“Are you ready, mon cher?” Uncle Jules asked, voice obscured by his protective headgear.
mon cherJeanne nodded; her own helmet—nothing more than a tin plate with peepholes—wobbling precariously.
Jules raised his sword before his face, aiming it straight up like a finger pointing to the heavens, and bowed slightly but respectfully to his niece, the graceful move revealing a glimpse of the swordsman"s prowess.
Jeanne mirrored her uncle"s salute and waited, willing her lungs to do their job, to breathe deeply in and out, storing air for what was to come.
“En garde!” Jules barked.
En gardeJeanne dropped into a crouch, half-extending her sword arm, protecting the waist with the elbow and the chest with the wrist. Her left arm hung high in the air behind her head, the forearm gracefully ben
