research, because over the past couple days, I’d been clinging to Venice like a life preserver. We had to be right about that clue. Right before I’d fallen asleep, I’d found a site that mentioned a conspiracy theory about San Marco Basilica in Venice and the bones of Alexander the Great. It was farfetched, but it at least gave us somewhere to start. Suddenly, I remembered when we’d been searching for Napoleon’s diaries in the library at the Dauphins.
Stellan would be leaving to meet us in Venice later today. I texted him, I think there’s a book in the Dauphins’ library about the secrets of San Marco or something like that. Bring it?
I was surprised when my phone buzzed a second later. Am I your errand boy now?
Don’t you sleep? I texted back.
Says the girl who just texted me at 4 a.m. her time. Dinner with the Emirs not go so well?
I made a face at the phone. Just bring the book.
After a couple minutes, the phone buzzed again. Admit it. The more potential husbands you meet, the more appealing I look.
You are even more obnoxious at 4 a.m., I responded, trying to forget that I’d already had that exact thought. Not that it mattered. It wouldn’t come to that. It wouldn’t.
I settled back against the pillows and waited for the sun to peek through the curtains before I texted Jack.
Want to train when you wake up?
Jack had been teaching me self-defense and a few fighting techniques while we were in Paris. We hadn’t had any lessons since we’d been on the road, but we’d mentioned it to the Saxons, and the tour of the Emirs’ home yesterday included a huge gym facility they’d encouraged me to use while I was here.
Jack texted back a few minutes later. Pick you up in ten.
? ? ?
The Emirs’ gym took up an entire floor, with a sparkling pool and steam room on one end and a set of mats on the other. All four walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, and I watched the sunrise glint off the city skyline while I tied my sneakers and took off my necklace and Napoleon’s bracelet and piled them on top of my sweatshirt in a corner.
“Ready?” Jack said.
“Whenever you are.” I pulled my hair into a ponytail, knowing what was coming, but not when. A few seconds later, Jack grabbed me hard around the waist.
I hooked a foot around his ankle and tried to knock him over, but he stepped away easily. It made him loosen his grip, though, and I snagged his arm and bent his wrist backward. Just as quickly, he wrenched my other arm behind me hard enough that I cried out and let go.
The second I made a noise, he released me, and I rested my hands on my knees, breathing hard. Being exhausted was not helping my stamina. For the next half hour, Jack taught me how to break someone’s fingers and exactly where on the shin to kick so it’d hurt the most.
And then he pulled out a knife. I reached into the pocket of the sweatshirt I’d left lying on the floor and pulled out my own.
“Like we talked about last lesson, the knife should be your last resort,” Jack said. “It’s a risk.”
“A tactical risk,” I remembered. “Only do it if I have to, because bringing out a weapon escalates a fight.”
Jack nodded. “And it would be best for you to err on the side of caution.”
I looked down at the knife and nodded.
“Where did we leave off?” Jack said.
I held out my blade like he’d taught me and rotated my wrist inward.
“Good,” Jack said. “Now strike like I’m attacking you.”
When he came at me with his knife, I jumped back and my knife fell to the mat. “Sorry,” I said as I bent to pick it up. “Sorry. Again.”
Jack came at me again, and I held on to the knife this time, but still flinched.
“Everything okay?” he said. He reached for me, but paused, glancing up at a small glass dome in the ceiling that was probably a camera. His hand dropped to his side.
“It’s like I forgot how to do anything,” I said crossly. “Go again.”
We kept sparring, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. “Can we do something else?”
His eyes softened. “You really are doing well.”
“No I’m not. I never do well with the knife. If someone was actually trying to kill me, I’d be screwed.”
“No, you are.” He glanced up again, subtly, at the camera overhead. “It’s just . . . you could use a little help with your grip.”
He came behind me and wrapped both arms around me, taking my hand in his. “Like this,” he said, drawing me closer so I could feel the heat of his chest on my back, and I leaned into him, relaxing a little. I knew I was worried about more than the training, and so did he. “Your fingers go just here, like this. See, you’ve got it. It really is going fine, I promise.” He squeezed my hands, subtly enough for the cameras to miss. “All of it.”