“About five years ago. I was twelve.” Gwen was grateful for the safe, neutral place to rest her eyes—it looked like Sir Gawain was galloping on his horse through snow-covered hills.Off in search of adventure, she thought.
“I’m sorry,” Isobelle said softly. A sympathetic gaze was no doubt waiting for Gwen if she lifted her head, but she didn’t.
“She was always obsessed with knights and chivalry,” Gwen said, reaching out to nudge the knight more firmly into the fold holding him upright. “She would tell me stories about Sir Gawain, and I’d imagine I was living those stories.”
“And now youareliving them.”
Gwen looked up and found Isobelle regarding her with a tiny smile—somehow a much warmer one than the bright, dimpled things she tended to flash about. The cozy warmth enveloping her battered feet was spreading, as if the rest of her body had still been stuck in combat, but had now received the message to stand down.
“I suppose I am,” Gwen managed, the tightness in her chest easing.
Isobelle’s keen eyes saw that tension shifting, and her smile widened. “Well, tomorrow we’re going to have to do an etiquette crash course. Then I’ll introduce you to the girls—I think we should probably keep all this secret from them. I trust them, but the more people who know a thing, the more chances there are for someone to slip up. We’ll need a name for Sir Gawain’s sister. Maybe something flowery and nonthreatening, like Rose or Lily?” She turned and slid off the edge of the bed.
Gwen glanced down at the tiny iron knight galloping across the bedspread. “How about... Céline?”
Isobelle’s smile flashed with delight. “Ooh, beautiful. Where’d that come from?”
Gwen closed her fingers around Sir Gawain, drawing him back into the safety of her pocket. “It was my mother’s name.”
Interstitial
It’s probably for the best, dear reader, if we draw a veil over what comes next. If only to spare poor Gwen her dignity.
The crash course in etiquette that takes place the next day involves all the usual parts of such a thing—from curtsies to laps of the room with a book on one’s head to flash cards featuring sketches of the court’s most notable personalities. None of this is Gwen’s strong suit. But if Isobelle has any doubts... well, she’s an expert at ignoring those and focusing on the joys at hand.
If you’d really like to know more about what Isobelle has Gwen learning, then please direct your attention to one of the myriad texts on the subject, such asLadye Hostlethwaite’s Primer on Graciously Goode ManneresorOn Being of Noble Stockeby Lord Rollin Moisey of Dalmerlington. They should only take a day or two to read and commit to memory—each is but a few hundred thousand words.
Go on, take your time.
We’ll wait.
Chapter Fourteen
Hast Thou Ever...
The tea party at which Lady Isobelle planned to introduce “Lady Céline” to her friends took place the following afternoon, in the solarium in the south wing of the castle. Olivia was still finishing up the gowns she was altering for Gwen, but she’d located one that needed minimal alterations to fit. Isobelle was a good bit shorter than Gwen, so Olivia must’ve gotten the gowns from somewhere else, though neither girl asked her where.
“Just be yourself,” Isobelle was saying firmly as she all but bodily dragged Gwen down the corridor leading to the south wing. “Avoid any mentions of the smithy or your village, and you’ll be fine.”
Gwen opened her mouth to point out that they’d spent the entire day teaching Gwen hownotto be herself, but Isobelle had stopped in front of a door and turned to give her one of those wide, dimpled smiles she employed to cover her true feelings.
She’s nervous. At least that’s something.
After a morning of etiquette lessons during which Isobelle acted as though none of Gwen’s slipups or mistakes mattered—as though selling Gwen as a knight’s sister was the easiest thing in the world, with no life-and-death consequences for Gwen should she fail—any sign that Isobelle understood the stakes was a relief.
“Here we are!” she announced, and then pushed the door open.
The solarium was a round room situated above Isobelle’s quarters in one of those inappropriately designed turrets of the castle, with windows at regular intervals all around. Sunlight streamed in through clouded glass, falling upon the soft, rich fabrics covering the floors and the divans and daybeds strewn in a rough circle.
In the center of the room was a low, round table on which sat a gleaming silver tea service and several platters containing tiny cakes and some kind of unidentifiable pastry. A trio of young women were sprawled on three of the divans, with a fourth empty one embroidered with pink roses clearly left for Isobelle. Gwen recognized the trio from the day she met Isobelle at the market, each of them wearing a different jewel tone, each of them with perfectly coiffed hair and gleaming jewelry.
And each of them turning in perfect unison to stare at the girl who’d entered with their ringleader. When Gwen had first donned the dress Olivia had provided, it had been the most beautiful dress she’d ever worn—now, she felt plainer than the drabbest sparrow.
Oh god. Give me a dozen armored men on horseback over this.
“Girls, this is Céline,” Isobelle announced, sweeping into the room as Gwen paused to stare. “Her brother is Sir Gawain, that dashing young knight who unseated Sir Evonwald in the qualifiers. She’s in town for the duration of the tournament.”
An indistinct wave of protest rolled across the other girls, and they lifted their teacups to drink and wash away the taste of that pronouncement.
