Page 44

Chapter Thirty-Nine If I taught you to dream, then I was wrong

Isobelle pressed a coin into the man’s hand, unleashing the full force of her blue eyes.

“Remember,” she said.

“I’m relying

on you.”

“We won’t fail you, my lady,” he assured her.

Then he turned away to lift his fiddle and tuck it under his chin, launching

into another tune that set the dance floor swirling.

Under any other circumstances, Isobelle would have been buzzing about the ball for weeks in advance, planning her gown and

accessories, discussing dancing and partnering strategy with the girls, and perhaps, just perhaps , allowing herself the tiniest little fantasy about some dashing, mysterious stranger showing up to sweep her off her feet.

Instead, she had found herself that evening looking blankly at a crimson dress Olivia had picked out for her, trying to summon

some enthusiasm for something so frivolous as a dance, when her mind was on Gwen, on Sylvie, on the fate awaiting Isobelle

herself, if—when—all their plans unraveled.

Now she found herself bribing the musicians to play the one song she knew where women partnered each other for sections of

the dance, so that she could look Gwen in the eye for just a moment.

She paused at the edge of the dance floor, letting her gaze sweep over the room with practiced ease, absorbing the social intricacies of the scene before her without conscious effort.

There was Jane, chatting in a corner with a boy who looked suspiciously like the squire she fancied.

She’d stuffed him into

noble’s clothes, and he was somewhere between thrilled and terrified, his eyes huge.

Once upon a time, Isobelle would have laughed with delight at the deception.

Now, it made something knot with anger inside

her.

Why shouldn’t the two of them be together?

Why should the boy have to hide himself, just because he wasn’t born to the

right parents?

Why shouldn’t Jane be allowed to choose him if she wanted?

Next she found Sylvie.

Her friend looked like a perfect glass figurine, whirling around the dance floor in Sir Ralph’s possessive

arms. Sylvie’s form was flawless, but her gaze distant, as though she was barely aware he was touching her at all.

I’m sorry, Sylvie. I should have seen it coming.

It had been unbearable, the night before, when Sylvie had finally wept.

It had felt impossible to be the cause of her pain

and somehow try to comfort her.

Clever, sharp-tongued Sylvie had always been her most dangerous friend, but also her dearest.

Sylvie’s gaze was tracking something, and when Isobelle turned her head slightly, she saw that Sylvie was watching Gwen.

Gwen had found herself dancing with Sir Makarios of Rhodes, the man who had laughed and congratulated Sir Gawain for defeating

him.

He laughed again now as Gwen said something to entertain him.

And when Gwen smiled, Sylvie’s expression flickered in

something akin to a flinch.

Olivia had outdone herself with Gwen’s gown—it gathered in at her trim waist, using fabric in a warm gold that brought out the same shade in her green eyes.

It seemed to fold around her body as though she were emerging from a bright, golden flame, accentuating the high neckline necessary to hide her bruises.

The underskirts had been thinned out so Gwen could move as she preferred, and Olivia had even got her to sit still long enough to carefully paint shimmering gold around her eyes, giving her the look of a magical creature who’d wandered into Lord Whimsitt’s ball.

Gwen was beautiful , and smiling at Sir Makarios as he peppered her with questions and comments about Sir Gawain, but Isobelle could see the

strain in her face.

She was the one who had bested him.

The compliments on his lips were for her , not her imaginary brother.

But Gwen would never—could never—see that admiration directed at her.

All around her, Isobelle’s gaze took in the same story, over and over.

Jane, Sylvie, Gwen, and Isobelle herself, all trapped in different cells of the same jail, with the men of the court holding

the keys.

The musicians drew to a close with a flourish, and her heart leapt as she stepped forward—it was time to claim Gwen, time

to take her hand, even if only for a few seconds, and—

“May I have the honor?”

Orson took her arm gently, and she nearly threw him off, nearly whirled away, her breath catching with the effort of it as

she restrained herself to a single twitch.

“Izzie?” His eyes widened, his hand falling away.

“Are you...?”

“Orson, I’m sorry.” She made her mouth smile, made her eyes focus on him.

“It’s the saltarello,” he pointed out cautiously.

“Very few opportunities for me to step on your toes.”

The musicians’ notes rose above the sound of the crowd, and with them came the sinking realization that this wasn’t the song she’d asked for.

No Gwen, not yet.

Raise your hand , she coached herself.

Put it in his .

Scream , said another voice inside her head.

Fight your jailers. Set something on fire.

She raised her hand and placed it in Orson’s, and he led her out to join the dancers.

“Tomorrow,” she said, and though it was only one word, there were whole ballads in it, questions and answers, hopes and fears.

“I don’t know,” he replied, understanding as easily as he’d spotted her twitch.

He’d had years of practice.

“None of us knows

what will happen, Izzie.”

“If it’s Gwen,” she said, her fingers tightening around his—why were her hands so cold?

—“what will we do? How will we ever

get them to accept...”

Her?

That a girl dared step outside the cage they’ve made for her, and.

.. The words wanted to push their way up her throat, to spill out, and so she almost missed the flicker in her old friend’s gaze:

something very like hurt.

“Orson, you know you have as good a chance,” she began.

“Better, even. I’m just saying—”

“Izzie.” He cut her off with a look, and she fell silent, holding still as he danced a circle around her, each of the women

on the floor pinned in place as the men moved.

Orson didn’t speak again until they’d joined hands once more.

“I don’t think

we can,” he said quietly.

“I don’t think there’s a way anyone will accept... You need to be ready for that.”

The buzz of thoughts in her head was rising to a roar, her dress was suddenly too tight, squeezing the breath from her.

You accepted her , she wanted to scream.

Why can’t you make anyone else do it?

When the music stopped, she stumbled from him without a word, propping up against a table at the edge of the room where drinks

were being served.

“That’s what I heard,” the man beside her was saying as she closed her cold hand around a flagon.

“Vanished right out of their

cell, lock still intact. Makes the sentencing easy, though.”

“They’ll have to catch them first,” another pointed out.

“Please. Bunch of housewives on the run? Castle guard’ll have them back here in no time. And there’s always a slump after

something big’s over, like the tourney. Some executions will pick the mood up.”

The women from Aberfarthing.

And come tomorrow, Gwen might face the same fate.

From somewhere nearby came Lord Whimsitt’s laugh, and she spun around to search for him.

He was the one who would hold Gwen’s

life in his hands tomorrow.

He was the one who would see who she really was, and have a choice to make.

Isobelle had to say something, she had to do something.

But her mind was blank.

Always, she had thrown herself into a conversation, trusting that the right words would

come.

But now she couldn’t make herself take even a step toward him.

Couldn’t begin to form the first sentence.

What she was

up against was simply too great.

For the first time in her life, she was speechless.

There was nothing she could do, except watch tomorrow bear down on her like a knight with a lance.

No words were coming.

No grand idea arriving.

Gazing at Whimsitt’s smug, satisfied face across the ballroom, Isobelle knew this was a man who would accept nothing less than absolute control.

He held the key to her cell, and he would never let her out.

Tomorrow, he would discover Gwen belonged in one, too.

And when

he did, he wouldn’t simply lock her up.

He would have her killed.

Those were the stakes they were playing for.

She felt trapped inside a nightmare—everyone around her laughing and dancing and gossiping, and not a single one of them hearing

her scream.

Every noise around her was too loud, every light too bright.

All this time, she had thought she and the other ladies were

like brightly colored birds, flitting about a beautiful aviary together, not locked in, but rather gorgeously on show.

The

envy of all.

Now, the gilded edges of the windows, the broad beams across the ceiling, resembled nothing so much as the bars of a cage.

All the bright colors were only to distract her from the fact that she was trapped in here, beating her wings helplessly,

with no hope of escape.

Tomorrow , whispered Isobelle’s heart.

Tomorrow the world ends.

And there is nothing you can do to stop it.

And as the musicians struck up the song she’d requested, she turned to find Gwen there in her magical dress, the gold around

her lashes glittering like the bars of their cage.

To her horror, Isobelle saw her vision flood with tears.

Gwen’s eyes widened, but before she could speak, Isobelle turned

and fled.

For once not caring if anyone saw her break, she didn’t stop until she’d pushed behind the musicians’ dais and burst

through the thick curtains blocking off the balcony.

The cool night air greeted her, the rowdy noise of the ball muted by the thick curtains, and she gripped the railing of the balcony, leaning out over it as far as she could.

She dragged in a slow breath, making herself focus on the moonlit land below.

The dark outlines of the grandstands around the lists were visible, and beyond them the hills extending all the way to the woods.

“Isobelle?”

Isobelle squawked and nearly fell over the balcony railing—then Gwen’s arms were around her, pulling her back.

She turned

into that warm embrace, and she let herself sob all over Gwen’s beautiful dress, clinging to the other girl as though she

might still fall at any moment.

“Isobelle,” Gwen repeated, more softly.

Comfort, now—no longer a question.

“I can’t do it,” Isobelle finally let herself whisper.

“I can’t do it tomorrow.”

“Time won’t stop because we want it to,” Gwen murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Isobelle leaned back enough to look up at her, and she couldn’t stop the words spilling out.

“We can’t stop time. But we could

get more of it.”

“What?” Gwen frowned.

“You mean reschedule the joust? I don’t think...”

“No!” Wild hope was flickering to life inside Isobelle, jumping from one part of her brain to another, like a fire coming

to life and sending sparks to each new piece of kindling.

“We can get more time, Gwen. All we have to do is take it. We could go. We could run. Olivia could make it happen, you know she could.

We could go tonight.”

“What?” Gwen drew back to stare at her.

“Run? Where?”

“Anywhere! I don’t care where it is, as long as we’re both there.”

But Gwen was shaking her head, and icy rain was starting to patter down on Isobelle’s wild flame of hope.

“Isobelle, I...

I can’t just run away .”

“Yes, you can!” She found Gwen’s hands, took hold of them, squeezed them to try to make her see.

“Why would you stay here?”

“To fight!” Gwen shot back.

“To win. To earn your freedom, and prove myself. That was always the plan, that was why we did

all of this. I can do it, Isobelle—I can win this thing.”

“I don’t doubt it. But then what?” Isobelle pressed.

“ After you win?”

“We’ll deal with that when we get there,” Gwen said quietly.

“I can’t keep pretending I’m something other than who I am. Once

they see me win, once they see who I am—”

“You’re dreaming, Gwen,” Isobelle snapped.

“You must know that. When you win, they’ll force you to show your face. And when

they see you’re not a man, they’ll kill you for it. That’s what will happen.”

“But maybe not!” Gwen protested.

“They’ll have seen what I can do—what we can do, working together. Maybe... maybe ...” Gwen faltered, reaching for something impossible and failing to find it.

Frustrated, she blurted, “Why bring me here,

do all this, only to give up? This isn’t just your dream, Isobelle—it’s mine now, too. And I think it always was mine, you just showed me how to let myself want it.”

“I was wrong.” And though she tried to stop them, Isobelle’s tears began to fall all over again as despair washed over her.

“If I taught you to dream, then I was wrong.”