Though Lavinia had had little hesitation in signing up, with the day of the duels actually upon her, the modiste had taken pause. Today, she would risk either her pride or potential future business, should an opponent take offence—neither something she felt inclined to lose.

She had donned a sapphire blue and rather deceptive skirts for the occasion—though they might have fooled the eye if she did not move overmuch, they were, in truth, rather billowy pants, a nod to the athleticism of the occasion. As her opponent seemed altogether disinclined to observe the niceties of civilized sport, Lavinia inclined her head only a fraction in return.

Her counter was to, if successful, transfigure the tiles of the floor between the women into a marble tree that would block any incoming spells. It was flashy, but required impeccable timing, and Lavinia knew she was rusty.

When one was accustomed to changing her form at will, having it forced instead was...disquieting. Even after the transfiguration had been put to rights, Lavinia still felt quite green (figuratively or literally? She did not know that she cared to find out), and her stomach was positively flipping hither and fro. There would be nothing flashy this round, she knew—Lavinia simply cast a disarming spell.