Darkhaven’s only real source of wealth is a gold mine that hadn’t been used in centuries for the superstitious fear of waking that which ought to be left alone. Until a great man named Whimsitt had a dream.
The lord of Darkhaven is, in fact, ahead of his time. Doing away with silly old superstitions and campaigning tirelessly to bring fame and fortune into his land, even devising a way to offer the largest prize pot in tournament history by tapping into his ward’s dowry.
Even now, the whole world is descending on Darkhaven. And Whimsitt would much rather be rushing around, muttering aboutinfrastructure, than dealing with a spoiled, willful teenaged girl with more money than sense.
He never asked to be her guardian. He was, in actuality, a saint for agreeing with the king’s order to watch over Avington’s only child.
Someday they will write about him in the history texts as a great leader, daring to defy custom and usher in a modern, enlightened age. A man universally loved by the little people and admired by his peers.
Respected by all.
I ought to pause here and ask you, reader: Are you familiar with the term “unreliable narrator”?
Chapter Nine
Don’t try to fight it, you’ll only hurt yourself
By the time the sun cleared the horizon the next day, Gwen was waiting in the shade of an oak tree outside the castle walls, holding Achilles’s reins somewhat more tightly than she needed to. The stallion was far more at ease than she felt—he stood calmly, head swinging occasionally to track a passerby, whereas Gwen was fighting the urge to fidget wildly. She needed to vent the buildup of nervous energy buzzing through her body, but she was all too aware she had to avoid drawing attention.
There were so many risks and logic holes in Isobelle’s plan that Gwen couldn’t bear to look at them all head on for fear she’d talk herself out of the whole thing, so she’d settled for focusing on the challenges directly in front of her. Today, she had to slip into the castle unnoticed so Isobelle could transform her into Sir Gawain’s sister without anyone making the connection between that fictitious lady and the somewhat hollow-eyed and hungover blacksmith’s daughter standing outside the gate.
Somewhere ahead of her lay challenges like “somehow look like a lady” and “don’t fall off my horse while men twice my size try to knock me off with sticks,” but she decided not to think about that.
Gwen was good at not thinking about things.
She’d very nearly not come at all this morning, trying toconvince herself that the night before had been a dream. Or some drunken fantasy. That Isobelle herself, flighty and flirty and so expert at hiding what was going on behind her smile that it often seemednothingwas going on there, would forget the scheme she’d proposed. Or that she’d rethink the wisdom of the idea after seeing what had happened to Jinna.
The woman’s arrest had certainly shaken Gwen. Fear and anger both had kept her tossing and turning most of the night. But something had made her dress and saddle Achilles and ride out into the still morning air. Gwen had spent every step of the journey to the castle trying not to think about the sheer insanity of what she was doing.
Too late to turn back, now she was here.
Or was it?
A trio of young men, attired like vendors or performers here for the festival, emerged from the castle gates and began making their way down toward the chaos of the festival grounds. One of them, a curly-haired, dark-eyed beauty, glanced at Gwen and flashed her a charming smile.
She stared at him blankly, her mind so preoccupied with planning for contingencies that she couldn’t so much as nod.
The charming smile faltered, then vanished as the guy hurried his steps. No doubt counting his blessings that he hadn’t struck up a conversation with the weird girl clutching a horse’s reins like she might fall down without them.
Somewhere to her left, someone cleared their throat.
Gwen jumped, glancing back to find a young woman standing there watching her with one eyebrow slightly raised. Gwen recognized her as the lady’s maid who had accompanied Isobelle the firstday they met—the one who had not so subtly encouraged Gwen to inflate her prices because her lady could afford it.
Though she hadn’t exactly been warm and friendly that day, her demeanor had been positively genial compared to the icy stare directed at Gwen now.
“What the— You came out of nowhere,” Gwen blurted, shifting her grip on Achilles’s reins. The horse dropped his head over her shoulder, eyeing the new arrival that his mistress found so terrifying.
The lady’s maid didn’t so much as smile. “I get that a lot.” Her gaze swiveled over toward the horse. “He’s a massive one, isn’t he?”
“What?” Gwen’s heart was still hammering. She glanced at her horse, who was tossing his head coquettishly, showing off the stubborn cowlick that gave his mane the look of a crested Greek helmet. “Oh—yeah, this is Achilles. He, uh, comes from good stock.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” The woman’s tone made it effortlessly clear Gwen’s own stock was rather wanting.
“You’re Olivia, right?” Gwen reached for something friendly, uncertain as to the source of the maid’s clear animosity.
“And you’re the girl my lady’s decided to play with for the next month. She is confined to the castle after last night’s fiasco, so she sent me to fetch you. Come along, I’ve found a place to stable your horse that won’t attract attention from the other knights.”
Olivia turned back toward the castle without bothering to check that Gwen was following her. Gwen glanced at Achilles, who gazed back at her out of one eye, rolling it slightly in an equine shrug. With an inaudible sigh, Gwen turned and followed the maid up into the castle grounds.
