But Oh. My. God. Herfeet.
Gwen let herself fall back onto the mattress, the soles of her feet pulsing with her heartbeat. When she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the bed swaying to the beat of an imaginary waltz. She dipped her hand into the pocket of her skirts and drew out the tiny iron knight—Sir Gawain—and closed her fingers around it.
Remember why you’re doing this.
When a tapping came at the door, her mind dismissed it as a phantom rap of Madame Dupont’s cane. It came again, though, and Gwen sat up with some effort, half dreading whatever fresh horror awaited her.
The door opened, and Isobelle’s face appeared at the crack. “Can I come in?” she asked brightly.
Gwen drew herself up to sit cross-legged. “Of course.”
Isobelle had changed her clothes, discarding the aquamarine layer cake of a dress she’d worn that afternoon in favor of a slimmer dress of soft, gleaming gold. Gwen swallowed, all too aware she was still wearing the sweaty—and now rather clammy—dress in which she’d faced off with Madame Dupont.
When Isobelle drew closer, Gwen saw draped over her arm a couple of damp, steaming towels. Isobelle had a wry smile on her face as she plopped herself down on the bed beside Gwen, effortlessly tucking that silky, shiny skirt beneath one bent knee.
“If I’d known Dupont would keep you at it that long on the first day, I would have warned you.” Isobelle wrinkled her nose. “Believe it or not, that’s a compliment from her. She wouldn’t have run you into the ground if she didn’t think you could go the distance. Here, give me your feet.”
Isobelle gestured toward Gwen’s crossed legs, and though Gwen wasn’t quite sure what she intended, she leaned back and nudged her aching feet out from under the edge of her skirt.
Isobelle bent her head and began carefully wrapping one of Gwen’s feet in the hot towel. Fighting every instinct to flinch away and protect her battered limbs, Gwen waited—and a few seconds later, the half-scalding flash of heat dissolved into a warm, soothing cloud of relief.
“Oh my god, thank you.” Gwen slumped, propping her forehead against her hands. “How did you know?”
Isobelle laughed, though somehow she managed to make it a kind sound. “Oh, please. We have to do this after every ball. Nobody can dance for four hours straight without suffering for it.” She paused thoughtfully. “Well, except maybe for Dupont.”
Isobelle began tucking the towel in, pressing against the bottoms of Gwen’s feet and making her flinch. The other girl grimaced and laid her hand across Gwen’s ankle, a gesture of apology that made Gwen instantly forget the pain. She glanced up and met Isobelle’s eyes, her insides giving an odd lurch before she pulled her gaze away, reminding herself of Dupont’s admonition to stay focused.
“Oh, I have news about Jinna,” Isobelle said, carefully shifting her grip. “His lordship controls my finances—that’s how my dowry’s ended up as the tourney prize—but I’m not the only one who’s snuck off to one of her ladies’ nights in the past. I’ve gathered enough contributions for her to hire an advocate to contest ownership of the tavern. At least she won’t be alone.”
A flash of anger pushed through Gwen’s tiredness at the memory of Jinna being bundled out of her own tavern in chains, butshe watched Isobelle thoughtfully. “I’m glad you thought of doing that. I’m not sure I would have.”
“Madame Dupont’s donation was generous,” Isobelle confided with a smile. “Apparently Jinna imports French wine just for her.”
Gwen couldn’t help a smile. “What’s Dupont’s deal, anyway? How is she such a...” But words failed Gwen at that point, and the sentence ended in a helpless gesture.
Isobelle snickered, lifting one shoulder in a shrug as she reached for the second towel and Gwen’s other foot. “Such a force of nature? No one knows. She’s been around since before my parents first dumped me here three years ago. Obviously, she’s from France, but no one knows much more than that.” She leaned in, ducking her head to catch Gwen’s eye again, her own sparkling. “They say she was raised by dragons, or sorcerers, or maybe the fae, and that’s how she knows everything and never gets tired or sore.”
Gwen laughed, because the rumor was clearly a joke—and yet she couldn’t deny there was something superhuman about the wiry old dance instructor. She kept her eyes on the graceful, perfectly manicured hands wrapping her foot. What had it been like for Isobelle, left behind by her own parents? Isobelle’s smiles and laughs never told the whole story, that much she knew. She couldn’t imagine being separated from her own father—or knowing he’d let it happen.
Gwen felt a twinge in her chest, a sharp and unexpected longing for home. She’d left her father in good hands, recruiting the apprentice blacksmith from a neighboring village to help him while she was gone, but she knew it would be a massive change for him not to have her there. She ran her thumb over the figurine still clutched in her fist, finally distracted from Isobelle’s well-meaning and entirely too engrossing ministrations.
Isobelle was tucking in the last edge of the second towel. “There, now. Ooh!” She had spotted the model knight Gwen held. “May I?”
Gwen handed Sir Gawain over, still half distracted watching Isobelle’s face. The dimples had vanished in favor of a softer smile.
“He really is spectacular. Did you...?” The long, fair lashes lifted as Isobelle glanced up at Gwen.
“Hell no.” Gwen leaned back, watching Isobelle turn the knight over in her hands. “I’m not that talented. My dad made it. For my mother. Lavender was her favorite flower.” Gwen touched the sculpted pennant bearing its etching of the lavender sprig that now marked Gwen’s own pennant in the tournament.
Isobelle’s eyebrows shot up, her hands pausing on the knight. “Your dad made this?”
Gwen’s throat tightened, as it always did whenever the subject of her father came up among the villagers. “He’s not what you think,” she said softly. “He’s actually quite brilliant.”
Isobelle’s head tilted to one side. “I promise I didn’t think anything, just that your work was what I saw on display at the market.”
Gwen bit her lip, briefly meeting Isobelle’s eyes. “He’s just... had a tough time since my mother died. It’s harder for him to work, especially since he’d rather make things like this, things the village has no use for. And I can make nails and horseshoes well enough to keep us fed.”
Isobelle gently set the little knight down, nestling him among the rumples of the bedspread between them. “When did your mother die?”
