Page 53 of Wench

Allen lifts his brows, unimpressed. ‘I’ve seen tighter fists on a squirrel clutching his nuts.’

She scowls, but her mouth quirks despite herself. ‘You’re insufferable.’

‘And you’re sloppy,’ Allen replies, poking her wrist until she re-centres her guard. ‘Which is another reason we’re out here instead of under the heart tree, where half the village could watch me knock you flat.’

In the distance, the bustle of Elswyth carries with the rise and fall of voices chanting practice hymns. Tomorrow night’s Greenwake rite, when the veil between grief and joy thins, is when every heart will declare what tether it will sever, and what new bond it will weave.

Marian’s gaze drifts toward the sounds, and she wonders what she would sever if asked.

The Hallomere name that still feels like a chain coiled around her throat? Or the fragile thread she’s spun here in Elswyth – one that feels less like captivity and more like something dangerously close to belonging?

Her thumb finds the latest of Lox’s wordless offerings tucked into her pocket. The wood is rough, still smelling faintly of sap. She traces the curve of the small fox’s tail, feeling how easily it might snap if pressed too hard.

The staff raps lightly against her thighs, pulling her attention back.

‘Looser knees,’ Allen crows. ‘If someone barrels into you, you’ll topple like a tavern stool.’

She exhales hard, forcing her stance to widen. Her blood is hot with frustration. ‘You’re enjoying this.’

‘Of course I am,’ he says cheerfully. ‘You think I get to boss around Lox or Will? They’d gut me for half the lip you’ve let me get away with.’ His grin widens, but there’s an edge of seriousness lodged beneath it. ‘Better you stumble here in a sunlit glade than when someone means it.’

Marian knows he’s right, but it doesn’t soothe the sting of every correction. She sets her feet, rolls her shoulders back, and pulls air low into her belly the way Little John has drilled her, before snapping her knuckles forward in a crisp punch.

‘Better,’ Allen admits, stepping back. ‘But don’t burn yourself out on the first strike. Try again and, this time, think less hammer, more hinge. Your body is the door. Swing it.’

The next crack of her fist through the air is satisfying, but her balance falters on the return.

‘Again,’ Allen says, tone lighter than his eyes. She resets. Breath. Hinge. Swing. Punch. Retract.

Her wrists ache, but she imagines the faces of men who leered, who gripped, who thought her smallness meant safety for them. She imagines her father’s ledger, her own name written like a line of debt, crossed out when he handed her over to the Sheriff. Her fist lashes forward with more intent.

Allen circles her, humming a tune that feels half like mockery, half like prayer. ‘You’re thinking of faces again,’ he says, sharp enough to startle her. ‘Good fuel, but dangerous.’ He taps the side of his temple. ‘Anger can blind you and make you react rashly. Your fist is an arrow, your shoulder the bow. Remember to pull from the spine, not the arm.’

She bites down on the retort that rises. He’s right, curse him. Rage comes easy. What she needs is control. She adjusts, again and again, until each strike comes faster and her wrists buzz from repetition.

‘Better,’ Allen murmurs when her fist lands clean, balance unbroken. He spins his stick once, then lowers it. ‘You can punch the air well enough. Now punch me.’

She blinks. ‘What?’

He taps his chin with two fingers. ‘Right here.’

Marian’s stomach tightens. The idea knots her insides. ‘I can’t.’

‘Of course you can.’ His voice softens as he pats his cheek. ‘Proper form is well enough, but you also need to know what it feels like when fists meet flesh.’

Her pulse stutters as she clenches her fist and swings half-heartedly. He catches her wrist just before it lands and gives her a sympathetic yet accusatory look.

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ The confession escapes before she can bite it down.

‘Believe me, I’ve been hit harder by lovers in bed.’ His eyebrows wiggle, and she snorts despite herself. ‘This isn’t about hurting me. It’s about proving you can make it count when flesh fights back. That you won’t falter when it matters. If it’s easier . . .’ He drops her arm and steps back, holding both his hands up, palms out, in front of her. ‘Hit these instead; that way you won’t bloody up something as beautiful as my face.’ He winks and the knot in Marian’s chest loosens. She exhales through her nose, trying to shove the hesitation out with her breath. Her fists tighten until her nails bite into her palm. She plants her feet to ground herself, squares her shoulders, and swings.

The smack of knuckles against his calloused palm jolts up her arm. It isn’t pain, exactly, more like a vibration that rattles bone and tendon.

Allen grins and shakes his hand out. ‘There you go. Again!’

She hits his other palm. Sloppy. Crooked wrist. His correction comes quickly. ‘Remember, door hinge, not a flailing shutter.’

The next punch lands truer, a snap instead of a shove. He nods. ‘Better. Again.’