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Chapter Eight Just put her there

Isobelle buried Orson in icy silence the entire way back to the castle.

She let him lead her, too busy with her own whirl

of thoughts, the absolute injustice of Jinna’s fate jostling side by side with that last, burning look she’d exchanged with

Gwen.

So busy, in fact, that she didn’t realize where they were headed until they were a few paces from the door.

She stiffened. “I thought you wanted to get me back before he found out I was gone.”

Orson reached for the latch on the door.

“He knows. I had to get you back before anyone else noticed and he couldn’t pretend ignorance. Izzie, we’re not kids anymore. You...” Orson’s handsome features were uncharacteristically

solemn and grim.

“You’ve got to start taking these things more seriously. There are consequences.”

And with that, he opened the door and led her through.

Lord Whimsitt stood at the window, silhouetted by the light of the broad fireplace behind him.

He looked up as they entered

and nodded.

“Thank you, Sir Orson. Just put her there—you may go.”

Isobelle fought a flash of indignation as Orson deposited her in a chair, bowed, and left.

“I’m not some bag of laundry you

can just have placed somewhere,” she protested.

Whimsitt had returned his gaze to the window, but his hands, folded behind his back, whitened at the knuckles.

“Explain yourself,” he said, ignoring her protest. “Why did you sneak out of the castle tonight?”

“To go out.” Isobelle swallowed and lifted her chin.

“To meet some friends. Why should that matter to you?”

“Because you are my responsibility!” snapped Whimsitt, finally turning from the window, his face reddening with irritation.

“Because you continue to act as though your conduct has no impact on those around you. I thought time would mellow your childish

disobedience, or your parents would return to manage your discipline, but as I am still your guardian, I am still the one

to decide what you do and where you go.”

Isobelle hadn’t had a moment to relocate her equilibrium since the guards had burst into the Siren’s Sting.

Now she searched

for that easy, charming veneer of calm she’d learned to cultivate.

“I know, my lord.” She lowered her chin and gazed up at

him through her eyelashes.

“I was only—”

“Isobelle, you will be wed in a few months’ time to the winner of the tournament.” The words hit Isobelle like a body blow,

cutting her off and leaving her without breath to reply.

Whimsitt continued, “I thought you would understand how your situation

has changed when I informed you of my decision to announce you as the dragon sacrifice—clearly, I must spell it out for you.”

“My lord—”

He moved toward her, half a step too far into her space, eyes boring into hers.

“Your conduct must be above reproach. Your virtue without question. Your obedience...” He sucked in a breath through his nose.

“Your obedience immediate. Whichever man is to be your husband, I guarantee he will not be so lenient nor negligent as I. Nor as forgiving in his method of discipline.”

Isobelle felt her veneer of charming calm drift away in tatters, an icy chill sliding slowly down her spine.

“My lord, if

my conduct is so objectionable to you, perhaps I’m not the right choice as the prize for this tournament. Maybe the treasure

alone, even if it came from my own dowry, would be—”

“Enough!” Whimsitt ran a hand over his head, sans hat for once.

“Enough, Isobelle. The decision is made, your name announced.

And as of tonight, you will not leave the castle grounds unaccompanied, and then only to show your face at the tournament

as expected. Do I make myself clear?”

Isobelle stared at him, feeling the floor drop out from under her.

“You’re—you’re grounding me?”

His face was thunderous, her protest budging him not an inch.

“I have let you run wild and indulged your girlish whims for

far too long—this is the answer for us both. I will do whatever I must to keep you safe until the tournament is won, and you

are wed. You will learn obedience—and I will have discharged my duties as your guardian.”

And I’ll be someone else’s problem , thought Isobelle.

That was what he really meant.

“My lord,” she said, trying one last time to dull the edge of his outrage.

“I’m sorry for angering you—I never meant to show

you any disrespect. I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me.”

Whimsitt’s face softened a touch.

“I know, child. Go, get some rest. Let us put all this foolishness behind us and look ahead

to the delights of the tournament.”

Isobelle understood the dismissal for what it was—and noted he had not rescinded his ultimatum.

She felt herself drop into a curtsy, seemed to watch from a distance as she left his quarters and made her way back toward her own.

She should have known better than to try again to talk him out of his decision to give her away to whichever knight managed

to stay on his horse the longest. He was a petty, ineffectual man, but unreasonably attached to his declarations once they

were made.

She needed a different sort of plan.

In her mind’s eye she replayed that last, glorious instant when Gwen’s eyes had met hers across the chaos unfolding in the

tavern.

Isobelle hadn’t spoken or called out, but somehow Gwen had seen her, heard her.

Had Isobelle only imagined the resolve

in the other girl’s face as she nodded?

She’ll come , she told herself firmly. She has to.