Amanda lunged forward into an almost textbook-perfect fencer's stance and slapped a broad-bladed knife away with her curling iron. The damned thing wasn't plugged in anymore, not that sparks would have bothered either of them, but the iron was still hot enough to raise welts. Whoever this attacking idiot was, she was definitely still young enough that she couldn't yet ignore minor burns.
She could, however, put significant force behind her blows. Amanda flattened her torso against her thigh over the constriction of her belt and was grateful again that she'd refused to wear a farthingale. Hoopskirts: a horrible invention for fighting, although lovely for smuggling.... The move let her duck under the knife -- and who told this idiot that roundhouse swipes worked any better with blades than they did with fists? -- and come upright as the knife went past. A curl from her wig slithered down Amanda's cheek as she stood, and she yelped indignantly, then jabbed the curling iron into her opponent's belly.
The girl screeched, her purple t-shirt started to scorch, and the little chit... fled the scene? After starting this in a quasi-public space and slicing up Amanda's lovely, rented, slashed velvet doublet, the only one she'd been able to get with a men's breeches (which she could fight in) as opposed to hoop skirts (which played hell with Amanda's footwork and acrobatics)? And she'd damaged Amanda's second-best wig!
"Oh, no, you don't," Amanda snarled and took off after her.
She was either going to get some answers from this 'co-ed' or she was going to kill her. If the doublet and shirt really were ruined, or if Amanda had to miss the grand masquerade ball, it might just be both.