That Self-Same Metal

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.ISBN 978–1-4197–5864–5eISBN 9781647005238Text copyright © 2023 Brittany N. Williams Sword artwork courtesy Ezepov Dmitry/Shutterstock.com Book design by Chelsea Hunter Map by Jamie ZollarsPublished in 2023 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.Amulet Books® is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.ABRAMS The Art of Books195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007abramsbooks.com For Grandma who's always been with me and Tito who's just arrivedIn loving memory of Mommy, Sonia, and Sherman. Thank you for always believing in me. I know you'd love this one. “You two need to count before you accidentally take each other’s eyes out.”Joan Sands watched the two boys practicing in front of her and struggled not to breathe too deeply.A chill wind blew through the weathered tapestries covering the gaping windows. Shadows floated and shifted as the candles danced with the breeze, their light the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. The draft carried the moldy aroma of damp fabric across the open room.Joan scowled as the stench filled her nose, so strong she could taste it.The Banqueting House at Whitehall Palace stank to high heaven and not even the wide-open main entertainment room could save them from the rank smell. Joan would’ve held practice outside in the nearby courtyard but for the day’s heavy rain.The hall, made of brick and timber and canvas, had been a source of pride for King Henry VIII—rest his soul—back in 1540, but it had barely made it to 1605 intact. Rumor said that King James absolutely hated the building.Not that Joan blamed him. She swore a hard enough gust would send the whole thing tumbling down. Besides, who wants to entertain royal guests and courtiers in a place that smelled like a soggy alehouse?She willed herself to get used to it. She couldn’t stop up her nose without blocking her view of Samuel Crosse and Nick Tooley butchering the fight she’d taught them months ago.Behind them, the other members of the King’s Men set properties in their places—pillows, daggers, a fake vial of poison, and the like—and unpacked costumes. The acting company always eagerly anticipated the summons to perform for their royal patron—King James himself. His Majesty’s favor gave them the protection of being members of his household, the clout of serving the king, and the money that being so powerfully employed afforded. If the king called, so would the company appear, no matter how much the musty old banqueting hall smelled like old, soggy potatoes.Every so often, one of the men would glance Joan’s way and chuckle. All the actors in the company knew Joan never forgave the sloppy execution of a stage fight, and each was grateful to not be currently under her scrutiny.Samuel and Nick had both fumbled so badly through the movements in that morning’s rehearsal that Joan demanded they drill the fight in the empty playing space. She’d see they got the moves right before they performed for King James and the court. Or before the boys accidentally ran each other through.Samuel yelped as Nick’s blade sliced across his knuckles.“Sorry!” Nick shouted.The latter looked more and more likely.“Hold,” Joan called, shaking her head as Nick and Samuel stopped fighting. She walked over to Samuel, who had his injured fingers in his mouth.“Are you bleeding?” Nick tugged anxiously at his ponytail; his blade pointed safely toward the ground.Samuel frowned and looked at his hand, blond brows drawn together on his pale forehead. “No,” he said.Joan’s eyes followed Nick’s length of hair from where it was tied at the base of his neck and swept around past the smooth column of his elegant throat. It draped over one broad shoulder, slithering down in an inky black fall. The barest glimpse of a rich brown collarbone peeked out through his open shirt. His skin was as dark brown as her own, only with undertones of red instead of gold. His hair straight and silky where hers was a lush spray of soft coils and curls. But that she could trace that path with her fingers and know the feel of his hair.She shook herself when she realized she’d been staring, her entire face going hot.“Be glad it only hurts.” Joan took the sword from Samuel, who smiled at her knowingly. “Being a full beat behind can cause much worse.”He laughed. “Yes, yes, of course. Well, will the master show me how it’s done?” He grinned and stepped back, arms wide in a flourish.Joan rolled her eyes at him and squared herself up with Nick. “Come on, then.”“Ah, please be gentle with me, Joan.” Nick stood tall, bringing his sword up in a salute.Her heart raced as her gaze instantly caught on the thick fan of lashes surrounding his deep-brown eyes.She needed to focus.Joan touched her fingers to the blade, felt the metal sing to her. It whispered its secrets, gave Joan its name—Alala. The cold surety of the steel grounded her. She commanded the sword to dull even more. The metal shifted under her fingers; the change subtle enough that no one watching could have noticed what Joan had done.This was a secret she would not share.Joan cleared her throat. “Half speed this first time, then full.” She tightened her grip on the sword and saluted him back.“In your