Let me tell you about the time Jenkins tried to kill me.
It happened two hours before dinner. I was exploring the east wing of the manor—because apparently as a noble I have wings, plural, like some kind of human bird castle—and I found a door that was slightly ajar.
Now, in my old life, I would have ignored that door. In my old life, I had a healthy sense of self-preservation and a very unhealthy fear of getting involved in things that weren't my business.
But I'm Vex Thornwood now. Fourth son of assassins. Wearer of expensive pants. And apparently, I have no survival instincts whatsoever.
I pushed the door open.
The knife that embedded itself in the doorframe next to my head was moving faster than my brain could process. One second I'm opening a door, the next second there's a knife where my ear used to be.
"Young Master," Jenkins says from somewhere in the darkness beyond the door. "You should knock."
I look at the knife. I look at the darkness. I look at my hand, which is still on the doorknob.
"Jenkins," I say, "did you just try to kill me?"
"No, Young Master. I succeeded in not killing you. There's a distinction."
He emerges from the shadows like he was born from them. Which, given his forty-seven years of service to a family of assassins, he might as well have been.
"This is the training room," he says, gesturing to the space beyond. "It's restricted."
"The door was open."
"It was a test, Young Master. You failed."
I step into the room. It's full of weapons—swords, knives, poisons, things I don't recognize, and one very concerning device that looks like it was designed to remove someone's spine through their nose.
"What was I supposed to do?"
"Not enter, Young Master. The correct response to a slightly open door in an assassin's household is to assume it's a trap, report it to security, and continue about your business."
"That seems paranoid."
"That seems alive, Young Master."
He has a point. I think. I'm still processing the knife near my ear.
"So what happens now?" I ask. "Do I get a failing grade? Detention? Extra homework?"
Jenkins looks at me. It's that assessing look again. The one that makes me feel like I'm being weighed, measured, and found either wanting or interesting.
"Now," he says, "we begin your proper education. The Duke instructed me to assess your condition upon your awakening. I have done so."
"And?"
"And you are either the most gifted actor I have ever encountered, Young Master, or you are genuinely—" He pauses, searching for the word.
"Crazy?" I supply.
"I was going to say 'unconventional,' but your word will suffice."
I laugh. I can't help it. This seventy-year-old assassin butler just called me crazy with perfect politeness, and somehow it's the funniest thing that's happened to me since I died.
"Jenkins," I say, "I think we're going to get along."
"That remains to be seen, Young Master." He walks to a weapons rack and selects a dagger. It's plain, unadorned, and looks very sharp. "Your first lesson: how to hold a blade without cutting yourself."
"I've held knives before."
"Kitchen knives, Young Master. This is different."
He hands me the dagger. It's heavier than I expected. The balance is different from anything I've held before.
"The grip," Jenkins says, adjusting my fingers, "is everything. Too tight, and you tire quickly. Too loose, and you lose the weapon. The assassin who loses their weapon is the assassin who dies."
"That's very—"
He attacks.
I don't see it coming. One moment he's adjusting my grip, the next moment his other hand is moving toward my throat with another blade. I react on pure instinct—which, in my case, means I drop the dagger and flail backward.
The dagger hits the floor with a clatter.
Jenkins stops his attack. He looks at the dagger. He looks at me. He looks at the dagger again.
"Young Master," he says, "that was..."
"Pathetic?"
"Unexpected. Most people try to block. You dropped your weapon and fell over."
"Is that bad?"
"It's..." He pauses. "It's actually effective. You created distance. You removed the target—your throat—from my reach. And you made noise, which could attract attention."
"So I passed?"
"You survived," he corrects. "There's a difference. But yes, in this specific instance, your... chaotic response was not the worst possible outcome."
I pick up the dagger. My hands are shaking. I just realized I almost died. Again. For the second time in—what, twelve hours of consciousness?
This body comes with a lot of complications.
"Again," Jenkins says.
"What?"
"We try again. This time, I want you to keep hold of the weapon."
"You're going to attack me again?"
"I will attack you until you learn to defend yourself, Young Master. Or until you die. Whichever comes first."
"That's not very encouraging."
"I'm not here to encourage you, Young Master. I'm here to train you."
He attacks again.
This time, I keep hold of the dagger. I don't block him—I'm pretty sure that's impossible—but I do manage to trip over my own feet in a direction that isn't where his blade is going.
"Better," Jenkins says.
"I tripped."
"You tripped with purpose. There's a distinction."
We continue for an hour. By the end, I have a new appreciation for just how out of shape this body is—or rather, how different it is from my old one. Vex Thornwood wasn't trained. He was neglected, ignored, left to his own devices while his brothers learned the family business.
But I have something Vex didn't have.
I have the benefit of not knowing any better.
"Your final test," Jenkins says, stepping back. "The door behind you. It's trapped. Disarm it."
I turn. The door we entered through now has a thin wire across it, chest height. It's so thin I can barely see it.
"How?"
"Figure it out, Young Master. You have thirty seconds."
I look at the wire. I look at the doorframe. I look at the dagger in my hand.
Then I do what any sane person would do.
I cut the wire.
The explosion is small, contained, and fills the doorway with purple smoke.
"Poison," Jenkins observes. "You would be dead."
"I cut the wire," I protest.
"You were supposed to trace it to its source and disable the mechanism. Cutting the wire triggers the failsafe."
"You didn't explain that!"
"Assassins don't explain, Young Master. They adapt. Or they die." He walks through the smoke—apparently immune to the poison—and opens the door. "Dinner is in one hour. I suggest you bathe. You smell of fear and failure."
I follow him out, coughing.
"Jenkins?"
"Yes, Young Master?"
"Did I actually fail, or was this another test?"
He doesn't answer. He just keeps walking.
I think that's answer enough.