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Chapter Thirty-One Did that really just happen?

None of Isobelle’s practice had ever prepared her for how truly glorious proper kissing was.

A thrill zinged straight down her spine, and the whole world receded as she focused on Gwen.

Outside were distant bangs and

clatters and shouts, but the inside of this tent was their fortress, and nobody would dare breach its walls.

Her whole world was the soft touch of Gwen’s lips, and the noise Gwen made when Isobelle curved a hand around the nape of

her neck, finding the place where smooth skin met her silky hair.

She ran her hand along Gwen’s collarbone, fingertips curling

around her shoulder—until Gwen gave a muffled yelp of pain, making Isobelle drop her hands and break away with a gasp.

She was opening her mouth to apologize—of course Gwen would be sore after getting knocked off her horse—when Gwen’s arms went

round her and pulled her back in, mumbling something about this being worth it.

Isobelle abandoned her concerns.

.. though

she avoided Gwen’s poor shoulder as best she could.

Everything that Isobelle cared for, she threw her whole self into.

It was what made her unstoppable—the ability to choose

something and run toward it at full tilt.

And now, her hesitation gone, she was running as fast as she knew how toward this .

This moment, this girl, this kiss.

When they finally drew apart long enough to breathe, Isobelle gave herself over to a foolish grin, her arms looped around

the other girl’s neck.

“You did it,” she whispered, needing to hear the words aloud to truly believe them.

“He was out cold.”

She shouldn’t delight in any sort of violence, she knew that.

But truly, Sir Ralph had started it.

“I know,” Gwen whispered, her own disbelief and joy spilling over, her eyes wide.

“I don’t even—but I did . Did that really just happen?”

“It really happened,” Isobelle confirmed.

“And now this is really happening.” She laid a hand over Gwen’s heart, marveling

at the way it beat against her ribs.

Watched Gwen match her giddy smile.

And then, because she could, and because she very much wanted to, she kissed her again.

It was at that moment that the tent flap whipped aside.

“Bro,” Orson called cheerfully.

“Just checking you’re not stuck in your...” He slowed to a halt, staring open-mouthed at

the two girls.

“...armor,” he finished weakly, letting the tent flap fall closed behind him.

Gwen was frozen in place, her muscles tensed, her arms locked around Isobelle.

Isobelle paused to reflect and concluded that the opportunity to leap hastily away from Gwen had passed—and that at any rate,

she did not wish to do so.

“Hello, Orson,” she offered, sounding almost like herself.

“Ah. I see how this has happened. I asked you to keep an eye on—and

here you are. So, as you may see—”

“I certainly do,” he muttered, gaze swinging between them.

Gwen came back to life.

“We weren’t doing anything!” she blurted.

“And...” Looking down, she seemed to notice she was still wearing the bottom half of Sir Gawain’s armor.

She looked at it, looked at the girl in her arms, and sagged, letting go of Isobelle.

“I don’t think there’s any way to walk this back, actually,” she mumbled.

Isobelle wrapped an arm around Gwen’s waist and watched her old friend, waiting to see which way he’d take this.

“This is just... I mean, there’s a lot to unpack here,” Orson said slowly.

“This is...”

“It’s a lot,” Isobelle agreed soothingly.

“Is Gawain...” Bewildered, he turned to study Gwen.

“You’re a girl ?” His voice rose in a way that suggested he very much knew the answer to his question but needed someone to say it out loud.

Gwen lifted her chin, meeting his eyes.

“I am.”

“Huh.” He nodded slowly, then nodded again, and Isobelle wondered how many times he’d do it if he weren’t interrupted.

“Orson,” she said slowly.

“We’re—”

“You were kissing her,” he said, just now catching up with this fact.

Orson never interrupted her, but he didn’t even register that she’d spoken.

“I—”

He whipped back to Gwen.

“Where did you learn to joust?”

Gwen blinked at him.

This was presumably not the follow-up question she’d anticipated.

“Um,” she said. “A little by watching.

A little by practicing in the woods near my village. But mostly, I learned in the last couple of weeks.”

“So—” Isobelle tried again.

“And she’s got armor,” Orson said to her plaintively.

“Girls don’t wear armor.”

“Demonstrably not true,” Isobelle countered.

“It’s better than mine,” he protested.

“I’ve been thinking about the articulated joints since I saw him take on Sir Evonwald.

Her, I mean. How did...” But his momentum, having carried him this far, ran out.

His voice trailed away, and he rubbed

at the back of his neck.

Gwen’s gaze shifted carefully from Orson to Isobelle, and then back again.

“I could make some for you,” she said.

And then,

after a short pause, in exactly the same tone—as if she could overwrite what she’d just said: “I could have some made for

you.”

It wasn’t a bribe—that wasn’t Gwen’s way—but it wasn’t not a bribe.

Orson silently mouthed the words, but—though Isobelle suspected he wished with his whole heart that he could—he didn’t quite

manage to erase the first version of the sentence.

“Izzie,” he said plaintively.

“Gawain is a girl. Who knows how to joust.

And makes her own armor. And who was kissing you just now.”

“All true,” she conceded.

“It’s a lot , I see that. Orson, you and I have known each other a long time, and—”

Once more he cut her off, holding up one hand, palm out.

“If you’re about to invoke Lady Shelham’s orchard, or the incident

with Emma’s scones, you stop right now. Covering for me when we were children does not even remotely begin to—” Finally mastering

himself, he squared his shoulders.

Isobelle’s heart—or possibly her stomach—did a jig of nervous anticipation.

Now they’d see where he was going to come down

on this.

“Why?” he asked Gwen, calm now.

“Is it because of this”—and a wave of his hand took in the pair of them—“this... kissing? Or did you start out with the armor and the insane idea that you could get away with impersonating a man, and tack on Isobelle as a bonus later? Just out of interest.”

“I have no interest in being a man,” Gwen replied, her conciliatory tone going out the window.

“What I want is to be a knight.”

“And the rest of it?” he demanded, turning on Isobelle.

“Don’t tell me you had to kiss her to get her to protect you from

Ralph, Isobelle. You’ve never needed to kiss anybody to get them to do what you want.”

“The rest of it was a surprise,” said Isobelle quietly, slipping her hand into Gwen’s and squeezing hard.

Gwen let out a slow breath, already recovering her temper.

“Sir Orson,” she tried.

“Please. If you care about Isobelle, please

wait a few days before you turn me in. If you do it now, they’ll let Sir Ralph back in for the next round of the tourney,

and then...”

“And then,” he agreed grimly, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I’m not going to tell anyone. You won

the match fair and square. And Isobelle is my oldest friend. I couldn’t—”

Isobelle threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck—which took a bit of a run-up and a jump—and squeezing tighter

than was good for him.

“Thank you,” she whispered fiercely, as he tried to unwrap her.

“Isobelle,” he murmured, patting her back gently when the unwrapping failed.

“This is improp...” He trailed away into helpless

laughter.

“That ship has sailed,” she agreed, though she let him go.

“And is far over the horizon, probably turned pirate and raiding the nearest village,” he muttered.

“But listen, both of you.

You’re going to get caught.”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” Isobelle said softly.

“But today, Gwen just defeated Sir Ralph.”

“That she did,” he agreed vehemently.

“And for that, Lady Knight, I salute you.”

“Thank you, Orson,” Gwen whispered.

But he simply shook his head and closed his eyes, as though he could unsee everything that had just happened.

And then he

turned away, pushing his way out through the tent flap and leaving them in silence.