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Chapter Thirty-Eight I can show you a thing or two

Gwen slipped out of Isobelle’s suite the next morning as quietly as she could.

Jane had apparently passed out on one of the

chaise longues, and was snoring tiny, delicate snores.

Gwen suspected that Hilde and Sylvie had slept over too, but were in

Isobelle’s room with her.

Sylvie. Gwen’s stomach churned just thinking the girl’s name, much less remembering the remote, pale look on her face as she stared

Isobelle down while she delivered her news, each sentence slamming home for Isobelle like a direct hit from a lance.

Gwen

had never seen Isobelle look so suddenly stricken, not even when she’d gotten a glimpse of Gwen’s bruises after her joust

against Ralph.

A soft sound alerted Gwen to another presence in the room.

Olivia had returned from seeing the freed villagers to safety,

and sat by the window, re-feathering a pink-and-teal confection of a hat.

Her fingers moved automatically at their work, her

eyes on Gwen.

Gwen hesitated, raising her eyebrows.

Her instincts told her it would be wise not to let Sylvie see her here when she woke,

that Isobelle could better handle her friend’s despair about her fate if the instrument of that fate wasn’t sitting nearby,

wearing Sylvie’s modified dresses and eating cake.

But maybe her “instincts” were just telling her what would be easier for Gwen.

Olivia let Gwen hang there for some time, expression inscrutable.

Though she’d seemed pleased with Gwen’s abilities the night before, Olivia still gave off a faint air of disapproval, as if she knew what Isobelle and Gwen were trying to ignore: that this plan, all of it, was ultimately a fool’s game.

When Olivia finally spoke, her voice was barely audible, a practiced thing that carried far less than a whisper.

“The villagers

are safe,” she said, securing a neatly trimmed peacock plume to the hat with a careful half hitch.

Her needle glinted in the

morning sunlight.

Gwen eased closer, eyeing the sleeping Jane and lowering her voice.

“Where did you take them?”

Olivia’s eyes betrayed something, fleeting and easily missed—a gleam of amusement.

“Ellsdale.”

Gwen’s breath caught, and she frantically swallowed to try to stop herself from launching into a fit of noisy coughing.

“My

village? Why?”

Olivia’s needle dipped back into the fabric, circled the calamus of the peacock plume again, and pulled tight.

“I needed a

place that wasn’t too far for them to walk. And they seemed like nice people there. I felt certain they’d find places for

those women and their families.”

Gwen eyed her askance, confusion having supplanted her unease about Sylvie and her fate.

“You’ve been to my village?”

Olivia eyed her flatly.

“If you think I didn’t learn everything there was to learn about you the day you showed up here to

take part in my lady’s ridiculous plan, you’re a fool.” The needle dipped again calmly.

“Your father had things well in hand

when I left.”

Gwen tried to imagine her father having anything at all well in hand.

But Olivia had a way of speaking that brooked no opposition—even Isobelle responded to that note when Olivia employed it.

A muffled thump and rustle from behind Isobelle’s closed doors made both Olivia and Gwen glance toward them.

Olivia reacted

first, looking up at Gwen and tilting her head.

“I believe you were sneaking out to avoid the aftermath, yes? Might want to

see that through.”

Gwen shot her a grateful look and slipped out.

The morning had dawned clear, with the faintest of crisp tangs in the air that warned of the turning of the seasons.

The sun

would banish that warning within the hour, but Gwen inhaled deeply as she walked across the courtyard toward the stables,

allowing her mind to summon the smells of fallen leaves and apples, of long-roasted meats and winter stews.

They were the smells of her village in autumn.

Would Gwen be there this year to enjoy them?

Gwen’s throat tightened and her stomach roiled.

Each time she pushed those thoughts away, each time she made herself focus

on the final tomorrow instead of what would come after, the fear gripped her all the harder next time.

The tangle of thoughts

was like a flaw in a blade; she could hammer it smooth through sheer brute force as many times as she wanted, but the fault

was still there, and once she finished the forging, the metal would shatter when it cooled.

And now, she had one more thread to add to the awful tangle of worry and confusion.

She couldn’t have known it would happen,

but the simple truth was that her involvement in this scheme had ruined Sylvie’s life.

Achilles greeted her with cheerful enthusiasm, snuffling at her clothes as she saddled him, searching for treats she hadn’t brought.

She belted her sword to the saddle, swung a leg over—it was early enough no one would be around to see “Lady Céline” riding astride—and galloped away toward the practice fields.

Gwen was so lost in her thoughts—or rather, in trying to push them away—that she didn’t notice someone had beaten her to her

destination.

“I see you deal with your nerves through action, too,” called Sir Orson as he strode toward her, sheathing his sword and offering

Gwen a wave.

“You know, Isobelle just eats hers. Sometimes I wonder if that isn’t the smarter thing.”

Gwen blinked down at him in confusion.

“Nerves?”

Sir Orson raised one blond eyebrow.

“It’s just us, you can admit you’re worried about the final, too. C’mon, join me. It’ll

be a better workout with both of us.”

Gwen dismounted.

“Why are you so worried? It’s not like you want to marry Isobelle.”

Orson watched Gwen as she unbuckled her sheath from Achilles’s saddle and belted it around her waist. “So weird to see you

wearing that in a dress,” he muttered, brow furrowing.

“Hmm? Oh—well, no. I’ll do my best to make her happy, but I admit it’s

not just the chance to marry the dragon sacrifice. There’s all the gold, for one thing. That money would go a long way on

an estate like mine. I’m not rich like Isobelle. It would solve... many problems.” His gaze was lowered, thoughtful.

Then

he looked up with a grin.

“And reputation is important for a knight, you know.”

For a real knight, anyway.

He didn’t say it—he was too congenial, offering Gwen a sheepish smile and shrugging.

But Gwen could hear the words ringing

in her ears.

Orson’s smile faded.

“You okay?”

“Isobelle’s friend Sylvie is to marry Sir Ralph,” Gwen found herself saying before she could think to stop herself.

“I can’t

get it out of my head. Sylvie’s never been my biggest fan, but no woman deserves a man like that. And it could have been Isobelle.

It will be Isobelle, eventually.”

Orson was quiet, Gwen’s heartbeats stretching into the quiet—and, miraculously, slowing gradually.

Just speaking about it

made the weight of the news easier to bear.

“It wasn’t Isobelle this time,” Orson said finally, and then added with a shudder, “and if I win, I’ll be nothing like Ralph.

I wouldn’t mind if you...” He hesitated, glancing at Gwen and then reaching up to pat Achilles experimentally on the neck.

“You know. If you wanted to visit her now and then. So long as you were discreet.”

Gwen bit back her reply—that Isobelle no more wanted to wind up with Sir Awesome than she did Sir Ralph.

Maybe it was the

best solution in a sea of grim outcomes, even if it did consign Gwen to being nothing more than a well-kept secret, sneaking

in and out of Isobelle’s life whenever no one was around to see.

It wasn’t as if Gwen could offer her anything more, even

if she won the tournament, even if she showed the world who she was, even if they accepted her skill.

...

Could she?

Orson, unaware of Gwen’s roiling thoughts, patted Achilles one more time and then broke the silence.

“Come on, let’s have

a round.” He strode away from Gwen’s horse, who had dipped his head to lip at the ground experimentally.

The morning sun swept low across the canopy bordering the field, casting each dip and rise in the branches in stark relief.

The long, swaying grasses reached to Gwen’s thigh, their elongated shadows bobbing and dancing in the slight breeze, providing a whispering backdrop to the thudding and crunching of Orson’s footsteps.

Gwen drew her sword automatically when Orson turned and drew his—he gave his a few swings, and Gwen could see he held it well,

his grip confident and movements well practiced.

Orson glanced at her and nodded encouragement.

“You haven’t had to use that yet in the tournament, have you?” He grinned.

“I can show you a thing or two if you want. Just so if our match comes down to swordplay in the end, you’ll... well, you’ll

look like you know what you’re doing.”

Gwen felt a tiny smile curve her lips, the ridiculousness of the situation momentarily supplanting the press of worries crowded

inside her mind.

Here she was, about to have a friendly bout with the man she’d be facing in deadly combat tomorrow, as he

nobly offered to give her tips on swordplay.

Gwen flashed him a sweet little smile, letting her eyelashes lower demurely, and absently wondered if the guy would recognize

Isobelle’s very look reflected in Gwen’s features.

“I’m ready. Bring it, Awesome.”

Orson shrugged, bounced on the balls of his feet, and then lifted his blade for a slow, experimental swing.

Gwen easily knocked

it aside.

Orson tried another attack, still ginger, with so little of his weight behind the swing that when Gwen stepped neatly

out of the way, he didn’t even stagger.

Orson laughed. “All right, all right. For real this time.”

Gwen shifted her grip on the hilt.

“As you wish.”

He met her attack with an automatic parry, his eyes widening in surprise—he stepped back, turned, swung.

Gwen parried, sidestepped, pressed in harder.

The clanging of blades punctuated the soft susurration of the grasses, along with Awesome’s increasingly loud grunts of effort and panting breaths.

He staggered back from one particularly well-placed blow, buying enough space for him to meet Gwen’s eyes, his own flashing

with shock, and something else, moving so quickly Gwen wasn’t sure she’d seen it.

Anger?

Gwen felt a prickling along the back of her neck as she politely waited for him to recover his balance.

It was a sense that

had sharpened over these last weeks with Isobelle, dodging discovery and facing down well-armed knights every few days—a sense

that warned her of the nearness of danger.

Instinct flung up a solution into her mind.

She could pretend to lose.

Now, before Orson realized what Gwen had known from

Orson’s first swing of the sword: that she could beat him.

When she was a child, she’d fenced once with one of the boys in

the village.

After she’d knocked him flat, he stopped speaking to her.

They had been thick as thieves, and after that day,

his eyes slid past her as if she were no more substantial than smoke.

That had been nearly ten years ago, and still, the most

acknowledgment he ever offered was a distant nod when his wife stopped to chat with Gwen in the square.

If she just pretended to lose to Orson here, now, then all would be well for a little bit longer.

I am so goddamned tired of pretending.

The thought blazed through Gwen’s mind as Orson came at her again.

All her thoughts fled, and she abandoned caution, losing herself in the rhythm of attack and counterattack, the notes of Isobelle playing at the organ echoing in her head as her feet danced through the long grass.

Another lunge, a parry, a twist of her arm.

.. and Orson’s sword thudded heavily into the dirt a few feet away, followed

not much later by Orson himself, staggering backward with too much momentum to avoid crashing to the ground with a thud and

a whoop of expelled breath.

Gwen’s heart pounded so loudly she barely heard the scrape of her sword as she slid it back into its sheath.

She took a few

steps toward Orson, who sat like a crab with his hands braced behind him and his bent knees slightly akimbo, blinking up at

her.

She saw that flash again, searing and unlikely on Orson’s friendly face.

Her heart sank, but she held out her hand anyway

in a silent offer to help him up.

Orson stared at her a moment longer—and then he burst out laughing, running one hand through his sweaty, disheveled hair and

then clapping the other against Gwen’s palm.

“Well, damn,” he said cheerfully, eyes dancing.

“I guess I’d better hope I knock

you off your horse tomorrow, huh?”

Relief washed through Gwen like a gust of fresh air after a lifetime of being stuck underground.

“Want me to show you a few things?” she offered with a grin as she hauled him to his feet.

Orson rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went off to locate his sword in the tall grass.

“Give me a sec to catch my breath,

and then we’re going again.”