"Not what you're trained in," he fills in. It's said like a question. He remembers Annabel's blade, and he remembers the blades of his— friends, disciples, chosen, whatever— but the greater context is lost on him. Marriage Season had only cared about swords as sexy set dressing, which, fair, that's just taste. That's the only use he's had for the black rapier.

If John is honest with himself, which it's sometimes useful to be, he has been keeping it like a talisman. Draw a sword and maybe Annabel will arrive to wield it. But she hasn't, and for all the time he's spent hefting its weight and hearing the blade whistle through the air, he has remembered little of use. Fragments. Ceremony and play-duels, mad sleepless nights of research. Every piece of it has ached.

Frankly, it's worth more to him as an accessory. With a sword at his hip, maybe fewer people will think to balk every time he moves his hands. But he feels wrong carrying it: embarrassed, almost, as though someone will catch him pretending. Call him out for acting as though he doesn't need Annabel at all.

He's being weird about this. But the sword has been gathering dust in his closet, right beside the skull, a few restless weeks too many. John continues, leadingly: "Not something you could use."