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Chapter Thirty This goes a lot more smoothly in the ballads

Gwen’s head was ringing so badly she could barely see, her dizzy gaze swinging from the doubled vision of her opponent being

dragged away in a stretcher, to the box where Isobelle was watching.

She could only see a blurry haze of color there, all

the girls blending together.

There was a roaring in her ears—sick and confused, she had the electrifying realization that she might be about to pass out.

If she did, the physicians would examine her.

And the second they removed her helmet.

..

Gwen clenched her fist around her sword, firming her feet against the ground and sucking in a deep, bracing breath, willing

herself to stand firm.

Then she realized..

. the roaring in her ears was not the rush of imminent unconsciousness.

It was the crowd. They were

cheering, screaming, undulating all around her like a single living thing.

Cheering... for her .

Gwen staggered one step back, turning in a slow half circle—then thrust her sword skyward, her blood singing.

The crowd went insane .

Dimly, she could hear her own name—or a version of it, the masculine version of it—being chanted, rising over the more indistinct

roar of applause and cheers.

Ralph was gone, eliminated from the tournament.

He had no claim over Isobelle, not anymore.

Elated, her heart pounding, Gwen swung her gaze over toward Isobelle’s box.

She was gone.

Instantly, her elation drained.

She let her sword fall, searching again for Isobelle’s green-clad form among her friends.

But she could see the others clearly now: Sylvie watching with an air of stony confusion, Jane cheering wildly, Hilde with

her hands clasped, leaning out over the rim of the box to get a better look at the knight who had taken the crowd by storm.

Isobelle wasn’t there.

Slowly, mechanically, Gwen raised her arm to slide her sword back into her sheath—and nearly dropped to her knees as a sickening

jolt ran up her arm.

Now that her initial explosion of shock and elation was fading, the pain was starting to creep in.

No, not creep in..

. surge at her, sweep over her, as unstoppable and overwhelming as a force of nature.

Oh, holy hells...

Gwen thought, turning to look at the far end of the lists and her tent beyond.

The exit seemed to draw farther and farther

away from her even as she watched.

How was she ever going to walk that far?

She felt Achilles nuzzle gently at her elbow, and she grabbed for his reins with one hand and at his saddle with the other.

She hoped, as she began to make her way back to the tents, that it looked like she was only maintaining control over an excitable

and restive horse.

.. and not like she was clinging to him for dear life.

By the time she reached her tent, leaving behind her the still-roaring crowd, she’d managed to get on top of her pain, cataloging the worst of her injuries.

She’d certainly hit her head when she landed, and probably had a minor concussion.

Her back was bruised in a few places, and the shoulder of the arm that had held her lance was burning something fierce, making her wonder if she had broken a rib or two when she struck Sir Ralph.

Her knee stung with each step, something she must’ve done while trying to stagger back to her feet under the weight of her armor.

Her ears were ringing, and her whole body was still shaking in the aftermath of the adrenaline.

She felt bloody amazing.

She left Achilles tethered outside with a whisper of gratitude and limped into her tent.

It contained a rough-hewn table,

the stand on which her armor had rested, and a bag in which she’d hidden her dress.

She staggered to the table and planted

both hands upon it, panting for breath, too overwhelmed to even contemplate the long and arduous process of removing her armor.

She’d won .

Had Isobelle seen?

Had Madame Dupont? The older woman’s words were echoing in her ears: You will remember who you are.

Despite the pain, despite the dizziness sweeping through her in waves.

.. she could feel it.

That change. Like stepping

into a familiar house or pulling on a favorite cloak or blanket.

Certainty tingled through her body, telling her over and

over that she was exactly where she was meant to be, exactly who she was meant to be.

A rustle of fabric and a faint, exhaled epithet toward the back of the tent made Gwen twist abruptly, then let out a hiss as the movement sent pain shooting down from her shoulder and ribs.

Someone had pulled up a couple of tent pegs and was pushing at the fabric of the wall itself.

Then the back of the tent lifted enough to admit a slight emerald-clad form that popped into the space.

Isobelle looked up, her cheeks flushed, her breathing harsh—she’d been running.

Her eyes were shining.

Her eyes...

Gwen’s breath caught, all her newfound certainty crystalizing into one single, ringing truth as she gazed at the other girl.

Hands shaking, she reached up, fumbling with her helmet.

“Help me, will you?” Gwen managed hoarsely, a breathless sound of laughter and frustration escaping her.

Isobelle sprang forward, her hands nearly as clumsy as Gwen’s—finally, they managed to get the thing off, and Isobelle tossed

it aside to land on the grass with a thump without taking her eyes from Gwen’s face.

They stood that way, both gazes searching, both panting for breath.

Isobelle was leaning against her, one of her hands curled

around the top edge of Gwen’s armor, keeping hold of her.

Gwen bit her lip, feeling blood rush to the spot; she saw Isobelle’s

gaze flick down, dwell on her mouth, flick back up again.

There was a question in those blue, blue eyes—or, perhaps, the answer to a question.

Isobelle’s grip on her armor tightened, pulling Gwen down, or levering herself up, and she tilted her face to Gwen’s.

Isobelle’s lips were soft and tentative, but Gwen found herself paralyzed.

She was so used to holding back around Isobelle

that her dizzy mind could barely understand what was happening, how to let go again.

She was holding her breath, afraid to

move, to wake up from this dream—then Isobelle’s lips moved on hers, caressing, parting slightly.

Gwen gasped for breath with an audible half-swallowed sound and leaned into the kiss, her own mouth parting, falling into Isobelle like some poor, foolish creature walking into a faerie spell.

Isobelle raised her other hand and cupped Gwen’s cheek, her fingers warm and possessive on her skin.

Gwen stepped into her, or tried to, realizing with a jolt that she was still wearing her armor, a cold metal barrier between

them.

Isobelle, reading her mind, had begun to scrabble helplessly at the straps, her breathing coming in quick, sharp pants.

“This one,” Gwen gasped, reaching for the buckle at her side, realizing she still had her gauntlets on, and then trying to

remove them without any space between her and Isobelle.

By the time she had the cursed things off, Isobelle had gotten the buckle at her side free and was trying to pull the armor

off over Gwen’s head.

Gwen, with a gasp of laughter and frustration, slid one arm through the chest piece—Isobelle, realizing

she was tugging in the wrong direction, let go so Gwen could manage it and burst into breathless laughter.

“This,” Isobelle giggled, panting, “goes a lot more smoothly in the ballads.”

Gwen, gritting her teeth against the pain shooting through her shoulder, shrugged the chest piece off and let it fall to the

ground beside them.

“That’s because the ballads draw a nice, socially acceptable veil across this portion of the story.”

Isobelle was already back up against her, and Gwen slid her good arm around her waist—but then she paused, biting her lip,

looking down at the flushed features, the reddened lips.

She felt her own heart pounding in her chest as hard as it had when

she faced down her opponent in the joust.

“Isobelle...” Gwen managed, but there she stopped, words failing her.

There were so many things she wanted to say, and they all rushed her at once, leaving her breathlessly trying to separate one thought from another.

Isobelle’s eyes had gone to her mouth when Gwen bit her lip, but now they slid back up again, meeting her gaze.

“Don’t change

your mind now,” she whispered, eyes flicking back and forth as she searched Gwen’s.

“I... I’m sorry it took me so long

to make up my own.”

Gwen curled her fingers against Isobelle’s lower back, noticing with wonder the way Isobelle responded to that touch, leaning

harder against her.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she managed, grateful to have one thread to follow through the knotted

tangle of things she wanted to tell the girl in front of her.

“I’ve always known who I liked, who I wanted, and... it’s

still scary for me.”

The truth of that admission tightened her throat, making it impossible for her to say more.

Isobelle brushed her thumb along Gwen’s cheekbone, her gaze understanding, for she knew about Gwen’s past, had seen it at

the village bonfire.

Gwen lifted her other hand, now free of its metal gauntlet, and slid her fingers into Isobelle’s hair.

Isobelle drew in a quaking breath, her eyes darkening.

Gwen could feel the tension building in Isobelle’s body, a tiny shiver

up her spine that ended in a soft, muffled sound of longing.

They broke their stillness together, at the same time, meeting for a kiss that held no uncertainty this time, only a silent

agreement to set their fears aside for as long as they could make this moment last.