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Chapter Nine Don’t try to fight it, you’ll only hurt yourself

By the time the sun cleared the horizon the next day, Gwen was waiting in the shade of an oak tree outside the castle walls,

holding Achilles’s reins somewhat more tightly than she needed to.

The stallion was far more at ease than she felt—he stood

calmly, head swinging occasionally to track a passerby, whereas Gwen was fighting the urge to fidget wildly.

She needed to

vent the buildup of nervous energy buzzing through her body, but she was all too aware she had to avoid drawing attention.

There were so many risks and logic holes in Isobelle’s plan that Gwen couldn’t bear to look at them all head on for fear she’d

talk herself out of the whole thing, so she’d settled for focusing on the challenges directly in front of her.

Today, she

had to slip into the castle unnoticed so Isobelle could transform her into Sir Gawain’s sister without anyone making the connection

between that fictitious lady and the somewhat hollow-eyed and hungover blacksmith’s daughter standing outside the gate.

Somewhere ahead of her lay challenges like “somehow look like a lady” and “don’t fall off my horse while men twice my size

try to knock me off with sticks,” but she decided not to think about that.

Gwen was good at not thinking about things.

She’d very nearly not come at all this morning, trying to convince herself that the night before had been a dream.

Or some drunken fantasy.

That Isobelle herself, flighty and flirty and so expert at hiding what was going on behind her smile that it often seemed nothing was going on there, would forget the scheme she’d proposed.

Or that she’d rethink the wisdom of the idea after seeing what

had happened to Jinna.

The woman’s arrest had certainly shaken Gwen.

Fear and anger both had kept her tossing and turning most of the night.

But

something had made her dress and saddle Achilles and ride out into the still morning air.

Gwen had spent every step of the

journey to the castle trying not to think about the sheer insanity of what she was doing.

Too late to turn back, now she was here.

Or was it?

A trio of young men, attired like vendors or performers here for the festival, emerged from the castle gates and began making

their way down toward the chaos of the festival grounds.

One of them, a curly-haired, dark-eyed beauty, glanced at Gwen and

flashed her a charming smile.

She stared at him blankly, her mind so preoccupied with planning for contingencies that she couldn’t so much as nod.

The charming smile faltered, then vanished as the guy hurried his steps.

No doubt counting his blessings that he hadn’t struck

up a conversation with the weird girl clutching a horse’s reins like she might fall down without them.

Somewhere to her left, someone cleared their throat.

Gwen jumped, glancing back to find a young woman standing there watching her with one eyebrow slightly raised.

Gwen recognized her as the lady’s maid who had accompanied Isobelle the first day they met—the one who had not so subtly encouraged Gwen to inflate her prices because her lady could afford it.

Though she hadn’t exactly been warm and friendly that day, her demeanor had been positively genial compared to the icy stare

directed at Gwen now.

“What the— You came out of nowhere,” Gwen blurted, shifting her grip on Achilles’s reins.

The horse dropped his head over

her shoulder, eyeing the new arrival that his mistress found so terrifying.

The lady’s maid didn’t so much as smile.

“I get that a lot.” Her gaze swiveled over toward the horse.

“He’s a massive one,

isn’t he?”

“What?” Gwen’s heart was still hammering.

She glanced at her horse, who was tossing his head coquettishly, showing off the

stubborn cowlick that gave his mane the look of a crested Greek helmet.

“Oh—yeah, this is Achilles. He, uh, comes from good

stock.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” The woman’s tone made it effortlessly clear Gwen’s own stock was rather wanting.

“You’re Olivia, right?” Gwen reached for something friendly, uncertain as to the source of the maid’s clear animosity.

“And you’re the girl my lady’s decided to play with for the next month. She is confined to the castle after last night’s fiasco,

so she sent me to fetch you. Come along, I’ve found a place to stable your horse that won’t attract attention from the other

knights.”

Olivia turned back toward the castle without bothering to check that Gwen was following her.

Gwen glanced at Achilles, who

gazed back at her out of one eye, rolling it slightly in an equine shrug.

With an inaudible sigh, Gwen turned and followed

the maid up into the castle grounds.

Olivia had identified a nobleman who was overseas for the season, leaving his section of the stables—and his stableman—idle.

Gwen took an instant liking to the stableman, who without hesitation reached into his pocket for a slightly withered apple and offered it to Achilles.

Jeffers had little attention to spare for Olivia or Gwen, his attention immediately and wholeheartedly captured by the stallion.

Gwen left them, Jeffers murmuring a steady, unintelligible stream of sweet nothings to the massive bay horse, Achilles rolling

his eyes and looking like the coyest of ladies batting her eyelashes and fanning herself.

Ruefully, Gwen couldn’t help but think she was the only one of the lot of them feeling rather sick as she walked away from

the stables again, leaving behind the one friend she had in this massive, imposing place.

“My lady asked me to bring you to her quarters after finding a place for your horse,” said Olivia as she led Gwen up a winding

set of stone steps.

She’d brought Gwen in through a side entrance for servants, far less grand than the main doors at the

front.

“Then we’ll decide what to do about clothes.” Her head turned slightly, flashing her a sidelong glance.

“And the rest

of it.”

Gwen felt the tension lacing her shoulders tighten the tiniest bit more.

“Believe me, I’m no more enthused about this than

you are. Is— Lady Isobelle is the one who thinks it’ll be no problem passing me off as a noblewoman.”

They reached the top of the staircase, which opened out into a long corridor.

The space was narrow, but the floor was adorned

by long, fine carpets, and the torches lighting the way guttered and smoked far less than the ones downstairs.

Olivia paused for another look at Gwen.

Grudgingly, she murmured, “I guess you’ve got good hair, at least. You’re not planning on chopping it off for this ridiculous charade as Sir Gawain, are you?”

Gwen closed her fingers protectively around the braid hanging over her shoulder.

“Of course not,” she replied hastily.

She

was all too aware that her long, thick black hair was one of her only feminine beauties.

“It fits under my helmet.”

Olivia nodded, still watching Gwen with a measured gaze.

“As far as my lady is concerned, she doesn’t always think through

her schemes. With any luck, she’ll lose interest in this one quickly and we can all go back to our normal lives.”

A portion of the air in Gwen’s lungs whooshed out, like she’d been slammed with another of those blows from Sir Evonwald’s

lance.

Instinct planted her feet, balled her fists, went coursing through her system, telling her it was time to fight.

Except Olivia wasn’t wrong.

It probably would be better if they could all go back to their lives.

But then there was Isobelle herself.

Even after Gwen had snuck back into her bedroom last night, she lay awake, unable to

shake the torrent of thoughts and images invading her mind every time she closed her eyes.

Isobelle had a face designed for

openness and vulnerability, with delight and frivolity shining from every pore.

Gwen had no doubt that the vast majority of

people in Isobelle’s life dismissed her as a vapid, fashion-obsessed idiot—as Gwen herself had nearly done at the market,

until the whirlwind that was Isobelle had swept down on top of her.

Isobelle was no idiot.

She’d seen through Gwen’s masquerade in a heartbeat when no one else even questioned Sir Gawain’s existence.

She’d come up with this entire plan, which was brilliant.

Mad, but brilliant. Gwen couldn’t help but think that open, honest, charming face of Isobelle’s that seemed to show her every thought and whim might be a far better mask than any of Gwen’s scowls had ever been.

Her mind could not stop replaying one specific moment from that night, when Isobelle’s mask had slipped.

A flicker of something

deeper, gripping, consuming, had shown through when Gwen realized what Isobelle was proposing.

A white knight , Gwen had breathed.

Isobelle’s eyes had met hers.

Like something out of a ballad.

Gwen blinked, swallowed, and lifted her head to meet Olivia’s gaze.

“I don’t think this is one of those schemes,” she said

slowly.

“I don’t think she’ll lose interest.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed.

“I know my lady a little better than you do, Gwen of Ellsdale.”

“But you don’t know me.” That tension in her shoulders that had been gathering since she left the village that morning snapped

free.

“I suppose it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to play at being something more than you are,” said Olivia coolly.

Suddenly, her

animosity made sense.

“She asked me to help her,” Gwen replied simply.

“I intend to do so.”

Olivia held her gaze, letting the silence draw out, her own eyes clearly scrutinizing the shabby, plain girl in front of her.

Then, after an agony of waiting, the corner of her mouth lifted and a spark in her eyes hinted at the thawing of that icy

attitude.

“That’s good,” she murmured.

“You’re going to need to hold on to that. Your reason.”

She tipped her head, beckoning, and together they continued down the corridor.

Gwen had only enough time to process that Olivia, too, excelled at the donning of masks, before they came to a halt in front of one of the doors.

“Last chance to say no.” The lady’s maid laid one hand on the latch and turned to look at Gwen, her eyebrows raised.

“I can

handle her, if you want to change your mind.”

Gwen shook her head, smiling a little to match that faint thawing of Olivia’s expression.

“I think I was always going to end

up here, after she decided to track me down.”

Olivia’s eyes gleamed again.

“She does have that effect on people. My advice, if your mind is made up, is just... ride

the whirlwind. Don’t try to fight it, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

Gwen huffed a faint laugh, amused but unsurprised that Olivia had chosen the very same word Gwen had thought of when facing

the sheer force of will that was Isobelle.

Then Olivia was lifting the latch and pulling the door open.

Outside, the hall was a dreary dark gray, lit at intervals by the dull orange of torchlight, barely warmed by the worn maroon

of the carpeting.

Inside...

Inside was a riot of colors and textures and light.

Fabrics everywhere, tapestries on the walls, mirrors, sunlight, ornaments

on tables—an absolute explosion of luxury, stunning Gwen where she stood.

Pinks and turquoises and golds, more color than

she’d ever seen in one place.

It was like Olivia had opened the door to an entirely different world.

For a moment, she could

scarcely breathe.

And then there was Isobelle’s face, shining and full of that excitement and enthusiasm that had to be seen to be believed.

She bounced up to the doorway, throwing out her arms to take hold of Gwen’s unresisting hands and draw her inside.

“Oh, splendid!” she exclaimed, managing to sound delighted without allowing an ounce of surprise or relief to enter her voice.

As if she’d never doubted, not for a single second, that Gwen would show. “You’re here.”