Chapter Twelve

All in all, my first real outing with the Aviary had been relatively successful, which is why I was surprised the next day to find Sylla Banaji holding a gun to my head, attempting to murder me.

"Bang," she said flatly. "Dead again."

"I thought it was better this time," I managed.

Sylla sighed. "We can hardly mark this exercise on a scale. There is no better or worse. Dead is dead. Really, Mari," she said, her tone edged with displeasure. "I expected more from you."

I bit my tongue, already panting from several efforts to disarm her, which Sylla had deflected with embarrassing ease. Almost six months of training in this room and I still found hand-to-hand combat a challenge. Particularly against Sylla who seemed barely to exert herself at all. Each movement was economical, precise, and try as I might, I couldn't seem to get my own body to move in the same way.

Sylla held the gun out to me. "Let me show you again," she said.

Resigned, I stood, holding the barrel pressed lightly to her temple.

"First, I grab the gun like this," Sylla demonstrated. "Then I pull down in a sharp motion – this will break your assailant's finger. The snap it makes is really quite satisfying," she mused with a ghoulish smile. She pulled gently down on the gun, mimicking the movement. "Now, the crucial thing here is to get the gun as far away from you and with as much haste as possible, because there is every chance it will be discharged at some point. So, concentrate on swinging the arm away like so, and – if the opportunity presents itself – disarming your assailant completely. At this point you have several options. A well-placed elbow to the nose or stomach is wise. If your assailant is male, then the groin is, obviously, always a good choice. Nothing like watching a man writhe in agony to get the blood pumping."

"Writhing," I murmured. "Right."

My eyes strayed longingly to the wall where the cabinet of well-honed foils gleamed. "Can't we practise with swords today?" I asked wistfully. I may not be much use in a fist fight, but I had been delighted to discover an aptitude for fencing – something I would never, ever have found if I hadn't joined the Aviary, swordplay not being high on the list of priorities for a florist.

Sylla frowned. "We are not here to practise something in which you are already performing adequately."

I tried to disguise the way the word "adequately" made me feel ten feet tall.

"Besides," Sylla continued, "it is unlikely that you will find yourself in a sword fight on the streets of London. Possible, but unlikely."

"But it is likely I'll end up with a gun pressed to my head?"

Sylla shrugged, all nonchalance. "It happens," she said.

I tried not to think about that too much. I knew the work we did was potentially dangerous. There had been moments the night before when I had been almost stunned by the thought of how quickly and violently something could go wrong. I had kept my mind focused on the task in front of me, but sometimes it was overwhelming to think that these hours and hours of training weren't simply an exercise; they were necessary to keep me – and the rest of my team – safe.

"Fine," I said, swiping the damp curls away from my forehead. "Let's try it again."

Sylla's eyes narrowed. "First, let's discuss last night."

"What about last night?" I asked.

"How do you feel about it?"

I eyed her warily. "How do I feel about it?"

"Are you simply going to repeat what I say?"

"I only meant," I said, fighting down impatience, "that I thought you would rather share how you felt about it. I've been waiting all morning for you to give me some sort of assessment."

Sylla's head tilted thoughtfully to the side. The gun, which she still held loosely in one hand, tapped against her skirts. "Yes, I can see why you would think that was more important, but last night was your first time out in the field. It is one thing to train for it; it's quite another to put it into practice. When I ask how you feel about it, I am not being" – here, her lips thinned – "sentimental. I am asking because I wish to know, honestly, how you found the experience."

I blinked. Months after meeting her, Sylla was still an enigma to me, yet as a leader there was no one I respected more. I knew what it was to manage a team, to depend on others – though my work could hardly be said to be life or death as hers was.

"I found it…" I hesitated, sifting through my feelings. "Complicated."

"How so?"

"I felt nervous, anxious, even scared at times." I twisted my own skirt through my fingers. "I'm still not completely comfortable with the acting, the deception. I know things didn't go precisely to plan and it made me realize that the line between victory and defeat is terrifyingly fine. But…" I trailed away, then looked back up at Sylla's face and a smile tugged at my lips. "But I also felt powerful, competent, daring. I felt like I was part of something bigger, something I believe in. I liked that. I liked that very much."

Sylla didn't smile, but I was sure her mouth twitched briefly, before her expression cooled once more.

"That is all very well," she said briskly, "but you are quite right about that line. Our margin for error is slim at best. There is a reason all Finches have to undertake vigorous training. You" – she fixed me with a piercing look – "are not ready. Yet. Last night went well enough, but too much of that was thanks to luck rather than skill. You need more work, and you and Win need to be a lot more certain of your outcomes when it comes to your science experiments."

I tried not to bristle. I knew she was right. That was the worst of it, knowing that I still had so much to learn. "There are only a few weeks left of my six-month training period," I said, and I was embarrassed to hear a tremor in the words. "How will we make sure I am ready?"

Now, Sylla did smile, baring her teeth. "We will practise."

She lifted the gun to my head, pressed the cool barrel against my temple.

"Again," she said.