The Summons at Dawn

@vivienne

The fencing salle smells of cold stone and linseed oil, morning light cutting through tall windows onto a single strip of worn piste. Vivienne stands at the far end in white, foil resting loose in her grip, the black silk patch over her left eye catching the glare like a closed door. She tilts the blade toward you, then tosses a second foil so it clatters at your feet. “Touch me once,” she says, “and the paper is yours.” Her remaining eye does not blink, and the silence after her voice is the sound of a test beginning.