Page 3

Chapter Two Ridiculously, fabulously pink

Most of Lady Isobelle’s attention was currently devoted to a particularly good slice of cheesecake on a stick.

The vendor

had tried to market it as being dragon-shaped and impaled on a knight’s lance—everyone was merchandising around the tournament—but

if it had ever resembled that legendary beast, that resemblance had ended when she’d nibbled its head off.

The others had wanted one of those potato-on-a-stick snacks, where they cut it into one enormous spiral, impaled it (quite

the theme, she mused), and fried it.

It was outrageous that the superior cheesecake had the shorter line, but it did mean she had time on her hands.

Even dear old Orson, slightly puzzled to find himself weighed down by a bag holding five horseshoes,

was lining up with the ladies, listening with a polite expression to Hilde’s firm opinions on the proper treatment of potatoes.

Isobelle’s maid, Olivia, was watching her back away into the crowd with a stern eye.

Isobelle wrinkled her nose in reply,

wordlessly signaling that she wouldn’t go far, and ducked behind a passing wagon.

And so Lady Isobelle of Avington, jewel of her absent father’s eye, setter of fashions, center of the castle’s famed gossip

network, and most eligible bachelorette of the king’s court, vanished into the bustling crowd.

As much as she could ever vanish, anyway.

The owners of the stalls and carts tended to track Isobelle’s progress, recognizing instantly that she had wealth to spare.

Isobelle often imagined someone would be able to follow her all throughout the hubbub of the market, just by listening for the rise and fall of voices from the merchants.

One voice penetrated the din, sweet but demanding, and Isobelle found her steps turning toward the stall even before she realized

what she was doing.

The woman behind the counter was a hedge witch.

Her plump cheeks creased in a smile as Isobelle approached, and stretched

even wider when Isobelle stopped, frowning.

It was never particularly clear how much magic a witch actually wielded, if any

at all.

Had Isobelle turned toward this stall because of a spell, or simply because the woman had honed her vocal instrument

to such a degree that she could derail just about anyone?

“A charm for the lady,” said the hedge witch, the offer far more command than question, gesturing to an array of attractive

baubles made of wicker, braided wire, and polished stones.

Isobelle fished out one of her bright, cheery smiles and bobbed a respectful curtsy of greeting.

It never hurt to be polite

to a hedge witch.

.. just in case. “Oh, they are lovely. But there’s nothing I need right now.” Nothing you can help me with, anyway.

The witch’s eyes narrowed as she inspected Isobelle’s face, gaze shrewd enough to make even Isobelle fight the urge to step

back.

“Ah,” said the witch, her fingers moving to indicate a bracelet made of woven blackberry brambles.

“Here, lady...

a love charm. Not always effective unless a seed is already planted, but for you... yes, you will make it sing.”

Isobelle felt herself stiffen.

“Thank you, no.” It was all she could do not to visibly recoil.

The last thing she needed was for any of the knights in the tournament to do something so inconvenient as fall in love with her.

She hurried away, uncomfortably aware of the hedge witch’s eyes following her.

She made her way through the market, passersby bathed a dusty gold by the sunset.

The merchants of the day were beginning

to wind down, packing away wares and shutting stalls in preparation for the evening’s celebrations.

She, unfortunately, would

be back up at the castle by then.

It was only as she made her way past a line of horses tethered to the old wishing tree, a town guard patiently pinning parking

violations to their bridles, that she realized where she was headed.

Up ahead, the ridiculous swordsmith with the unfortunate facial hair was still swishing his noisy blade around for a new pack

of admirers.

Across from him, the old smith was already gone, and his daughter was packing up their stall.

Gwen . That’s what he called her.

She had green eyes and fair skin and a generous helping of freckles.

A black braid hung over one shoulder, and a streak of

soot on one eyebrow lent her a sardonic appearance.

During the knife demonstration, Isobelle had felt the oddest impulse to

lean in and wipe that smudge away.

Then Gwen looked up and caught her staring.

Isobelle paused. She couldn’t very well melt away into the crowd—not in this dress, anyway.

It was ridiculously, fabulously pink.

So, lifting her chin, she set sail toward the stall.

Gwen’s eyes widened, but Isobelle had long ago concluded that she couldn’t pause her daily business for people to get over

their surprise and confusion, or she’d never get anything done.

“I’ve been thinking about the horseshoes,” she said, launching herself into the conversation without much idea of where she’d take it next, but interested to find out.

Gwen drew in a quick breath, hands curling into fists and then dropping to smooth her skirts.

She had the air of someone ready

to do battle—longing for it, in fact—and then pulling herself back at the last minute.

“If it’s about the price—” she began.

Isobelle waved the words away with one hand.

“Never mind the price,” she said.

She was well aware that, whatever a horseshoe

did cost, it certainly wasn’t two shillings.

Gwen blinked at her, wary.

“Then what?”

Isobelle, still not sure why she’d returned, reached for a reply.

“I was wondering if you’d considered a line of miniature

ones,” was where she landed, and she was quite pleased with it even as she said it.

This felt like it might be genius, in

fact.

Gwen rubbed at her brows with her finger and thumb, which explained how the soot had got there.

“What would anyone want miniature

horseshoes for?”

“Tiny ponies, I should think,” Isobelle said brightly, just to see her face.

Gwen opened her mouth, caught her breath, and then closed it again.

“Not really,” said Isobelle, taking pity on her.

“I was thinking of one you could pop in your bag, or even sew into the lining

of your skirt. As a lucky charm. They’d be so giftable!”

“Giftable,” said Gwen, who had repeated what she’d said quite a lot the last time they’d spoken as well.

Isobelle often had

that effect on people, though—it wasn’t the other girl’s fault.

Isobelle shrugged. “They will be after I gift one or two.”

“I’ll... I’ll mention it to my father,” Gwen managed.

“Mm-hmm,” Isobelle agreed, with a twitch of a smile.

She could see the caution in the other girl’s eyes—she could tell Isobelle had guessed who did the work at the stall, but she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it.

That was the world, though, wasn’t it—you always had to wonder who you could trust.

Isobelle ran her eye over the remaining wares.

There were the knives and the sliced leather bag from poor Gwen’s performance—though

she had looked fearsome as she dragged the knife through the wineskin—a collection of horse-related bits and bobs, and a few repaired

pots and pans.

She considered asking, wide-eyed, what the frying pan was for, but was faintly concerned that might drive Gwen

over the edge.

At the far end was—oh, interesting!

A sword leaned against the table.

It wasn’t really on display, though.

Perhaps the smith—or

his daughter—had brought it along and then decided not to show it off.

Isobelle squashed her skirts with both hands and slipped through the gap between the counter and the edge of the tent, popping

out the other side like a champagne cork as Gwen made a startled sound.

It was usually better to ask forgiveness than permission,

Isobelle found.

She reached for the sword.

The hilt was beautifully made—the grip wrapped neatly, the pommel carved with intricate knotwork

designs.

“Now, this,” she said, even as Gwen raised her hands in protest. “Look at the—is it engraving, on the end bit here? If you

could do this kind of thing on a horseshoe, you’d—whoops, maybe I won’t try and lift it, these are surprisingly heavy.”

Gwen had lurched forward in case Isobelle planned on dropping the sword, but (though it strained the biceps more than she’d

like to admit) she managed to hold on to it until she could hand it over to the other girl.

“Whoops,” Gwen echoed, and Isobelle thought she saw her lips twitch.

Without any sign of effort at all, the blacksmith’s daughter wrapped her own hand around the grip, swinging the sword up to horizontal and taking the scabbard with her other hand, so she could pull the weapon a few inches clear of it.

She looked... dashing, really.

“Oh, now look at that,” Isobelle murmured, stepping closer to inspect the engraving that wound its way down the blade of the

sword itself.

She only realized how close she’d stepped when Gwen swallowed and spoke.

“You have good taste.” And then, after a pause: “I’ll tell my father you admired it.”

Isobelle looked up to meet her green eyes—they were part wariness, part curiosity, and a touch of pride.

They were the color

of the forest: a mossy green with hints of oak.

“I—” For once, when Isobelle launched herself, the rest of her words didn’t show up.

To cover, she took a smart step back

and spun away toward the goods on the counter.

“It’s such a pity you don’t have anything else with that sort of engraving,”

she said, listening to herself babble with a kind of fascination as she reached for a roll of linen she assumed was for wrapping

purchases.

Feeling a lump, she twitched a fold of fabric aside, revealing a tiny figurine worked in iron, as far removed from the great

horseshoes and buckles as Isobelle herself was from the lout across the way, still waving his noisy sword around.

The figure was that of a tiny iron knight, his lance raised, pennant frozen mid-billow.

The horse he rode was elegantly and

quite realistically depicted, one leg raised to take a spritely step.

The armor itself was a thing of beauty, so detailed

there were even tiny etched rivets at the joints.

“Oh, I love him!” Isobelle squealed, folding her hands behind her back in the universal sign for I-won’t-touch-this-fragile-thing and bending over to take a closer look.

“Look at this handsome fellow! What is that on his pennant, a lavender blossom?”

“No!” Gwen gasped, darting around her to grab for the fabric, trying to whisk the figurine out of sight.

“That isn’t meant

to be—” She caught at one edge of the fabric, and as she snatched it up, the little knight tumbled to the ground, landing

on the muddied grass at their feet.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Isobelle began, trying to sweep her dress out of the way as Gwen dropped to her knees to retrieve the little

knight.

“He’s beautiful. How much is he? I quite fancy the idea of a knight who’d do what he was told, for once.”

“Sir Gawain isn’t for sale,” Gwen said firmly, closing her hand over the figurine.

She looked about to say more when Sir Orson’s

voice rang out, startlingly close.

“Lady Isobelle, please tell me you’re not buying more horseshoes. I’ve already run out of hooves.” There he was on the other

side of the counter, with a lopsided smile at finding her where she shouldn’t be.

“I assume they’re for me,” he continued.

“Given I’m playing the packhorse today.” And indeed he was—the girls had added another couple of bags to his load since she’d

slipped away.

“I’ll be good,” Isobelle replied, producing her dimples on cue.

“Sir Orson, this is...?” Though she’d heard the blacksmith

address his daughter by name, it only seemed polite to offer a proper introduction.

“Gwen,” said Gwen, glancing between the lady and the knight with a neutral expression.

“Of Ellsdale.”

If Orson was confused as to why Isobelle was introducing him to a random vendor at the market, he hid it beautifully.

That was the nice thing about him—he could be friendly toward anyone.

“Pleased to meet you, Gwen.”

Gwen blinked at him—no doubt as stunned by his square jaw and princely good looks as every other girl on the planet.

“Uh...

you too, Sir... Awesome?”

Isobelle managed not to giggle.

It wasn’t the first time someone had misheard Orson’s name, and it certainly wouldn’t be the

last. “Orson,” she enunciated carefully.

“With an ‘R.’ But don’t worry, he responds to both.”

Sir Orson laughed good-naturedly, throwing his head back and looking just like a legendary hero who had stepped straight out

of an illuminated manuscript of chivalric romantic poetry.

Even his hair seemed to glow—outrageous, since Isobelle knew he

didn’t use any product in it.

He offered Isobelle his arm.

“It’s getting late, my lady—shall we?”

Isobelle glanced back at the blacksmith’s daughter, searching for some reason to linger at the stall, without having any idea

why she wanted to stay.

Their eyes met again—and again, there was that strange sensation.

But there was nothing more to say, especially with her friends

catching up.

She let Orson lead her away.

But when she looked back over her shoulder, Gwen was watching her go.