“Oh, so much!” bubbled the blond girl—Isobelle, the nobleman had called her. “It’s such a gorgeous day, and I could honestly people-watch for hours. What about you?”
Gwen lifted her gaze, which turned out to be a terrible mistake. The eyes waiting for her were even bluer up close. “I, uh.” She could feel the heat rising, starting somewhere in the small of her back and creeping ever upward.
The lady Isobelle waited, and when no further reply seemedforthcoming, she cheerfully leaned forward, bracing her perfectly manicured hands on the edge of the stall. “My goodness, what a selection of... things.” The other three noblewomen stayed clustered around Isobelle, though none were feigning the kind of interest their leader was. A fifth woman was with them, a few years older than the ringleader, but her dress was far plainer than the others.
Lady’s maid,Gwen’s mind decided.
A snort and a choke from behind her announced that her father, sensing the presence of customers, had woken from his doze.
“Do the thing, Gwen,” he suggested in his soft, but firm, way, as he rubbed his hand over his face.
The mortified heat had reached Gwen’s shoulders, and she hunched them, trying to keep the blush at bay through sheer force of will. “Dad,” she protested, “these ladies have no... er. They’re not here to buy anything.”
Lady Isobelle made a noise of contradiction.
Gwen’s father lifted his head and met her eyes, his eyebrows rising. “The demo,” he insisted. “The new kitchen knives.”
Gwen looked up at the clear blue sky, wishing a lightning bolt would magic itself down from the heavens and vaporize her. She wanted to point out to her father that these women had never set foot inside a kitchen in their lives.
Instead, she turned back to the counter and stepped over toward the end, where their array of kitchen knives was fanned out against a cheery red display cloth. Picking up the floor model, she launched into the speech that had been one of her father’s few contributions to their business these past few months.
“Welcome to Amos’s Armaments and Sundries,” she said,picking a puffed fold of Lady Isobelle’s sleeve to address. “Allow me to demonstrate our new line of kitchen knives, stronger than Spanish steel and capable of holding a sharp edge five times longer than the leading competitor’s blades. Each purchase comes with a lifetime guarantee and free sharpening, though with our innovative design, you’ll almost never have to sharpen your knives again.”
She could feel those intense eyes on her as she spoke. A giggle from one of the other ladies was quickly stifled—evidently, Lady Isobelle was kind enough not to let her friends laugh at the poor blacksmith’s daughter running through her memorized lines.
“Gather round,” Gwen went on, “and I’ll show you how our knives can cut through the toughest of materials—even an old leather drinking flask.” She held up the flask in question—they got them cheap from the local tavern once they’d begun to wear out to the point of leaking—and then drove the knife down into the leather. Truthfully, it required far more strength to do smoothly than any of these ladies would have, but Gwen spent her days forging iron and could make it look easy.
“See how easily the knife cuts,” she said, as the bottom of the flask fell onto the counter. “See how smooth the edges are.” She turned the top of the flask over to show off the even edges of the leather.
“Amazing!” exclaimed Lady Isobelle. Her tone was so genuinely lacking in patronization that Gwen glanced at her, startled. Her gaze was lowered as she ran her fingertips just beside Gwen’s against the cut leather. Gwen fought the urge to jerk her hand back, for reasons she could not quite identify.
Then Isobelle looked up, the force of her stare lessened somewhat by the gentle curiosity in her expression. “Is it importantthat they can cut through leather?” she asked.
In all the times Gwen had run through this particular demonstration for customers, not once had anyone asked her that. She groped for a response, any response, that wasn’t the truth. “Uh,” she said.
“I’ll take four,” the lady announced, her perfectly symmetrical features alive with enthusiasm. “One for each of us. Right, girls?”
The rest of her friends had wandered off a few paces, their attention on another group of nobles strolling by. But just behind and to Isobelle’s left, the lady’s maid cleared her throat.
“Oh, you too?” Isobelle beamed. “Five, then!”
“Ah, no, my lady...” The maid’s expression betrayed very little, but for the tiniest flicker of alarm. “I was going to suggest you try buying something a little less... lethal.”
“Oh, come now, Olivia. I’m not going to cut myself.” Lady Isobelle paused, lips pursing. “Not again, anyway. Oh, fine. What about these?” She took a tiny step to the side, her gaze falling upon the rows of horseshoes.
Gwen blinked at her, and then glanced again at Olivia, whose poker face was of absolutely no help. “These... horseshoes?”
“Oh, is that what they are?” The blue eyes flitted back up, and Gwen felt a strange sense of vertigo, as if gravity wasn’t operating quite right—she couldn’t tell if the lady was teasing her, or if she truly had no idea what a horseshoe was.
“I don’t...” Gwen floundered, as the blush began rising again with a vengeance, swarming up her neck and threatening to choke her. “Surely the castle farrier would... I mean, you can tell him to see us if you need...”
Isobelle traced a fingertip along the curve of one of thehorseshoes. “I’m thinking hung on the wall, for decoration. Any decent hedge witch says iron is the thing. We could call them good luck charms. Do you have any with some decoration on them?”
“Decoration?” Gwen echoed weakly, feeling like someone had cut her legs out from under her.
“Maybe a floral pattern, or something artsy and modern and geometrical?”
Numbly, Gwen shook her head.
