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Chapter Twenty-Two The violence is too much for her delicate constitution

It wasn’t until they’d reached the edge of the picnic blanket that Gwen remembered the uncomfortable truth.

The last time

she’d seen the rest of Isobelle’s friends, she’d been fleeing the room at the prospect of kissing Isobelle in front of them.

Her steps flagged, but Isobelle had sped up, and she stood surveying the food the girls had collected in the center of the

blanket like a trio of dragons hoarding their treasure.

Too late to run away now.

She pasted on her best imitation of Isobelle’s flighty smile and joined the other girls.

They all looked spectacular—Sylvie

was in a saffron gown that contrasted with her hair and her complexion like the yellow and brown petals of a pansy.

Jane too

drew the eye in a dress that loved her curves—Hilde was teasing her about her cleavage as Gwen approached.

Once she sat, the aromas of fried dough and grilled meat hit her nose, and she half forgot her qualms. Hilde gave her arm

a kindly pat and then handed her a metal cup.

“Dragonsblood punch,” the German girl said with a wink.

“Nowhere near as strong as the tea, ich verspreche.”

Jane gave a cheerful laugh and downed her cup, and all was normal again.

Well, all except for Sylvie, who regarded Gwen with a flat, expressionless stare as she sipped her punch.

Though that, Gwen supposed, was becoming normal, too.

She wished she could tell whether it was just that the other girl didn’t

like her, or that she could tell something wasn’t quite right about “Céline” and her cover story.

Gwen took a cautious sip of her drink—it was sweet and dark, mulled wine mixed with berry juices, liable to stain her whole

mouth a charming maroon—and surveyed the food as the other girls regaled Isobelle with bits of gossip they’d picked up from

around the festival.

The main bonfire, some distance down the hill from where they sat, was being lit.

Workers carried bundles of sticks and straw

to the giant pile of wood, where a torchbearer set them ablaze before they were thrown, streaming sparks, onto the heap.

The

whole thing leapt to life, changing the colors of the night from violet and azure to smoldering orange and gold.

Isobelle had seated herself beside Gwen.

“I’m excited for you to see the ceremony,” she said, leaning back with a grin.

“Even

if most of it is boring speeches about the days when the villages hit by dragon attacks would send representatives to the

castle seeking aid and shelter.”

Sylvie cocked her head in their direction, one eyebrow rising.

“Do they not have dragon relief ceremonies where you come from,

Céline?”

“Hmm?” Gwen blinked at her, pretending she hadn’t heard to buy herself time to think.

“Not in Toussaint, no. The dragons tended

to stay farther north, and at any rate we are a small enough province that the—the peasants”—Gwen choked the word out—“were

dealt with one on one.”

A fanfare erupted down by the bonfire, and the girls turned toward the action, sparing Gwen any further interrogation about the homeland she’d never been to.

Lord Whimsitt had arrived to a smattering of halfhearted applause, and was starting to give a rather predictable speech about the trials of ages past, when dragons roamed the land.

Rolling her eyes, Hilde began quizzing Jane on the latter’s newest boyfriend, a lowly squire to one of the visiting knights— But he’s so strong , girls, if you could see him without his shirt, my goodness.

Whimsitt’s speech wrapped up, and a visiting nobleman took his place to give his own speech.

Others began to circulate among

the clusters of society scattered along the hillside.

Whenever they stopped at Isobelle’s miniature court, she would introduce

Gwen as Céline and mention her fictional brother—doing exactly as Madame Dupont had instructed her.

Fortunately, Gwen was

not required to contribute much at all to these conversations.

It seemed perfectly acceptable for her to smile shyly and say

nothing.

A familiar form passing some distance away caught her eye, and Gwen had to stifle a laugh.

When Isobelle glanced at her, Gwen

leaned in and whispered, “There is Sir Evonwald. He’s still limping.”

“How tragic for him,” Isobelle whispered back, her lips close enough to Gwen’s ear to stir the hair there, and making Gwen

lose track of her amusement altogether.

“Don’t look now, Isobelle,” said Sylvie sharply, her tone for once devoid of the knowing languor that so often marked it,

her eyes fixed on someone amid the crowd.

Isobelle’s gaze snapped over, and she gave a swift gasp, her face paling.

“Oh, crap. Hide me, girls. Quick—”

There was a flutter of activity and a hissed, “No, no, it’s too late, he’s seen you,” and then all was serene again, as a middle-aged man in a rust-colored doublet approached the blanket.

“Ah, Lady Isobelle,” he said slowly, coming to a halt a step closer to their blanket than was strictly necessary.

His proximity made Isobelle crane her neck a touch to look up at him—which she did, with a brittle, fully dimpled smile.

“Sir Ralph,” she replied.

“How nice to see you.”

Gwen froze, unable to stop staring at the man towering over them.

So this was the Sir Ralph who was favored to win the tournament—and thus, win Isobelle?

This was the man she would have to face in

the lists in order to win Isobelle’s freedom.

He must be three times Isobelle’s age, but where other men might have put on some fat and lost some muscle, he looked solidly

built.

His face was angular, and it would have even been handsome but for an undefinable miserly quality to his expression.

The eyes were a pale hazel, narrowed, piercing, like those of a bird of prey.

Or a dragon , thought Gwen.

“Enjoying the informality of the festival, I see,” he said, gaze sweeping across their rumpled blanket, the remains of their

feast, and the semi-reclined forms of Isobelle’s friends.

His voice had an uncomfortable thickness to it, like something—phlegm,

perhaps—was permanently lodged in his throat.

“How fortunate Lord Whimsitt decided to permit you to attend.”

“Indeed,” said Isobelle, allowing her smile to fade now the greeting was over.

“What is tonight for, if not for relaxing the

restrictions of conventional society?”

“I heard,” said Sylvie brightly, “that in Spain, their dragon bonfire ceremonies are masked, and it leads to all sorts of bad behavior. Though I’m not entirely sure I know what they mean by that.” That last was with an innocent, puzzled flutter of her lashes.

Sir Ralph’s gaze slid toward her, allowing Isobelle a moment to breathe.

Sylvie was taking the heat off her friend, if only for a few heartbeats.

Gwen could have hugged her just then.

Sir Ralph’s piercing, raptor-like gaze swiveled back toward his intended prey.

“I have brought you a gift, Lady Isobelle.”

Isobelle was a beat too late in responding.

Gwen could feel the other girl’s flare of panic.

A gift, from someone like Sir

Ralph, was little more than a transactional loan.

Isobelle would be expected, eventually, to pay him back in whatever way he demanded.

“How kind of you,” she said finally.

“I seem to recall you being fond of dragonscale sweets,” said the man, reaching for a pouch hanging from his belt and unhooking

it.

“I thought I would bring you a bag, so you wouldn’t have to knock anyone down to get them this year.”

“Knock anyone...” Isobelle looked blank for a moment, until a wave of realization swept through her, and she pressed her

lips together as though she might be sick.

“I was seven years old when that happened, Sir Ralph.”

The man smiled, though it did little to dispel the predatory set of his eyes.

“Yes, I distinctly remember remarking on it

to my wife, may she rest in peace. Seven years old and already such a beauty .” He inclined his torso in as courtly a bow as any girl could wish from a suitor and placed the bag of sweets in front of Isobelle on the blanket.

“Enjoy your evening, Lady Isobelle.” A glance toward Sylvie, even the slight pretense at a smile vanishing.

“Ladies.” This, uttered in the same tone one might say “boils” or “fungus.” And then he was turning to move on toward a group of dignitaries.

Nobody spoke until he was out of earshot.

Hilde broke the silence with a vocalized shudder, extending one leg so she could kick at the bag of sweets and knock it off

the blanket.

Then she looked over at Isobelle, who was sitting stock-still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes distant.

“He will not win, Isobelle,” said Hilde softly.

“I know it in my heart.”

Gwen couldn’t take her eyes off Isobelle’s face.

For a stretch of heartbeats, she didn’t move, didn’t respond, didn’t so much

as acknowledge Hilde had spoken.

Then Isobelle blinked, as if hearing a voice across a long, long distance and waking from a dream.

“Hmm?” Her head turned,

and she laughed, a high, sweet sound that wiped away the memory of Sir Ralph’s low, rattly tones.

“Don’t worry. If he does

win, I’ll just have Olivia assassinate him after all.”

That elicited a laugh, however strained, from the other girls.

Slowly, they began to claw themselves back toward some kind

of normal—weaving around them that soft, careful magic of camaraderie that kept the world, and men like Sir Ralph, at bay.

But Gwen’s whole body still felt chilled.

It was one thing to know Isobelle would be married off to whoever won the tournament,

or even to imagine someone harmless like Sir Orson at her side.

It was another to see the man everyone expected to win her as a prize.

Gwen had never quite let herself imagine truly winning, for what good could possibly come from it?

Isobelle would hardly be

allowed to marry a fictional knight—even if the deception held through the inevitable ceremonies and awards to follow a victory.

But now, in this moment, she realized she could not bear to lose.

As the other girls turned their attention back toward the bonfire, Gwen took a slow, steadying breath and leaned toward Isobelle.

“I won’t let him win,” she whispered.

Isobelle met her gaze for the first time since Sir Ralph had approached their blanket.

She said nothing, but that remoteness

in her eyes faded, and, hidden between their bodies on the blanket, her pinky slid over and curled around Gwen’s.

“I cannot wait until tomorrow,” Hilde’s voice cut in, and Isobelle jerked her hand away from Gwen’s.

“Have you a favorite,

Céline? Someone other than your brother, who you intend to give your favor to?”

Gwen scrambled for an excuse as to why she wouldn’t be watching the joust, but her mind was on the way her hand was still

tingling against the blanket.

“A favorite?” she echoed.

“Céline neither hands out favors, nor attends jousts,” Isobelle broke in smoothly and firmly.

“The violence is too much for

her delicate constitution.”

Gwen burst into a round of coughing and wished she had some food or drink in her hand on which to blame the sudden fit.

“She is more civilized than the rest of us,” Isobelle went on, raising her voice over the spluttering.

“If only I could beg

off, too. But I have to put on a smile and sit front and center through the whole thing.”

Gwen, managing to get herself under control again, glanced askance at Isobelle.

“Maybe you’ll enjoy it this year,” she murmured.

“I may not care to watch my brother in the lists, but he has a rather unique style of combat. He may surprise you.”

“I look forward to marrying him, then,” Isobelle said wryly.

On another night, it would be one of Isobelle’s flighty flirtations.

Just now, Gwen could hear the edge in her voice.

Sir Ralph had rattled her.

Because even if it wasn’t him, and wasn’t now, it would be someone eventually.

Even the best-case scenario in their deception would not spare Isobelle forever.

It was one of those rare moments when Isobelle seemed fully aware that her wild plan to enlist her own champion was full of

holes.

Gwen curled her fingertips into the blanket beneath her hand.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said slowly, “but the tradition

states that the winner of the tournament may ask for the hand of the dragon sacrifice. May , not must.” Isobelle’s gaze swung over to meet Gwen’s.

“Perhaps he will surprise you there, too. Maybe if he won, he would

ask you what you wanted.”

Isobelle’s smile was wistful, as if she were regarding something lovely, but very far away.

“If any knight ever thought to

ask that, then I would surely wish to say yes.”