Page 24

Chapter Twenty-One Drop-your-cheesecake-on-a-stick-and-not-even- care spectacular

When Isobelle had seen Gwen arrive for the bonfire, her first thought had been oh no .

Gwen looked spectacular—dizzyingly, heart-stoppingly,?drop-your-cheesecake-on-a-stick-and-not-even- care spectacular—and it was only luck that she hadn’t seen Isobelle gawking.

What was going to happen come the tournament ball,

when she finally saw Gwen in full finery?

Would she simply pass out?

Why couldn’t she stop staring?

She had been forced to be quite stern as she reminded herself that this was not a sensible time to start asking herself questions

about why she couldn’t take her eyes off Gwen.

Or perhaps , said the small part of her mind that sometimes led to her doing things like climbing down from her balcony and recruiting

herself a new champion, this is exactly the time.

There was a kind of pressure building inside her, and she knew she couldn’t hold it at bay forever.

She’d pulled herself firmly together and had been doing quite well.

Up until now, at any rate, when Gwen had hidden her hands

swiftly in her skirts before Isobelle could take her arm again.

The two of them wove through the crowd, Isobelle leading and Gwen following in her wake, until they could duck behind the tents to which the dancers had retreated.

There, Isobelle paused to fish down her cleavage—the frills really could hide a multitude—producing the small packet she had stowed there.

Before Gwen could ask, for she did not wish to spoil her surprise, she continued on until she found the member of the company

who was standing guard at the tent flap.

“Dobry wieczór!” she chirped, with a curtsy that made him grin.

“We have come with a gift for your lady knight.”

He bowed in return, pulling aside the tent flap and indicating with a tilt of his head that they should continue on to the

right.

The dancers inside were laughing and talking and jostling for space, the air hot and their good mood infectious.

As

Isobelle ducked under a wildly gesturing arm and pushed through to the next section of the tent, she was grinning herself.

“Astreta!” she squealed, and the dancer—still shedding her shimmering silver knight’s costume—turned to greet her with a laugh

and seized her to plant a kiss on each cheek, then returned for a third where she’d begun.

“Isobelle, moja droga!”

Isobelle turned to see Gwen’s expression melting from one of wariness to a shy pleasure at seeing their reunion.

Her cheeks

were flushed with the heat of the tent, a smile slowly curving her lips.

“Gwen, this is my friend Astreta—her troupe just arrived from Poland. I thought you’d like to meet a woman who can do a man’s

job as well as he can. Astreta, this is Gwen, who is a blacksmith of great skill.”

“As well as he can?” Astreta asked with mock outrage and a strong Polish accent.

“Please, no man can leap as I do.”

“Of course not,” Isobelle agreed, some part of her mind concentrating on Gwen, who’d gone quiet.

“We have brought you sweets.”

She handed over the little bag, and Astreta held up a hand in a gesture that informed them they would have her attention again very soon, then pulled it open to inspect what was inside.

“They’re from a place in Paris she likes,” Isobelle told Gwen as Astreta nibbled on one and made extremely happy noises in

the background.

“How do you know each other?” There was a carefulness in the way Gwen asked the question, setting the words out like she was

laying a table with particularly fine porcelain and didn’t want to break anything.

“I bluffed my way backstage last time the troupe was in town,” Isobelle confessed, tilting her head as she tried to parse

that caution.

What was Gwen really wondering?

Again, that pressure inside Isobelle that demanded an answer—that demanded she look at its questions directly and understand

what they were—pushed to be released.

“Hard to believe you’d do something like that,” Gwen replied with her customary wry sarcasm, but again, there was that layer

of.

.. something. Could Gwen be.

..? Isobelle hardly dared whisper the word to herself.

But if she didn’t know better,

it would almost seem as if Gwen was jealous .

“I wanted to talk to the costume designers,” Isobelle pressed on, like one who had been traipsing through the woods, then

heard a concerning noise, and was now proceeding with considerably more thoughtfulness.

“But then I met Astreta, and we got

to talking about dessert...” She gestured to the sweets, which the dancer had already half devoured, but was now packing

away.

“I promised I’d come back this time with her favorite.”

“And so you did,” Astreta replied with a grin.

“I must save a few for my husband, or he will be, what do you say? Cranky. He is already not pleased he had to dance the part of the dragon’s behind.”

At that, everybody dissolved into laughter, and the strangeness was gone, vanished like smoke on the breeze.

“Well, it was a remarkable performance by all parts of the dragon,” Gwen told her.

“Though you excelled.”

“I knew she would inspire you,” Isobelle replied, and Gwen shot her a quelling look, which was, in fairness, well earned.

“It made me wish I could dance like that,” Gwen agreed.

“Truly, to move that way, each of you different but all in unison—you

must practice from sunup to sundown.”

“Tak, yes, we rehearse until our bodies know their purpose,” Astreta agreed, resuming her undressing until she was down to

the sleek black suit she wore beneath her armor, and fanning herself.

“Until the steps are a part of the body, one must practice.

One cannot be thinking of the steps—put my foot here, twist like so—and also of the emotion required.”

Gwen wasn’t bothering to hide that she was listening far more intently than the average noblewoman might.

“And I imagine you

can’t put your foot just so, or twist like so, if your emotions are caught up where they shouldn’t be, either.”

“The mind must be one with the dance,” Astreta agreed, delighted to have found a willing audience.

“There are so many of us,

and moving so quickly. We cannot simply learn the steps and then produce them like windup toys. We must become this great

creature together.”

“And how do you do that?” Gwen leaned forward.

“How do you clear your mind? I find mine spins on and on—as if I’m on a badly

trained horse, and the harder I try to control it, the more it rebels.”

Astreta’s smile changed to one of understanding.

“Ah, I do not clear my mind,” she replied.

“I am part of a dance company, my friend. I am full of fire. There is always drama here—always someone coming, someone going, someone falling in love, someone crying out in grief. I cannot stop all the horses that wish to gallop through my mind. I simply guide them. I create a valley, with steep walls on each side, and tell them ‘You may run as fast as you wish, but run this way!’ Then I take all the power of their galloping, and I make it my performance.”

Gwen’s lips parted a little, as though she’d seen something she wanted but couldn’t have.

Isobelle nibbled her lip, watching

her.

Had Gwen been worrying about her jousts, about knighting without panicking?

She’d always seemed so calm, so determined.

So natural at it, as Madame Dupont had told her.

“I wish I knew how to do as you do,” Gwen said simply.

“I am not sure how to teach it to someone,” Astreta replied thoughtfully.

“But I will say this. The horses listen better if

you are not afraid of them.”

That caught Gwen off guard—enough to make her eyes widen—and then her solemn expression cracked into a smile.

“Are you sure

you’re not a mind reader?”

Astreta laughed merrily.

“I dance alongside a dozen others every night. We leap over, under, through. Of course I am a mind

reader.”

Gwen echoed that laugh with a quiet one of her own, and Astreta drew a deep breath before continuing briskly, “I must see

to the company, and make sure nobody plans to make any foolish decisions tonight. Isobelle, I shall write to you next month,

from Spain.”

Isobelle had been so absorbed in the exchange that she startled at hearing her own name.

“It was good to see you again, Astreta.”

Astreta flashed a smile at them, then poked her head into the other half of the tent to check the way was clear.

“Matthew,

put away your naked body!” she shouted.

“There are ladies present.”

Isobelle made what felt like the obligatory disappointed sound, and led the way back out, turning her face up to the cool

night air as she and Gwen left the tent.

“She was extraordinary,” Gwen breathed.

“I’ve never met anyone like that in my life.”

“I suppose not,” Isobelle agreed, finding rather uncomfortably that now she might be the one experiencing a twinge of jealousy.

“I’ve been trying to learn some Polish, to be polite, but it’s awfully

difficult. Do you speak any?”

“Me? No.” Gwen sounded surprised at the idea.

“Why would I?”

“You spoke lovely French,” Isobelle replied with a shrug.

She didn’t want to make any assumptions about Gwen’s education—the

French had been a surprise, and had reminded her that she didn’t know what commoners were taught.

Maybe it wasn’t strange

at all for Gwen to burst into another language as easily as she spoke English.

“French? Oh, yes.” Gwen sounded uncomfortable, then pressed on, letting Isobelle guide her through the crowd.

“I think she’s

right. Astreta, I mean. That’s what I have to learn, to fight in this thing. When I’m smithing, I can do it. It’s like being

somewhere else, present but utterly focused. I don’t know how to do that with a sword in my hand, or a lance against my shoulder.”

“Perhaps,” Isobelle said slowly, “it’s not so different. When you’re smithing, you’re creating. Whether it’s something for yourself, or for someone else, you’re repairing, you’re bringing into being. It’s an act of... of love.” For some reason, Isobelle found her cheeks heating, and she kept her eyes on the ground.

She could feel Gwen’s eyes on her.

“And you think that’s not so different from jousting? I wouldn’t call it especially loving

to knock a guy off his horse with a big stick.”

Isobelle fought back a laugh.

“What I mean is, when you’re smithing, your heart is open. But when I watched you practicing

with Madame Dupont... I could see your racing thoughts from the other side of the orchard. It wasn’t about feeling, you

were trying to think your way through it.”

Gwen made a soft sound, half exhalation, half hmmmm .

“Men speak of mastering their emotions,” she replied.

“They say women are too emotional to fight, even if we were strong

enough to wield a blade.”

“But Astreta can’t do what she does without her emotion,” Isobelle pointed out.

“I don’t think you can beat the other knights

by trying to be like them—your strength comes from a different place than theirs. Maybe all you need to do is stop trying

to block it out, and... let it come.”

An answering silence made Isobelle lift her head finally, to find Gwen’s eyes on her, the green glinting with gold in the

light of the torches.

Gwen’s fair cheeks were flushed, her gaze intent in a way Isobelle had never seen before.

“I have to just let the horses run,” Gwen murmured.

“And not corral them.”

Isobelle’s heart was leaping as quickly as it had been when the dragon dancers first coalesced into that mighty, ancient beast.

For a wild moment, she wanted to grab Gwen by the hand and race with her back to the stables, to find Achilles, to ride out

under the moon and watch her champion joust her way, their way.

To see what Gwen could do when she let herself go.

Then a group of children tore by, shrieking with laughter and making them both jump.

Gwen blinked and shuddered a breath,

and Isobelle looked up with some surprise to realize they were in the middle of a crowd, not on a moonlit field of battle—and,

worst of all, they were not far from where the other girls had set up a picnic on the lawn.

For a moment, Gwen looked as though she might say something.

But then Hilde spotted them and called out—“Isobelle! Céline!”—and

the moment was lost.