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Chapter Twenty-Seven I thought we’d have more time

Isobelle woke slowly from the most delightful dream.

Light flickered across her closed eyelids, and something brushed her cheek—her questing fingers retrieved a small twig.

She

blinked her eyes open and forced them to focus as she realized she was not in her own bed.

Thorny branches and tight green

leaves crisscrossed her vision.

Her head rested on something soft and warm, a surface that shifted under her—

Gwen.

Her head was pillowed against Gwen’s hip—the other girl had draped one arm over her shoulders, and was sleeping quite soundly,

to judge from the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

And then it all came flooding back.

The tale of the dragon.

The women at the castle.

The witches beneath the stars.

And the

glorious moment last night when she and Gwen had stood together, knowing that if either one of them had moved by even a hair’s

breadth, they’d have broken the last of their restraint.

That the thing shimmering between them, the thing sending her blood

surging through her veins, would have sprung to life with a dragon’s roar.

In that moment, she could have kissed Gwen.

She had wanted to kiss Gwen.

But the act of wanting had been so surprising, so staggering in its implications, that she had found herself

holding still.

She’d seen understanding dawn in Gwen’s eyes.

Watched as Gwen, without any impatience, any blame at all, had simply made space for Isobelle to face those feelings.

To take her time.

While the knights at the castle fought to possess her, Gwen offered her the chance to take ownership of herself, of her own

choices.

Gwen worried, sometimes, that she was nothing like them.

Isobelle thought it was her finest quality.

“Gwen,” she whispered.

“Are you awake?”

“Mmm?” Gwen stretched languorously, then stopped as she registered Isobelle’s head in her lap.

She went still, and then: “Oh,

shit! We stayed out all night—we’ve got to get back!”

“It’s morning now,” Isobelle pointed out.

“I know, that’s why we have to get—”

“We will,” Isobelle replied, hauling herself up to a sitting position and suppressing an unladylike groan.

“But that bird

has flown the coop, Gwen. The sun’s up, and a scramble won’t make a difference. Olivia will cover for us if Whimsitt comes

round.”

Gwen’s hair was mussed where she’d been leaning against the tree, and Isobelle had the most compelling urge to lean over to

stroke it smooth.

Except then it would be all too easy to let her hand slowly curve around the back of Gwen’s neck, and.

..

“Fair point,” Gwen conceded.

“But we still have to get back, Whimsitt or no Whimsitt. We have to submit Sir Gawain’s papers

this morning.”

That was enough to put some of the morning’s chill back into the air, and reluctantly—wishing she’d given herself a few more minutes to lie in the sun and listen to Gwen’s soft breathing—Isobelle set about extricating herself from the blackberry thicket.

It was as though the thorny branches had curled around them as they slept, snaring their thick wool skirts to hold them in place.

Isobelle couldn’t help thinking of the charms the hedge witch sold at the market—the bracelets made from blackberry brambles.

Love charms.

She peeped through the edge of the thicket, out toward the field.

The oak stood, leaves green now where the night before they’d

been silver in the moonlight.

There was no sign of the witches’ circle, or the altar, or the magic they’d summoned.

By the time she and Gwen were free, their hair was tangled and their clothes were torn, but they were both laughing helplessly.

They paused to gather a few handfuls of the late summer blackberries for the walk back to the castle.

And as they made their way up the road, Isobelle slipped her hand into Gwen’s.

Olivia didn’t ask why the two of them were in plain, unfamiliar dresses, why those dresses were torn all over, or where the

blackberry stains had come from.

Instead, she bundled her yawning charges into new clothes, scrubbed their faces like a mother cat cleaning a pair of kittens,

and promised she had already taken steps to find out what the deal was with the women who’d shown up at the bonfire the night

before.

Isobelle worked to keep her head still as Olivia yanked tangles out of her hair—most of her attention was on the way Gwen’s cheeks were still becomingly pink after Olivia had scoured the blackberry juice off.

She felt caught halfway between the world she had come from—the world of beating hearts and anticipation, of moonlight shimmering with possibility—and this ordinary, sunlit world of the castle, where there were practicalities waiting, and routine around every corner.

Just as one hugged the pillow come morning after a particularly delicious sleep, Isobelle wanted to cling to the last strands of the place she had been.

When Gwen slid a small smile in her direction, she lost her focus entirely, and stumbled back into Olivia.

Her maid gave a

soft, knowing hmph and set her back on her feet, salvaging the braid and tying it off with a ribbon.

Then she picked up a package and held it

out to Gwen, and suddenly the glorious color of the morning dimmed.

It was Gwen’s—or rather Sir Gawain’s—patents of nobility and credentials.

“They’ll be fine,” Olivia said firmly, correctly interpreting Isobelle’s lip-nibble.

“Just slide them in when the herald is

busy, so he hasn’t time to wonder why it’s Céline doing it.”

Gwen closed her hands around the packet Archer had prepared and pulled it in against her chest like a shield.

“Best get it

over with.”

“You mean best get on with the next step of our glorious plan,” Isobelle replied.

She could feel Gwen’s nerves, but the world

was new, and they were invincible, and Isobelle didn’t have the slightest doubt their forged papers would be accepted without

a second glance.

“I don’t suppose you have any snacks we can eat on the hoof, Olivia?”

The bonfires of the night before seemed to have signaled the turning of the season—there was a new crispness to the midmorning

air as they made their way down to the tourney grounds, nibbling on croissants.

The crowd was moving slowly, and there were plenty of pale faces and quite a few fairgoers attempting to treat last night’s hangovers with a scale of the dragon that singed them, tankards already in hand.

The minor competitions—foot races, archery, wrestling—were underway, but none of them were holding much of anyone’s attention.

The tent for Lord Whimsitt’s steward stood at the edge of the lists, and with so many bleary-eyed people milling about, Gwen

simply slipped Sir Gawain’s patents of nobility into the pile that had formed.

After they’d sidled away again, Isobelle whispered,

“Huzzah! Easy as can be.”

“That wasn’t the part I was worried about.” Gwen had found a loose thread at her sleeve and kept worrying the thread back

and forth between her fingers, tugging it further undone every time.

“When will we know if they’ve been accepted as authentic?”

“When the herald pins up the opening draw,” Isobelle replied.

“If all’s gone well, Sir Gawain will be on it. It’ll be okay,

Gwen, I can feel it.”

Gwen cast her a sidelong glance, her brow furrowed.

“I just—I can’t help but feel like something’s about to go wrong.” Her

eyes lingered on Isobelle’s face, then fell, a faint flush rising to her freckled cheeks.

Isobelle’s throat tightened, realization dawning.

Gwen was so used to responding to happiness with a sense of dread.

Isobelle

had to suppress the urge to go find that Fiora girl and give her a stern lecture about only kissing blacksmith’s daughters

if she was serious about it.

Instead, she reached for Gwen’s hand and squeezed it.

“Come on. The herald will take his sweet time. Let’s take a turn and

kill an hour or so.”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Gwen muttered.

Under her freckles, she was white with nerves, but she did crack a tiny smile as her fingers curled around Isobelle’s in response.

“I believe that ditch over there is the traditional spot,” Isobelle replied, marveling at the way she chirped, despite her

own churning stomach.

“Though that’s mostly for hangovers.”

They took a turn around the grounds, and Isobelle listened to herself with no small admiration as she managed to point out

far too many sights, produce opinions on the archery she had never known she held, and generally fill the air with chatter.

Given the hurricane underway inside her own head, everything she had been sure of tossed hither and yon, she really thought

she was doing quite well.

Neither of them spoke about that moment under the moonlit trees, when either one of them could have leaned forward and changed

the nature of their friendship forever.

Not yet.

It wasn’t until well after noon that the head herald, dressed in tournament livery, emerged from the steward’s tent with a

scroll in his hands.

A ripple passed through the milling crowds, the air of bored idleness instantly sharpening to breathless

anticipation.

Like a pack of wolves waiting for the kill, rows of squires—and even a few knights, judging by their clothes—were standing

in a barely restrained semicircle around the herald, who walked to the list barricade and began nailing his parchment to the

post.

Some unspoken agreement seemed to hold them all back, but when the man stepped away, all bets were off.

The mass of bodies

descended on where he had been, presenting the girls with a solid wall of backs.

“Stay here,” murmured Gwen, turning and squaring her jaw.

Then, after a pause, she added, “Though if I’m not out in five minutes,

send help.”

Isobelle was so busy watching Gwen disappear into the seething crowd that she startled when a voice came from behind her.

“So keen, my lady, to find out who your new husband will be?”

She whirled around and found Sir Ralph, well—she didn’t like to use the word, even in her head, but there was no avoiding

it: he was leering down at her.

She took a step back before she could stop herself.

“I suppose it’s natural for you to speculate,” he continued.

“But daydreaming won’t hurry the day along. You must be patient.”

The silence that followed as Isobelle searched in vain for a reply was disrupted by a familiar, but most unladylike, shout

from near the pillar itself, and a ripple went through the group of men.

Then the mass of bodies spat out Gwen.

She emerged between a pair of squires and nearly ricocheted off the barrier erected to keep the crowd of spectators away from

the joust. But where she ought to have lifted her head to search for her companion, instead she just gripped the fence with

both hands, head bowed as she tried to catch her breath.

Or recover from some deeply damaging blow.

Isobelle simply turned her back on Sir Ralph, hurrying over to push her way in beside Gwen, ducking her head to get a look

at the other girl’s face.

Every line of Gwen had become familiar to her these last days, but she had never seen her look like

this before.

There was a blankness to her expression, as though she weren’t Gwen at all, but a statue of her, the spark of

life simply gone from her face.

“It’s over,” Gwen said softly.

“It’s over, before I’ve ever had a chance to try. We’re done, Isobelle.”

Ice slithered down Isobelle’s spine.

Archer’s papers had looked perfect; how could this be?

Olivia had said they would work, and Olivia was never wrong.

How much danger was Gwen in?

Were they looking for Sir Gawain even now?

Her body took over. She took Gwen’s arm and led her, unresisting, away from the scrum around the newly announced tournament

brackets.

This was clearly a conversation best had without witnesses, and given she was the prize these men were fighting

for, the odds of someone blundering up for another obnoxious chat in the next minute or two were high.

Neither of them spoke until they’d left the crowd behind and reached the stables.

Then Isobelle released Gwen and whirled

around to face her.

“What’s happened? Sir Gawain’s name wasn’t there?”

Gwen leaned back against the stable wall, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“It was. The papers went through,

no one’s questioning Sir Gawain.”

“Then what? Gwen, talk to me!”

Gwen lowered her hands, and Isobelle gazed at her eyes.

Forest green, hints of oak, hints of golden sunlight.

Shadows beneath.

“They put the old hands against the unknowns,” she said.

“So nobody big goes down in the first round. But I thought at least...”

“Gwen!” Isobelle resisted the urge to shake her.

“Tell me what’s happened! Who did you get?”

“I’m to face Sir Ralph.”

“Oh, fuck.”

After that, neither of them spoke.

Everything was quiet and still, the peace broken only by a horse whinnying an opinion from inside the stable.

Isobelle felt as though she were watching herself from the outside, a kind of calm numbness seeping through her veins, until she could barely feel her body.

“Well,” she heard herself say, the strain audible through her usual polish.

“He’ll have his guard down, won’t he? That’s to

your advantage.”

Gwen shot her a look that said stop as clearly as any words could have done.

“Isobelle, don’t,” she said hoarsely.

“Don’t try to make it— I was starting to think

that maybe, maybe ... I’d at least get a few rounds in. Keep them off you for a couple of weeks. Stay with—” She cut herself off, pressing

her lips together hard, closing her eyes tightly.

“Stay with me,” Isobelle finished for her, the words barely a breath.

She gazed at Gwen, memorizing the details of her face,

the placement of every freckle, the swoop of her thick lashes, the firm lines of her brows.

She gazed at her as if she might

be gone tomorrow.

“I thought we’d have more time,” Gwen said.

“Listen,” said Isobelle desperately, grabbing for her last shreds of optimism.

It couldn’t be over.

It couldn’t just end.

“You don’t know what’s going to happen. Everyone makes mistakes. He’s going to assume the same thing as everyone else—that

he’ll sail through. He won’t even give a thought to this first-round match with some unknown knight from nowhere. And that’ll

give you a chance. You’ll be focused, be ready. He’ll be daydreaming.”

“What are you talking about?” Gwen burst out, the pent-up words exploding.

“There’s daydreaming—which he won’t be—and then

there’s delusional. I’ve been trying not to think about it, trying not to let reality poison this... this fantasy you have that I could somehow win this thing. But I was never going to beat him, even if I made it all the way to the final before meeting him. I was never going to win .”

“Delusional,” Isobelle echoed, her whole body sickening at Gwen’s words.

“So what was this, then? I thought you were in it

with me, as much as I was. I thought...” But she couldn’t finish that sentence.

She couldn’t speak her moonlight dream

out loud when it was dying here in the sun.

I thought you’d wait for me.

I thought you promised that last night.

I thought when I was ready, you’d be here.

I thought...

“You thought what?” Gwen asked bitterly.

Isobelle wanted to wail, to demand that Gwen acknowledge aloud the change that had taken place between them—instead, she reached

for something, anything, to convince Gwen to stay.

“I thought you wanted to show them all that you deserve to be here. A knight,

in armor you made, with a weapon that’s yours. They just show up and put on the costume.”

“So do I!” Gwen snapped, letting herself sag back against the stable wall, wrapping her arms tightly around her middle.

“I

practiced in an orchard, Isobelle. If you thought that was going to get me through this, then you live in a fantasy world.”

Gwen’s voice was heated and sharp, like a red-hot blade, whipping at Isobelle’s last shreds of optimism.

“Why are you doing this?” Isobelle could feel her cheeks flushing, and to her horror, her voice broke.

“You’re just giving

up?”

“You want me to do something impossible,” Gwen replied, her snap gone, her fire going out.

“You want me to be this white knight,

to ride out and save you from the monster, but...” There was a flash of helplessness in her face.

“It doesn’t matter how

much I wish I could, Isobelle. We always knew what would happen.”

“ I don’t know what will happen,” Isobelle replied, trying to ignore the ache behind her eyes.

“But I know that if you don’t face

him, then you lose in every way. You lose...” You lose us , said the voice that had discovered itself by moonlight.

“If you go out there, and you hit the ground in your armor, then

you were still a knight. I want that for you—for you to know that you are a knight.” She gulped a breath.

“That’s—that’s why you were doing this, wasn’t it?”

Say no , said the moonlight voice.

Say you were doing it for me.

“It doesn’t matter why I was doing it,” Gwen said, not looking at Isobelle.

“The end was always going to be the same.” She

shoved away from the stable wall.

Isobelle reached out a hand to catch her arm, but Gwen deftly twisted away, her reflexes razor-sharp.

Isobelle fought the

wild urge to sprint after Gwen and catch her, hold her still, make her believe again—and then the reality of the tournament, Gwen’s heartbreak and disappointment, and her own impending doom

all crashed in on her and she could only stand there, arms wrapped across her middle, holding herself together after a terrible,

mortal wound.