“Well, firstly, literally none of the fun ballads are about anything believable,” Isobelle pointed out. “And secondly”—and here she lowered her voice, leaning in for a deliciously dramatic effect—“you thinkI’mthe one out of a ballad,Sir Gawain?”
Gwen’s eyes closed, and she allowed herself a long breath. “My lady,” she said, addressing her ale, rather than risking looking up at Isobelle. “Before you turn me in, you should know that’s as far as this was ever going to go. I wasn’t going to compete in the tourney proper. I just... I wanted to know that Icould.”
She did glance up then, and for a moment, her fear and her frustration were supplanted by a sort of wistfulness that made Isobelle catch her breath. Then it was gone, Gwen’s expression closed and shuttered again, that hope locked away.
“I’m finished,” Gwen said quietly. “No one will ever see Sir Gawain again.”
“What?” Isobelle was glad a round of screaming from the dance floor drowned out what could charitably be described as a squawk. “No, no, you can’t! You can’t stop now! You knocked Sir Evonwald right off his horse, it was magnificent!”
Gwen tried to stifle a laugh, then shook her head, making herself serious again. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not a noble. I’m a woman. I have an actual job to do.” She ticked the reasons off on her fingers one by one, and without thinking, Isobelle let herself reach out, closing her hand gently over Gwen’s and folding her fingers back down again.
For some reason, Gwen held still and let her do it.
“Youdohave a job to do,” Isobelle agreed. She knew she needed to infect Gwen with some of the wild hope that had lit up inside herown chest when she’d realized what she was watching in the jousting lists. That hope made something flutter behind her ribs, gave her prickles between her shoulder blades—made even Isobelle, for whom boldness was a way of life, sound uneven. The noise of the tavern probably covered that, too.
She had an inkling Gwen might be susceptible to that kind of hope. She might play at practicality, but no woman would masquerade as a knight in shining armor without a spark of romance and imagination in her soul.
“Your job is to keep knocking them flat.” Isobelle injected her voice with confidence. “With your helmet on and visor down, who’s ever going to guess you’re a woman? It won’t even occur to them. Sir Evonwald wasn’t a nobody, that was a proper win. And wasn’t it glorious?”
“You saw through me,” Gwen protested. “And when they do find out—I don’t even know what they’ll do to me, there’s no precedent. I know it’ll be bad.” But even as Isobelle searched for a reply, the corners of Gwen’s mouth flicked up, trying and failing to hide her smile. “It was pretty good, though, wasn’t it?”
“He landed square on his butt,” Isobelle crowed. “He’ll be waddling for weeks, and the ladies of the court thank you. He’s an absolute lech, anything that slows him down is a gift. But truly—unless you showed all the members of the court the engraving on your sword, then why would they notice?”
“I didn’t show it toyou,” Gwen protested. “You grabbed it. And they won’t need that kind of clue, not once they’re paying attention. Barely anyone was watching this time.”
“Even when people do watch, they don’tsee. Not if they aren’t expecting what’s there in front of their eyes.”
Gwen picked up her ale, cheeks pink, but then put it down again. “Why are you doing this?” she asked finally. Isobelle thought she saw a glimmer of something—a hint of that hope?—hidden behind her scowl. “Are you justboredbeing a lady, and want some kind of adventure?”
“No,” Isobelle replied firmly. Staring down the approach of her own doom was a lot of things, but she could honestly say that boring wasn’t one of them. “I just think it’s wonderful. Don’t you want to see how far you could go?”
Gwen didn’t answer. The urge to fill the silence tugged at Isobelle, and she made herself take a breath, let it out. She let her gaze trace the other girl’s features, breaking them down, centering herself as she made a list: the constellations of freckles across her strong nose and cheekbones. The line of her jaw. The strand of black hair that had escaped her braid and was curling in toward her lips like a beckoning finger.
“You’re the dragon sacrifice this year,” Gwen said eventually. “I heard the knights talking about it.”
Isobelle felt like a cold grip was squeezing her stomach. “Yes,” she said simply. “My dowry guarantees that whoever wins will most certainly claim my hand in marriage.”
“That’s such bullshit,” Gwen retorted, her good hand tightening into a fist. There was a cold fury in that gaze now, not nearly so shielded as before. “What if he’s an asshole?”
“That, unfortunately, is not a hypothetical,” Isobelle replied, swallowing down a wave of revulsion at the memory of Sir Ralph’s direct gaze after his effortless win. “Almost all the favorites are. So, can’t blame a girl for trying a wild scheme, can you?”
Gwen’s eyes were narrowed, but she seemed thoughtful, ratherthan dismissive. “What about the guy you were with at the market? Sir Awesome?”
“Orson’s not so bad,” Isobelle admitted with a rueful smile. “But we grew up together, and... he’s not interested in me. Or women in general. Or anyone, really. He’d still marry me, I suspect, for the dowry—his estate is pretty badly in debt, thanks to his late unlamented father’s unwise decisions.” She steadied herself with a breath. “The best of my bad options is a man who doesn’t want to marry me at all. And the most likely is a horrible excuse for a human, who can’t wait for the wedding night. Either way, whoever it is won’t love me in the least.”
Gwen was still watching her, her expression scarcely changing except for the barest flicker.
Isobelle thought it might be understanding, and she added quietly, “Is it such a reprehensible thing to want somethingmorethan the least terrible option? To choose my own fate instead of being parceled off to someone like property?”
She took a sip of her cocktail for good measure, then grimaced and set it down. “Can I try a sip of your ale? Maybe ordering on name alone was a bad idea.”
Gwen pushed her mug across, but her gaze was on Isobelle’s drink.
“Oh,” she said simply, a subtle shift taking over her features. Realization. “A white knight.”
Isobelle held her breath, barely daring to hope. Trying, with everything she had, not to let Gwen see the fear gripping her at the mere mention of the fate awaiting her if she didn’t find some way out of it.
“Like something out of a ballad,” she agreed softly. “Someonewho could win—who could take the treasure, the glory—butnottrap me in a marriage that’s loveless at best, and... worse, at worst.” She tried for a smile, though it felt watery. “I thought perhaps on Ladies’ Night I could find a lady’s knight, if you’ll forgive the terrible pun.”
