She... she [i]can.[/i]

All that she can perceive with her eyes is the room in front of her: the table, the maids and their ladies, that stupid cake and Machia's glimmering eyes. She can see her arm and she can see the cup held at the end of it, just like she can see that it's trembling a little. She sees silverware, carpet, chandeliers and furniture. Everything, everywhere, all of it mundane. 

But she can hear the motorcycle whining as it revs. Her ears flick and try to follow it in a dark mirror of Machia's. Is it coming? Is it already here? When would the blow connect? 

She can feel the heat of the arena, even in this plain and boring (beautiful) room. The intensity isn't like the lower leagues at all! Nothing from her training, nothing of her career could have prepared her for this feeling. Only her dreams, and those always end being swallowed by--

A sword? A sword! How is she supposed to block a sword? It's faster than her! Stronger than her! Not dodgeable, not blockable, and it would be the deathblow if she let it. She can hear the tires screech. She can hear the rush of the blade. She is out of time, and the puzzle isn't solved.

Madeleine uncrosses her legs. 

She swings one up high over the other and rolls her weight from one hip to the other. Swing, lift, stomp, shift, repeat. She doubles the gestures and recrosses from the opposite side, her best attempt at the seated equivalent of a dodge roll. When the blow falls she is already leaning into it. Though her hand still shakes, her fingers keep the cup firm. And she is already moving it into position so that as her neck finishes settling into its new angle she is ready to attempt another sip. 

She dares for two, this time. When the cup lowers, her eyes follow it. She locks onto the cake. There, that is it. That is the scoring zone, [i]that[/i] is victory. She has never wanted to see someone else eating more in her entire life. Patience, patience... follow the path. Can she do this?

Yes.