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Chapter Forty-Three Someone get this hysterical girl out of here!

An eerie chill had taken over Isobelle’s body.

She wanted to scream, and cry, and fight off Olivia’s iron grip to go running

after Gwen, but the part of her that had taken control knew she didn’t have a moment to waste—that to scream would be an indulgence

she couldn’t afford.

The huge beast took a long, leisurely pass down the length of the jousting field, sending the crowd below darting this way

and that like a frightened school of fish.

It was playing with them.

“Fight it,” Isobelle shouted to Lord Whimsitt, who was like a statue, staring up at the great beast. “Why are you just standing

there?”

He whirled around to gape at her, eyes bulging.

“It’s a dragon , you stupid girl!”

“And this place is full of knights!” she shot back.

“This is the Tournament of Dragonslayers ! What were they competing for, if not the chance to do this?”

He stared at her, and she stared back, steel in her gaze.

They both knew the answer: the knights had never volunteered for

something so dangerous.

All the dragons had been presumed dead long before these knights were born—not one of them had signed

up to face one down.

“This is the Tournament of Dragonslayers.” It was Sir Ralph, standing in the adjoining box among the other nobles scrambling for cover.

“And our prize is named for what the dragon really wants—what the dragon used to be given, in times gone by.” He found his

feet and raised one hand to point directly at Isobelle.

“The dragon sacrifice.”

“I’m sorry, WHAT ?” Isobelle shrieked, giving up on all her resolutions about not screaming.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“The beast must be ancient to be so large,” Sir Ralph shouted over the noise of the crowd.

“Ancient and far too dangerous

to take head on. But if we give it what it wants...”

Olivia finally let go of Isobelle, moving to push past her, and now it was Isobelle’s turn to grab her maid by the arm.

The

last thing she needed was Olivia in jail too, and that was what would happen if she got anywhere near Sir Ralph.

“Sir Ralph,” Isobelle gritted out, eyes narrowed, spine straight, skewering the man in place with her gaze.

“If you think

for one moment I’m going to let you—”

“Someone get this hysterical girl out of here,” Lord Whimsitt demanded.

He wasn’t siding with Sir Ralph—but Isobelle noted he wasn’t naysaying him, either.

“Isobelle,” Olivia said quietly in her ear, composed once more.

“Let’s go now.”

The words were like cold water flowing through her veins, washing away all the fire that had held her upright.

Olivia was

right. They had Gwen.

There was a dragon in the skies.

The town below was on fire.

Everything was horribly, disastrously wrong,

and she had no idea what to do next.

This was always how it was going to end.

They had been careening toward catastrophe for weeks, and now it was here.

And Isobelle’s world was going up in flames.

After several hours—or perhaps an eternity, who was she to say—Isobelle lay on Gwen’s bed, crying.

Olivia had shoved her into

Jane’s and Hilde’s hands with orders to get her back to the suite, and then vanished.

When she returned from her mysterious

errand, pink-cheeked and smelling somewhat of horse, she’d taken one look at Isobelle sobbing on the bed and then started

packing.

Isobelle could not summon enough interest to ask Olivia where she’d been.

The wind had gone out of Isobelle’s sails, the fire

had gone out of her veins, and the unshakable certainty that had carried Isobelle through life so far was in ashes.

Gwen was locked up below the castle.

Olivia had heard from the servants’ gossip channels that the dragon had flown away out

of sight, and most of the castle’s forces were focused on fighting the fires in the town below.

“There’s no point in packing,” Isobelle called to Olivia, hugging the pillow harder.

It smelled like whatever Gwen used to

wash her hair, and a little just like Gwen.

A warm smell that was part leather, part Achilles, and part linen.

Isobelle had

always liked it, and now she breathed it in again, wrapping it around her heart.

“No?” Olivia called back, visible through the doorway as she carefully pushed a set of knives into pockets on a long strip

of canvas, and then rolled the whole thing up to shove it in a bag.

“No. I’m not going anywhere.”

Olivia looked up from her work, let out a sigh, and walked across to brace her hands against the doorframe.

“And what’s your plan, my lady?”

“I’m going to lie here until I grow moss,” Isobelle replied, allowing herself a sniffle.

“Is that what Gwen would tell you to do?” Olivia asked, raising one eyebrow.

Isobelle buried her face in the pillow, muffling a genuine sob, and most of her words.

“No. She’d tell me to run. But she’d

be wrong.” Another sob pushed its way up from her gut, shaking her body.

“That’s what I told her, last night. That she was

wrong .”

“Isobelle,” Olivia said, clearly reaching for patience.

“My job is to keep you safe. And once those men have put out the fires

and had time to think, they’re going to work out that you knew what Gwen was doing. That you were wrapped up in all this,

handing Gawain your favor in front of everyone. This is going to go badly. I hammered those rings outside the balcony for

a reason, and this was it. You and I are going to head down that rope with our emergency supplies. I’ll have you in Londonne

by tomorrow morning, and on a boat to Europe by tomorrow night.”

“You’ll have to drag me,” Isobelle shot back.

“We both know I can, if that’s what it takes. Listen, I’m only mostly sure they’re not going to stake you out for a dragon to take you. That the conversation even took place tells me we’re done

here.”

Isobelle squeezed her eyes shut.

The same image of Gwen kept welling up in her mind—blood trickling down her face, pale beneath

her freckles, green eyes fixed on Isobelle.

I’m sorry , she’d mouthed.

Sobs took over again.

She couldn’t— wouldn’t —leave.

She had to tell Gwen that she was the one who was sorry.

But Gwen was under guard, and nobody was taking another drugged custard tart, and her head was

throbbing, the urgent beat of her heart drumming through it as her thoughts ran in circles.

But... wait. The loud pounding was someone thumping at the door.

Isobelle lifted her tearstained face.

Olivia shot her a look warning her to stay put, then threw open the door to reveal.

..

Sylvie.

“I’ve just heard,” Sylvie said by way of greeting, heaving for breath as though she’d been running.

“I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to go out and find you,” Olivia said, stepping out of her way and tilting her head

to send Sylvie through to Isobelle’s—or rather Gwen’s—room.

“I’ve been trying to provoke her into doing something—see if you

have better luck.”

Isobelle gazed up at her as she filled the doorway.

“Where were you?” she whispered, hoarse.

“You didn’t show up to the final.”

“I was—never mind.” Sylvie squinted at her, then strode over to throw open the curtains.

“What are you doing just lying there,

hugging Céline’s—Gwen’s—pillow? Isobelle, what’s wrong with you?”

But when Sylvie dismissed the question about where she had been, Isobelle felt a horrible certainty click into place.

There

was always a reason that Sylvie was anywhere, and she hadn’t been at the joust.

“You told,” she gasped, sitting up straight.

“What?” Sylvie took a step back.

“You told them about Gwen,” Isobelle whispered, horror creeping over her.

“Because if Gwen hadn’t ridden, Sir Ralph would have made it through, and you never would have— I know you blame her. And me.”

Sylvie stood perfectly still, her expression made of stone.

When she spoke, she shaped each word carefully, as though if she

didn’t, one of them might drop to the floor and shatter.

“Isobelle, you are an idiot in love—it would be obvious even if you

hadn’t told us, you should have kept a straighter face around her if you didn’t want to give it away—so I’m going to pretend

you didn’t just accuse me of betraying our friendship.”

Isobelle had to remember to draw in a breath, her chest so tight she thought the air wouldn’t come.

Then with a hiccup and

a sniffle, she managed it.

“You didn’t?”

“I would never ,” Sylvie replied, her voice rising as she continued.

“Listen, if I’d had the right gossip to destroy her when I thought she

was lying to you about who she was, perhaps I would have done it to keep her from hurting you. But I would never—not for anything—betray

her to them .”

Her words echoed between the pair of them, and Isobelle felt them settle into her bones with the weight of truth, followed

by a hot flush of shame—her own guilt had planted the idea that Sylvie had betrayed them.

“I don’t know how Whimsitt found out, but Ralph told me this morning, just to watch my face when I realized what it meant.”

Sylvie lifted a hand to brush her hair out of her eyes, and Isobelle saw her nails were torn, her fingertips bloodied.

“And

then he locked me in my room, to keep me from you. I tried to fight my way out. I tried to warn you.”

“Sylvie!” Isobelle threw aside the pillow, scrambling across the bed.

“I’m sorry, I should have known. You deserve so much

better than for me to think...”

“I do deserve better,” Sylvie agreed, taking a step back in alarm as she realized there was a very real prospect of a hug unless she took evasive action.

“But we have far bigger issues. They’re all going to be shouting at each other and putting out fires for a while yet, so we have time to think. Let’s do that very carefully and get this right.”

“Get what right?”

Sylvie blinked at her.

“Rescuing Gwen, of course.”