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Chapter Ten Nobody ever expects a lady to rappel off a balcony

Isobelle had only been half sure—at best—that Gwen was going to show up.

Even now she couldn’t quite let go of the other girl’s

hands, wanting to anchor her here, lest she float away like smoke on the breeze.

But already the distress of last night—the

whitening of his lordship’s knuckles, the sneers of the guards—was fading away into the background.

Isobelle decided to leave it all there.

It was far less interesting than the girl before her.

“What is this place?” Gwen asked weakly, allowing herself to be drawn into the room.

“This?” Isobelle twisted around to get a better look at her surroundings.

“This is my suite of rooms. Now, how is your horse?

All settled?”

She’d been raised to ask about someone’s family as a matter of courtesy, and she could immediately see she’d won herself some

credit with the girl from the village for thinking of him.

“Achilles is very well settled, and already snacking,” Gwen replied, but she was distracted.

She pulled her hands away and

drifted into the center of the room, leaving Isobelle flexing her fingers on empty space.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she murmured, her gaze jumping from the chandelier to the silk pillows on the window seat to the racks of dresses Olivia had pulled out when choosing which to alter for Gwen.

“It’s one of a kind,” Isobelle agreed cheerfully.

“I decorated it myself.” Then, at a faint noise from Olivia: “Well, I had

lots of ideas about how to make it lovely, anyway, and Olivia executed them flawlessly. Olivia excels at flawless execution.”

Gwen’s eyes flicked across to Isobelle, and then to Olivia, her mouth covertly twitching at that revision.

Isobelle had a

sneaking suspicion Gwen was amused by her, those forest-green eyes mirthful behind her ever-present shields.

She found she

didn’t particularly mind.

Isobelle tried to take in the apartments through a newcomer’s eyes as Gwen turned away to walk over to a wall of small portraits,

each no larger than her palm.

There must have been two dozen of them, quick studies of Isobelle, Sylvie, Jane, and Hilde undertaking

various pursuits—they’d been daubed by a painter Jane had fancied, and Isobelle had tacked them up as reminders of her friends.

Isobelle had never much noticed the richness of the fabrics, the thick braiding along the edge of the sofas, the lush velvet

of the curtains, the gold thread running through the tapestries.

This must be so very different from what Gwen was used to.

But even as the girl from the village kept staring about her with

a sort of appalled wonder, she stood her ground.

That was what Gwen did—she stood her ground.

Whether she was running her father’s smithy, ignored by everyone around her even as she did the work they all needed, or she was strapping on her armor to venture into the realm of knights and chivalry, a place where she was far from welcome.

This much, Isobelle had already learned about her.

Gwen simply lifted her chin, set her mouth, and—

Olivia poked her in the small of the back, and Isobelle blinked out of her daydream.

What was it about Gwen that kept making her do that?

The same thing that kept drawing her gaze back to her, she supposed—she was one

of a kind.

That was all.

Gwen had torn herself away from her inspection, and she was looking at Isobelle expectantly.

It was very possible she’d said

something and was waiting for an answer.

“Olivia’s at work on your dresses,” Isobelle said, setting off in a conversational direction of her choosing rather than requesting

a recap of what she’d missed.

“We can stay here this morning while she fits you.”

“Already?” Gwen blinked.

“But how do you know—”

“I noted your size at the market,” Olivia replied, as though it was perfectly normal to mentally measure up everyone you met.

“I can do it myself,” Gwen offered.

“I’m no seamstress, but I can do alterations. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

Olivia snorted.

“I’m the one putting you to trouble,” Isobelle said gracefully.

“Anyway, we have the time. It’s not like I need more dresses—apart from the way in

which one always needs more dresses—and Olivia’s the best there is. Now, breakfast will be here in a moment. I think we should

eat out on the balcony.”

“Breakfast?” Gwen glanced toward the window and the sun high in the sky.

“But it’s nearly noon. I ate when I rose.”

“Well, lunch, if you like,” Isobelle allowed generously.

“Or whatever you call something that comes between the two. Brunch,

how about that?”

“Brunch,” Gwen murmured, absorbing the concept.

She had this habit of echoing things Isobelle said in a way that didn’t agree or object, but commented, as if to some third party who might find Isobelle’s pronouncements as odd as she did.

“Then later we can practice curtsies and courtesies, so you can move around the castle with me as one of the ladies here for

the tournament. And then this afternoon, your combat instructor.”

“Absolutely nobody is going to believe I’m a noblewoman,” Gwen countered, a line appearing between her brows.

“You’ll be fine,” Isobelle promised, resisting an inexplicable urge to smooth that frown line away.

“We’ll tell everyone you’re

terribly shy, which should excuse you from plenty of missteps.”

“I am terribly shy,” Gwen replied.

“Well, there you go, then.” Isobelle accepted this news as evidence of her genius without missing a beat.

“I think that has

to be the plan, Olivia. Sir Gawain’s sister ventures out into the world only when she must. Just as well—the absolute last

thing we need right now is suitors.”

“Suitors?” Gwen squeaked, half reaching for a sword that wasn’t at her belt.

“A problem with which I am intimately acquainted,” Isobelle replied regretfully.

“Though not as intimately as some of them

would prefer. At tourney time, it’s something of a marriage market around here. You’re a newcomer of the appropriate age,

so you’ll draw some interest. We can put them off by implying you have no money, but Olivia’s dressmaking is exquisite, so

she’ll have to hold herself back if we don’t want them to decide they simply don’t care you’re poor.”

“I’m pretty good at discouraging men,” Gwen said, with a shrug and a wry smile.

“I don’t think we need to worry too much.”

Isobelle raised one brow.

“I find it hard to believe you don’t have admirers.”

“They find me intimidatingly competent,” Gwen replied with another shrug, Isobelle’s compliment rolling off the other girl’s back unnoticed.

“And that’s when I’m not even trying to put them off.”

The clock on Isobelle’s mantel chimed the hour, drawing Gwen’s attention away.

Shaped like a darling little chalet, its doors

opened to emit a huntsman brandishing an axe—or they had done, before Isobelle replaced him with a sparkly little cat.

Gwen

turned to inspect it, her movements easy with a very different kind of grace than Isobelle had been taught all her life.

Gwen

was so unlike anyone Isobelle had ever known, and for the first time she could recall, Isobelle found herself restlessly self-conscious

in her own domain.

“You find it hard to believe,” Olivia murmured by Isobelle’s side, “that she doesn’t have admirers?”

Isobelle folded her arms. “What?” Then she unfolded them immediately, so as not to appear defensive.

Her mind told her she

had nothing to be defensive about , and yet there was the urge to step back from Olivia’s inspection of her face, like her maid was some kind of inquisitor

accusing her of a crime.

Olivia twitched a half smile.

“You’ll play the game just fine, my lady,” she said firmly.

For a moment, Isobelle thought Olivia was talking to her.

The words were aimed at Gwen, though, who turned and blinked at

her.

“We’ll get you dressed like a lady,” Olivia continued, “and you’ll be of no particular note quickly enough.”

“Think of the dresses like a new kind of armor,” Isobelle agreed, her mind still trying to sort out what Olivia had been implying with that aside, while also being somewhat reluctant to examine it too closely.

Isobelle had a lot of practice at not examining her thoughts too closely, and she clambered back aboard the moving carriage of the conversation without missing more than one or two beats.

“Indeed,” Olivia said.

“I’ll see about your meal, if you’d like to take your places on the balcony, my ladies.”

Gwen, with the expression of one who was abandoning herself to her fate, allowed Isobelle to lead her through the double doors

and out onto the balcony, which ran the length of Isobelle’s quarters.

On one end a door led directly to Isobelle’s bedroom,

and on the other end another door led to the spare room where Gwen would be staying.

Here, in the middle, stood a table and

a pair of chairs.

Isobelle took her place at the table and busied herself straightening the silverware, while Gwen drifted over to lean on the

balustrade, studying the hills rolling out to meet the forest and the mountain that housed the newly reopened mine in the

distance.

“Isobelle,” she said after a little while, her gaze having drifted downward toward the moat below.

“I know I’m asking a lot

of questions about this place, but...”

“Go on,” said Isobelle, suspicion dawning.

“Has someone hammered iron rings into the outside of your balcony?”

“Oh yes,” Isobelle replied.

“That was Olivia.”

“Olivia.”

“There’s a rope in that wicker box over there. Olivia says you should always have at least one emergency exit, and nobody

ever expects a lady to rappel off a balcony.”

Gwen turned to regard her—to make sure Isobelle wasn’t mocking her—and then turned back to study the rings once more.

“I certainly

wouldn’t expect you to,” she said eventually.

“It’s not easy with the skirts,” Isobelle agreed.

“Oh, here’s brunch.”

Olivia appeared with a tray holding a quartet of croissants, a dish of butter, and a pot of Isobelle’s favorite apricot jam.

She set the plates down on the table as Gwen took her place, and then unloaded a teapot before disappearing once more.

“Olivia’s not sure about me,” said Gwen, once she’d craned her neck to be sure Olivia was gone.

Olivia probably wasn’t gone,

but Isobelle didn’t point that out.

“I’m sure she has every confidence,” Isobelle replied breezily.

“She thinks we’re playing a dangerous game, and it’ll end in disaster,” Gwen shot back.

“You’re already facing backlash—she

told me you’ve been confined to the castle.” Her tone softened, eyes apologetic, as if it were Gwen’s fault Isobelle had snuck

out in the middle of the night.

“Nonsense,” Isobelle said firmly, with a confidence she trusted to become real if she believed in it hard enough.

“Whimsitt

will forget about his decree in a day or two. And Olivia wouldn’t go along with our plan if she didn’t think we were onto

something. She’s just sulking because she thought the best solution to my current predicament was an assassination or two.”

“What?” Gwen blinked at her, startled, and Isobelle thought she heard a faint throat-clearing from just inside the door.

“Try a croissant?” Isobelle handed her the plate of pastries.

“They’re rich enough to eat plain, but I like them best with

piles of butter and jam.”

“I’ve never tried...” That was as far as Gwen got before she popped the first piece into her mouth.

Her breath caught,

her lashes lowered in sheer, naked bliss, and she made a sound of pleasure that brought a flush of answering pleasure to Isobelle’s

cheeks.

Isobelle watched the other girl’s enjoyment through her lashes, declining to ask herself why she couldn’t stop staring at Gwen.

The next little while, they were both silent, each contemplating their own novel experiences.

After a minute, Isobelle pushed the rest of the croissants across to Gwen.

“I think it’s the butter,” she ventured, when they were mostly gone.

“Olivia taught one of the girls in the kitchen to make

them, and... well. They’re very nice.”

Gwen visibly tried to get herself under control.

She reached for the teapot, but paused after pouring the first few drops,

setting it down and lifting the cup to give it a curious sniff.

“What’s this?”

“It’s called cocoa. It’s a sort of bean, added to hot milk. I’ll have some too.”

Gwen filled her cup and handed it across to Isobelle, then claimed Isobelle’s to pour her own.

“I’ve never had... cocoa,

you said? It smells good.”

Isobelle braced herself as Gwen lifted the cup for a cautious sip.

Gwen’s eyes went wide, fixing briefly on Isobelle’s before they fluttered closed again.

“Holy...” she managed, when she’d

swallowed and could breathe again, her voice full of satisfaction.

“I should’ve started impersonating nobility years ago.”

Isobelle, rarely lost for words, scrabbled for something to say.

“Well, wait until you taste the next course. There are plenty

of good things to come.”

Gwen paused, the cup halfway to her lips again.

“The next course?”

“It’ll just be something simple. Sausages, eggs, things of that nature.”

Gwen stared down at the wreckage of four croissants.

“Oh,” she said, before looking up once more to meet Isobelle’s gaze.

“I’ve made a terrible, delicious miscalculation.”