"I am, am I?" He recalled their fickle name-calling in the garden. Scarecrows and whatnot. He was starting to wonder whether such a descent into simple, hurled insults was a tell of hers. Perhaps it revealed a chink in her armour -- such as it was.

"In that case--" Sharpe relinquished the hold on his hilt and held his arms up. Open. "Give us a chop, then?"

What harm could she do to him? None, he suspected, that he didn't invite on a daily basis back in the army. Certainly not with a wooden sword. It would be no worse than the birch switch back at the foundling home, that was certain. And it would do to show her that a moving -- living -- target would not sit so compliantly and wait for the blows to fall.