“She thinks we’re playing a dangerous game, and it’ll end in disaster,” Gwen shot back. “You’re already facing backlash—she told me you’ve been confined to the castle.” Her tone softened, eyes apologetic, as if it were Gwen’s fault Isobelle had snuck out in the middle of the night.
“Nonsense,” Isobelle said firmly, with a confidence she trusted to become real if she believed in it hard enough. “Whimsitt will forget about his decree in a day or two. And Olivia wouldn’t go along with our plan if she didn’t think we were onto something. She’s just sulking because she thought the best solution to my current predicament was an assassination or two.”
“What?” Gwen blinked at her, startled, and Isobelle thought she heard a faint throat-clearing from just inside the door.
“Try a croissant?” Isobelle handed her the plate of pastries. “They’re rich enough to eat plain, but I like them best with piles of butter and jam.”
“I’ve never tried...” That was as far as Gwen got before she popped the first piece into her mouth. Her breath caught, her lashes lowered in sheer, naked bliss, and she made a sound of pleasure that brought a flush of answering pleasure to Isobelle’s cheeks.
Isobelle watched the other girl’s enjoyment through her lashes, declining to ask herself why she couldn’t stopstaringat Gwen.
The next little while, they were both silent, each contemplatingtheir own novel experiences. After a minute, Isobelle pushed the rest of the croissants across to Gwen.
“I think it’s the butter,” she ventured, when they were mostly gone. “Olivia taught one of the girls in the kitchen to make them, and... well. They’re very nice.”
Gwen visibly tried to get herself under control. She reached for the teapot, but paused after pouring the first few drops, setting it down and lifting the cup to give it a curious sniff. “What’s this?”
“It’s called cocoa. It’s a sort of bean, added to hot milk. I’ll have some too.”
Gwen filled her cup and handed it across to Isobelle, then claimed Isobelle’s to pour her own. “I’ve never had... cocoa, you said? It smells good.”
Isobelle braced herself as Gwen lifted the cup for a cautious sip.
Gwen’s eyes went wide, fixing briefly on Isobelle’s before they fluttered closed again. “Holy...” she managed, when she’d swallowed and could breathe again, her voice full of satisfaction. “I should’ve started impersonating nobility years ago.”
Isobelle, rarely lost for words, scrabbled for something to say. “Well, wait until you taste the next course. There are plenty of good things to come.”
Gwen paused, the cup halfway to her lips again. “Thenextcourse?”
“It’ll just be something simple. Sausages, eggs, things of that nature.”
Gwen stared down at the wreckage of four croissants. “Oh,” she said, before looking up once more to meet Isobelle’s gaze. “I’ve made a terrible, delicious miscalculation.”
Chapter Eleven
You are the girl who would be a knight?
Remember how we decided at the beginning that this castle could be whatever we wanted it to be, with crocodiles in the moat and high, impractical turrets scraping the sky? Well, while most castles tend to be pretty spartan and concerned primarily with defense, let’s say this one is more palatial in its design. The following scene will be more fun if it takes place in a grand ballroom rather than in some cramped, dark hallway with defensible slits for windows.
Gwen probably would’ve preferred the dark hallway, but we can’t always get what we want.
Isobelle’s quarters were located in the upper floors of the castle, requiring them to traverse long, winding staircases and slip through room after ornate room as they made their way toward their destination. The ballroom occupied its own wing of the castle and lay at the end of a long corridor lined with portraits—past lords of Darkhaven, Isobelle explained to Gwen, who drew half a step closer under the cold, haughty stares of noblemen past. Toward the end of the parade of old men was one particularly surrounded by wealth and luxury.
“The first Lord Whimsitt,” Isobelle explained, with a look on her face that told Gwen she found him as unfriendly looking asshe did. “Ancestor of the current lord. He’s the one who built this castle, with all the income from the gold mines. I suppose that wealth will start flowing again, now the current Lord Whimsitt has reopened them.”
“It’s a miracle they waited as long as they did,” Gwen replied. “Just goes to show how rumors of dragons liking caves and mineshafts can make even the greediest of men a bit nervous.”
“Not nervous enough to stop him, alas.” Isobelle sighed. “The tourney will cement his place among the who’s who of the king’s court, and he needed the mining profits to successfully bid to host it this round.”
“It’s not his neck he risks by going up against superstition,” Gwen muttered. “Do you spend much time with him?”
“Thankfully no, but technically he’s my guardian,” Isobelle replied, with a small but heartfelt shudder. “My parents are diplomats, abroad in the service of the king. Andthat’show I ended up the sacrifice this year. He didn’t have to ask anyone for permission, and when you put me together with my dowry, we’re quite the prize.”
Gwen felt herself tense, that old ache of helpless anger making it difficult for her to speak—she found herself gazing mutely at Isobelle, hoping at least the other girl would see the outrage and sympathy she didn’t know how to express.
Isobelle caught her eye for a long moment, then gave herself a little shake. “I should have been paying more attention and seen it coming.”
“You shouldn’t have to...” But Gwen left her sentence unfinished, because they both knew better.
