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swords together swiftly, one on each side, cutting inward and downward toward the spine, slicing two steaks simultaneously, drawing the swords through and out toward me so that the two blades never touch. I then align my swords and make the next cut, and align them again before the next.
    But today, I face the carcass like an opponent. I pull my swords out so swiftly the metal sings. I swing the blades wide, then bring them down and together, down and together, like a swimmer doing the butterfly stroke, like a butterfly fluttering its wings, except my wings are blades. This is how Ram always does it, how he’s encouraged me to do it, but I’ve always been too careful before. I wanted my steaks to be pretty.
    Not today.
    If the enemy is after me (whoever they are, the ones who killed my mother and chased me from my homeland) I need to be quick far more than I need to be pretty.
    I slam the razor-sharp metal through the meat, slice after slice, working my way past the ribeyes to the T-bones, the porterhouse, the sirloins, pausing only to free the flank steak with my saber.
    When there’s nothing left but the hind legs I stand back, panting from the effort, to evaluate the meat piled in the pans below.
    Ram has stopped working and is watching me. He is grinning.
    This is most unusual, and, dare I say it?—a little unsettling. He has very white, straight teeth, and his smile—at least as much as I can see of it through his beard—is handsome.
    Weird. I really didn’t expect that. Ram is a giant looming force, singing blades and cloaking hair. On some level, I’ve always assumed he’s hair all the way down, that if you shaved him you’d end up with just a pile of hair, swords, and shoes.
    Not this grin that’s watching me as though I’ve done something dazzling.
    Probably I am only imagining the handsomeness. I mean, he did rather save me from whatever Ozzie was growling at last evening, so perhaps my perception of him has gone fuzzy. I must remember, this is the man who makes me work like a slave twelve hours each day, who refuses to help me get home, who won’t even tell me where home is, though I know he knows.
    I glower at him. “What?”
    He is supposed to take the hint and stop grinning, but instead he steps toward me, his smile still broad. “You’re doing it. You’ve got it.” Crouching, he plucks a couple of steaks from the pans and holds them toward me, flat on his palms. “Very good. Even thickness. You’re still cutting at a bit of an angle, though. See how these are parallelograms?” He tips his hands to exaggerate the flaw.
    “They’re still even thickness. They’ll cook fine.”
    “But you’ve got to get the movement right.”
    “Why?” I’m out of breath, panting even, from the exertion of cutting so many steaks so swiftly. Maybe I make it look easy, but it is hard work, just the same.
    “It’s important. Besides, if you do it wrong, you’ll get a cramp in your shoulders. Here.” He shoves the dangling hindquarters aside and grabs the next carcass in the queue, scooting it along the hook track above, positioning it above the waiting pans.
    “I wasn’t done with that.” I point feebly at the hindquarters.
    “I want you to get this right. You’re so close.” He swings his cutlass, with one mighty blow lopping the shank and brisket free from the rest of the cow. After returning his sword to its holster, he plants me in front of him and guides my arms in a swooping motion, so similar to what I was doing moments before, but with a flatter angle and more of a twist at the end. “See there? Feel that? Good form reduces your odds of getting injured and cuts better steaks. It also helps ensure your blows are accurate.”
    “Okay. Stand back.” I can feel the difference in the swing. As Ram steps back, I step toward the carcass and bring the blades together just as he showed me. Two steaks fall atop the mountains of meat. Two more. Two more.
    Still tired from my marathon effort with