Page 15

Chapter Thirteen Off in search of adventure

Earlier that day, when Isobelle had shown her where she would be sleeping during her time at the castle, Gwen had floomphed

backward onto the spacious bed, spreadeagled and shivering with the luxury of it.

Now, she sank gingerly onto its edge, stifling a groan.

Madame Dupont had kept her at her lessons for over four hours.

Whenever she managed to glance up and catch the older woman’s

eye, Gwen was certain she could see a glint of mischief in them—Dupont had been trying to break her.

Gwen would’ve sooner died than given her that satisfaction.

If a woman more than twice her age could do it, so could she.

In the end, Madame Dupont had finally stepped back, raised her voice, and called: “Finissons!” Isobelle had trailed off in

the middle of a musical phrase, blinking owlishly over at them as Gwen nearly stumbled, having forgotten how to walk if she

wasn’t following a prescribed set of dance steps.

Dupont had barely broken a sweat.

Gwen was used to manning the forge for an entire day, for there was no sense spending the fuel to heat it only to work an

hour or two.

And her arms and shoulders were fine—wielding a blade for hours was far less strenuous than swinging her hammer.

But Oh. My. God. Her feet .

Gwen let herself fall back onto the mattress, the soles of her feet pulsing with her heartbeat.

When she closed her eyes,

she could almost feel the bed swaying to the beat of an imaginary waltz.

She dipped her hand into the pocket of her skirts

and drew out the tiny iron knight—Sir Gawain—and closed her fingers around it.

Remember why you’re doing this.

When a tapping came at the door, her mind dismissed it as a phantom rap of Madame Dupont’s cane.

It came again, though, and

Gwen sat up with some effort, half dreading whatever fresh horror awaited her.

The door opened, and Isobelle’s face appeared at the crack.

“Can I come in?” she asked brightly.

Gwen drew herself up to sit cross-legged.

“Of course.”

Isobelle had changed her clothes, discarding the aquamarine layer cake of a dress she’d worn that afternoon in favor of a

slimmer dress of soft, gleaming gold.

Gwen swallowed, all too aware she was still wearing the sweaty—and now rather clammy—dress

in which she’d faced off with Madame Dupont.

When Isobelle drew closer, Gwen saw draped over her arm a couple of damp, steaming towels.

Isobelle had a wry smile on her

face as she plopped herself down on the bed beside Gwen, effortlessly tucking that silky, shiny skirt beneath one bent knee.

“If I’d known Dupont would keep you at it that long on the first day, I would have warned you.” Isobelle wrinkled her nose.

“Believe it or not, that’s a compliment from her. She wouldn’t have run you into the ground if she didn’t think you could

go the distance. Here, give me your feet.”

Isobelle gestured toward Gwen’s crossed legs, and though Gwen wasn’t quite sure what she intended, she leaned back and nudged her aching feet out from under the edge of her skirt.

Isobelle bent her head and began carefully wrapping one of Gwen’s feet in the hot towel.

Fighting every instinct to flinch

away and protect her battered limbs, Gwen waited—and a few seconds later, the half-scalding flash of heat dissolved into a

warm, soothing cloud of relief.

“Oh my god, thank you.” Gwen slumped, propping her forehead against her hands.

“How did you know?”

Isobelle laughed, though somehow she managed to make it a kind sound.

“Oh, please. We have to do this after every ball. Nobody

can dance for four hours straight without suffering for it.” She paused thoughtfully.

“Well, except maybe for Dupont.”

Isobelle began tucking the towel in, pressing against the bottoms of Gwen’s feet and making her flinch.

The other girl grimaced

and laid her hand across Gwen’s ankle, a gesture of apology that made Gwen instantly forget the pain.

She glanced up and met

Isobelle’s eyes, her insides giving an odd lurch before she pulled her gaze away, reminding herself of Dupont’s admonition

to stay focused.

“Oh, I have news about Jinna,” Isobelle said, carefully shifting her grip.

“His lordship controls my finances—that’s how my

dowry’s ended up as the tourney prize—but I’m not the only one who’s snuck off to one of her ladies’ nights in the past. I’ve

gathered enough contributions for her to hire an advocate to contest ownership of the tavern. At least she won’t be alone.”

A flash of anger pushed through Gwen’s tiredness at the memory of Jinna being bundled out of her own tavern in chains, but she watched Isobelle thoughtfully.

“I’m glad you thought of doing that. I’m not sure I would have.”

“Madame Dupont’s donation was generous,” Isobelle confided with a smile.

“Apparently Jinna imports French wine just for her.”

Gwen couldn’t help a smile.

“What’s Dupont’s deal, anyway? How is she such a...” But words failed Gwen at that point, and

the sentence ended in a helpless gesture.

Isobelle snickered, lifting one shoulder in a shrug as she reached for the second towel and Gwen’s other foot.

“Such a force

of nature? No one knows. She’s been around since before my parents first dumped me here three years ago. Obviously, she’s

from France, but no one knows much more than that.” She leaned in, ducking her head to catch Gwen’s eye again, her own sparkling.

“They say she was raised by dragons, or sorcerers, or maybe the fae, and that’s how she knows everything and never gets tired

or sore.”

Gwen laughed, because the rumor was clearly a joke—and yet she couldn’t deny there was something superhuman about the wiry

old dance instructor.

She kept her eyes on the graceful, perfectly manicured hands wrapping her foot.

What had it been like

for Isobelle, left behind by her own parents?

Isobelle’s smiles and laughs never told the whole story, that much she knew.

She couldn’t imagine being separated from her own father—or knowing he’d let it happen.

Gwen felt a twinge in her chest, a sharp and unexpected longing for home.

She’d left her father in good hands, recruiting

the apprentice blacksmith from a neighboring village to help him while she was gone, but she knew it would be a massive change

for him not to have her there.

She ran her thumb over the figurine still clutched in her fist, finally distracted from Isobelle’s

well-meaning and entirely too engrossing ministrations.

Isobelle was tucking in the last edge of the second towel.

“There, now. Ooh!” She had spotted the model knight Gwen held.

“May I?”

Gwen handed Sir Gawain over, still half distracted watching Isobelle’s face.

The dimples had vanished in favor of a softer

smile.

“He really is spectacular. Did you...?” The long, fair lashes lifted as Isobelle glanced up at Gwen.

“Hell no.” Gwen leaned back, watching Isobelle turn the knight over in her hands.

“I’m not that talented. My dad made it.

For my mother. Lavender was her favorite flower.” Gwen touched the sculpted pennant bearing its etching of the lavender sprig

that now marked Gwen’s own pennant in the tournament.

Isobelle’s eyebrows shot up, her hands pausing on the knight.

“Your dad made this?”

Gwen’s throat tightened, as it always did whenever the subject of her father came up among the villagers.

“He’s not what you

think,” she said softly.

“He’s actually quite brilliant.”

Isobelle’s head tilted to one side.

“I promise I didn’t think anything, just that your work was what I saw on display at the

market.”

Gwen bit her lip, briefly meeting Isobelle’s eyes.

“He’s just... had a tough time since my mother died. It’s harder for

him to work, especially since he’d rather make things like this, things the village has no use for. And I can make nails and

horseshoes well enough to keep us fed.”

Isobelle gently set the little knight down, nestling him among the rumples of the bedspread between them.

“When did your mother

die?”

“About five years ago. I was twelve.” Gwen was grateful for the safe, neutral place to rest her eyes—it looked like Sir Gawain was galloping on his horse through snow-covered hills.

Off in search of adventure , she thought.

“I’m sorry,” Isobelle said softly.

A sympathetic gaze was no doubt waiting for Gwen if she lifted her head, but she didn’t.

“She was always obsessed with knights and chivalry,” Gwen said, reaching out to nudge the knight more firmly into the fold

holding him upright.

“She would tell me stories about Sir Gawain, and I’d imagine I was living those stories.”

“And now you are living them.”

Gwen looked up and found Isobelle regarding her with a tiny smile—somehow a much warmer one than the bright, dimpled things

she tended to flash about.

The cozy warmth enveloping her battered feet was spreading, as if the rest of her body had still

been stuck in combat, but had now received the message to stand down.

“I suppose I am,” Gwen managed, the tightness in her chest easing.

Isobelle’s keen eyes saw that tension shifting, and her smile widened.

“Well, tomorrow we’re going to have to do an etiquette

crash course. Then I’ll introduce you to the girls—I think we should probably keep all this secret from them. I trust them,

but the more people who know a thing, the more chances there are for someone to slip up. We’ll need a name for Sir Gawain’s

sister. Maybe something flowery and nonthreatening, like Rose or Lily?” She turned and slid off the edge of the bed.

Gwen glanced down at the tiny iron knight galloping across the bedspread.

“How about... Céline?”

Isobelle’s smile flashed with delight.

“Ooh, beautiful. Where’d that come from?”

Gwen closed her fingers around Sir Gawain, drawing him back into the safety of her pocket.

“It was my mother’s name.”