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Chapter Eleven You are the girl who would be a knight?

Remember how we decided at the beginning that this castle could be whatever we wanted it to be, with crocodiles in the moat

and high, impractical turrets scraping the sky?

Well, while most castles tend to be pretty spartan and concerned primarily

with defense, let’s say this one is more palatial in its design.

The following scene will be more fun if it takes place in

a grand ballroom rather than in some cramped, dark hallway with defensible slits for windows.

Gwen probably would’ve preferred the dark hallway, but we can’t always get what we want.

Isobelle’s quarters were located in the upper floors of the castle, requiring them to traverse long, winding staircases and

slip through room after ornate room as they made their way toward their destination.

The ballroom occupied its own wing of

the castle and lay at the end of a long corridor lined with portraits—past lords of Darkhaven, Isobelle explained to Gwen,

who drew half a step closer under the cold, haughty stares of noblemen past. Toward the end of the parade of old men was one

particularly surrounded by wealth and luxury.

“The first Lord Whimsitt,” Isobelle explained, with a look on her face that told Gwen she found him as unfriendly looking as she did.

“Ancestor of the current lord. He’s the one who built this castle, with all the income from the gold mines. I suppose that wealth will start flowing again, now the current Lord Whimsitt has reopened them.”

“It’s a miracle they waited as long as they did,” Gwen replied.

“Just goes to show how rumors of dragons liking caves and

mineshafts can make even the greediest of men a bit nervous.”

“Not nervous enough to stop him, alas.” Isobelle sighed.

“The tourney will cement his place among the who’s who of the king’s

court, and he needed the mining profits to successfully bid to host it this round.”

“It’s not his neck he risks by going up against superstition,” Gwen muttered.

“Do you spend much time with him?”

“Thankfully no, but technically he’s my guardian,” Isobelle replied, with a small but heartfelt shudder.

“My parents are diplomats,

abroad in the service of the king. And that’s how I ended up the sacrifice this year. He didn’t have to ask anyone for permission, and when you put me together with my

dowry, we’re quite the prize.”

Gwen felt herself tense, that old ache of helpless anger making it difficult for her to speak—she found herself gazing mutely

at Isobelle, hoping at least the other girl would see the outrage and sympathy she didn’t know how to express.

Isobelle caught her eye for a long moment, then gave herself a little shake.

“I should have been paying more attention and

seen it coming.”

“You shouldn’t have to...” But Gwen left her sentence unfinished, because they both knew better.

They’d reached the ballroom, and Isobelle lay a hand on the latch to one of the double-tall doors, flashing Gwen a sidelong look.

“We’re a bit early, but we can sneak in and watch the end of the dance lessons.”

Gwen’s steps halted, diverted from her anger, blinking slowly.

“Dance lessons? I thought we were going to meet your combat

instruct— Wait—”

But Isobelle had already pushed the door open, cheerfully ignoring Gwen’s protests.

That’s beginning to turn into an annoying habit , Gwen thought, though she was too full of pastries and sausages to work up a really good sulk.

She slipped through the crack in the door after Isobelle.

The grand ballroom was a massive space of cream and gold and intricately patterned details.

Broad windows with sheer curtains

lined either side of the space, allowing diffuse golden light to spill across the inlaid marble floor.

The high buttressed

ceiling arced up toward the center, from which hung a massive, ornately worked chandelier.

Antique weapons hung at intervals along the walls, decorative and menacing—above the fireplace at one end of the hall was

a huge, ancient dragon-slaying spear.

A reminder of days gone by, when knights rode out in glorious combat against the now-extinct

monsters who threatened their loved ones.

If only that was the challenge ahead of me , thought Gwen rather desperately, hovering on the edge of this room that was the epitome of Isobelle’s world, and so decidedly

not Gwen’s.

A wave of dread swept through Gwen at the prospect of having to live in this place for the duration of the tournament

and keep up the pretense that she belonged here.

Assuming she didn’t lose in round one.

Which, if Gwen let herself think about it at all, seemed all too likely.

Isobelle took her hand and sat her down along the edge of the room as Gwen became aware of a voice shouting, slightly distorted

by the echoes of the vast space.

“They will step on your toes!” the voice snapped in a noticeably French accent.

“They will bumble about, sweaty-palmed, too

close, with the grace and elegance of newborn foals.”

The owner of the voice was a wiry woman whose obvious athleticism and angular features made it impossible to place her age

any more accurately than somewhere between forty and sixty.

Her brown skin was barely lined, but her hair was a luminous silver.

She was stomping up and down between two rows of twelve girls, carrying a cane she used to thump on the marble floor to accentuate

her words.

“You must be ready!” she shouted, paying no attention to the two new arrivals now perched at the edge of the room, watching.

“You must guide them without seeming to guide, for they must believe they are in control. You must protect your precious feet

without appearing to wince. You must be ever prepared!”

“Yes, Madame Dupont!” the two dozen girls chanted in unison, each staring straight ahead like military recruits.

“Sophie!” Madame Dupont whirled and pointed her stick toward a younger girl with auburn hair and liquid eyes.

“What do you

do if his sweaty hand starts to slide down your back, inexorably lower?”

The girl went even straighter, barking her reply instantly.

“I giggle! ‘Oh, sir, we will be seen,’ I say breathily! I blush

and look distressed!”

Madame Dupont turned again, choosing a new target among her charges.

“Arabella,” she snapped, “what do you do if you encounter a toe-stomper?”

“I am nimble, madame!” Arabella replied, folding her hands behind her back and lifting her chin.

“If he cannot be stopped,

I pretend I am faint!”

Madame Dupont reached the end of the formation and turned once more, resting the cane against the floor and folding her hands

across the stone at its top.

She gazed at them, twenty-four girls all holding their breath at once.

Then Madame Dupont shook her head.

“You are not ready yet. But you will be. Clarissa, Joriana, I will know if you haven’t

practiced your footwork next week. Now, filez! Off with you all!” She thumped the cane against the floor.

“And you, Mistress

Hobbes, merci.”

An elderly woman with a stoop in her shoulders materialized at the edge of the room, rising from the bench of an organ where

she’d evidently been accompanying the lesson at some point.

The girls scattered, eager to be done with their schooling and

to flee their instructor’s obvious intensity—Gwen could feel the force of the woman from here.

Madame Dupont followed them

to the door, allowing Mistress Hobbes only a little more leeway to make her exit, and then shut and locked the door with a

sigh.

Then she turned, and her dark eyes fixed on Isobelle and Gwen.

Evidently she hadn’t missed their arrival at all.

“Well,” she said, tucking her cane under her arm and striding toward them.

“Is this she? Let’s have a look.”

Isobelle beamed at her and then leaned toward Gwen to whisper, “Don’t worry. She adores me. It’s just everyone else who’s terrified of her.” Then, more loudly, she said, “Be nice, madame. This is Gwen, and she’s doing me a great service.”

Madame Dupont snorted and came to a halt in front of them.

Gwen rose to her feet without fully registering the impulse to do so.

Madame Dupont was a head shorter than she was, but somehow

she seemed to loom as she inspected the new girl she was to teach.

The silence stretched, giving Gwen an opportunity to inspect

her in return.

Her broad face and angular features were dusted with black freckles against a dark brown backdrop, and she had her hair bound

up, woven through with a colorful scarf of French-designed silk.

Her eyes were shrewd and penetrating, and Gwen found herself

longing to look away—but feared doing so would give Madame Dupont some kind of ammunition to use against her.

“So,” Dupont said eventually, “you are the girl who would be a knight, with our Isobelle’s favor pinned to your breast?”

“I am, madame.” Gwen found herself straightening, lifting her chin, feeling like one of the girls who had gone scurrying from

the room.

She’d assumed that stiff attention was something Dupont had taught them, but apparently that was just how one stood

while being inspected by Madame Dupont.

“And you are... a dancing instructor?”

She couldn’t quite hide the confusion in her voice.

What could a dancer teach her about something as brutal as jousting?

Madame Dupont’s eyes were severe, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Oui, Mademoiselle le Chevalier. You think I have

nothing to teach you?”

“Um,” said Gwen, glancing over at Isobelle, who had no help to offer but a grin.

If there’d been popcorn available, Isobelle would be leaning back in her chair and munching it while she watched.

“I didn’t say that,” Gwen said, floundering.

“But you are thinking it. I can see it in those pretty green eyes. Come.” She turned away, walking toward the organ and gesturing

for Isobelle to follow her.

Gwen was somewhat gratified to see Isobelle scramble to her feet with alacrity.

Gwen trailed along in their wake.

“But—how are we to practice jousting in a ballroom?”

Madame Dupont let out a sharp laugh.

“Do you see any horses, girl? No, we shall begin on foot, with a sword. I wish to see

what I am dealing with.”

Next to the organ was a long bench whose lid flipped up to reveal a cavernous storage space below.

Dupont stooped to rummage

through it, removing items here and there to make room to search more deeply.

There were batons with ribbons attached, a pair

of shoes with metal soles, a long, seemingly never-ending garland of multicolored silk flowers, the top half of a man-shaped

dummy with faded paint in the pattern of a jester.

..

Gwen snuck an incredulous glance at Isobelle, but the other girl was settling at the organ.

The sun streaming in through the

long windows fell on Isobelle like a caressing hand, coaxing white-gold highlights from her hair and limning her form in a

halo of light.

She positioned her hands over the keys, each finger arched gracefully, and then looked back expectantly at

Gwen.

Gwen swallowed, distantly aware she was staring, but just as distant from her ability to control herself.

It wasn’t until

a sharp crack a few feet away broke the spell that she was able to jerk her gaze back to where it belonged.

Dupont had rapped her cane against the floor, a hint of disapproval in her gaze, as well as a knowing glint that warned Gwen she would need to be much, much more careful about who she stared at and for how long.

“Pay attention, mademoiselle,” Dupont snapped, before tossing a dull-tipped practice blade, hilt first, to Gwen.

Gwen managed to catch it and tried not to look so surprised by having done so that she ruined any semblance of cool she’d

managed to reclaim.

“We will move on to jousting in time,” Madame Dupont said, letting the storage bin lid fall closed as she turned to face Gwen,

a second sword in her own hand.

“Today I wish to see how you move, how well you anticipate the movements of your opponent.”

“I know how to handle a sword,” Gwen said, gaze flicking from the sword in her hand to the Frenchwoman standing before her.

“I should hope so,” replied Madame Dupont.

“We shall begin with the gavotte.”

She swept her blade to the side in some sort of signal or salute to Isobelle, who straightened and began to play.

The music

was stately, each set of four beats easy to notice and follow.

Madame Dupont gestured to Gwen and took up a position opposite

her.

Gwen felt the bottom dropping out of her stomach, her eyes darting between the organ and the dancing instructor.

“Wait—you

want me to dance?” She couldn’t help but notice her voice had risen in pitch.

“I thought you wanted to see if I could fight.”

Madame Dupont raised an eyebrow.

“You told me you could handle a sword. Should I not take your word that this is so?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean—” Gwen took a breath, wishing for once that Isobelle weren’t there.

“I... I don’t know how to dance. Not to something like this.” She gestured with her free hand toward the organ, where Isobelle kept circling back around to the introductory phrases of the music, like a carriage driver waiting for her charges to hop on.

Gwen was not accustomed to being taken at her word as far as her abilities were concerned.

Handling a sword was one of the

things she knew , and in this world of chandeliers and croissants and curtsies, she’d been telling herself all she had to do was make it far

enough to prove there was a reason Isobelle had brought her here.

Madame Dupont was watching her with an even expression, her black eyes giving nothing away.

“I don’t even know what a gavotte is,” Gwen murmured.

“That is why I have chosen it,” said Madame Dupont.

“I trust that you know how to hold a sword. What I must teach you is how

to use it while someone else is trying to stab you through the weak points in your armor. To do this, you must learn to see

what they will do an instant before they do it. That is why we will begin with a dance you do not know—you will learn by watching

me and predicting how I will move next.”

Gwen looked down at the practice blade she held, shifting her grip until it felt balanced in her hand and giving it a few

experimental swings.

It was noticeably lighter than her own sword, but it wasn’t a bad one—she could work with it.

“All right,”

she told Madame Dupont.

“I’ll try.”

Madame Dupont tilted her head, something very nearly like a smile changing the set of her mouth.

“Good. Let us begin.”