Blood dripped down her arm, from the shattered glass of yet another of clumsily broken bottle top. She glanced nervously back at the house. No movement inside the few lit windows. No sound. Only an assault of memories: the childhood room shared with her sister and brother, the porch where she’d first been kissed, and now, the death she had returned to mourn – and avenge.

On her twelfth try, her hands were so tired the sword fell. She was tempted to sink down onto the dark earth and weep. But that wouldn’t help. She needed to master this skill. She had to be close enough to Lord Highbury to “accidentally” assassinate him, when she sabered open the magnum of Champagne at his seventieth birthday party next week. She needed justice for her father. And she needed this sommelier job. It would open up a whole new career in hospitality.