“You said the ‘T’ word!” cried one of the girls, a honey blonde with shining braids and pink cheeks.
Gwen glanced between them and Isobelle. “What’s wrong withmentioning the tournament?” she managed.
“It makes half of us furious and the other half start swooning,” drawled a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty in a maroon gown that perfectly set off the warm brown of her skin. She lounged against a navy-blue divan with utter self-assurance. “Welcome, Céline—I’m Sylvie. My, what lovely freckles you have.” The dark eyes narrowed, putting Gwen in mind of a tiger about to pounce.
Gwen had a sneaking suspicion that the girl’s comment was more a shrewd observation than a compliment—a noble-born lady was expected to avoid the sun and preserve her complexion. But was she merely nitpicking a new arrival to the circle, or was that tiger-sighting-prey look a warning that Gwen’s masquerade was already under fire?
Gwen swallowed, smiled as best she could, and eased her way into the room.
The round-faced girl with a coronet of buckwheat-blond braids who’d protested Gwen’s mention of the tournament got up to wrestle a fifth divan into the circle. “Yes, welcome! I am Hilde—and you must tell us whether you are a romantic or not, ja?” Her pink cheeks brightened with a smile.
Gwen sank down on the extra divan as Isobelle claimed her spot on the rose-embroidered one. “Um... a romantic?” she echoed, in confusion.
“Ja! Perhaps you can decide whether we are glad about the tournament or not.” Hilde’s Germanic accent gave her voice a rolling, rhythmic quality full of dips and high points, expressive and cheerful.
Gwen glanced at Isobelle, who was accepting a cup of tea from the third girl with a murmured, “Thanks, Jane.”
“I suppose I’m not much of a romantic,” Gwen said finally, smiling her thanks as another cup was pressed into her hand. “My brother is the romantic in the family.”
Hilde clasped her hands together with a sigh—her teacup and saucer, perched precariously on one thigh, tilted at an alarming angle. “A young knight who’s a romantic? Ach, if only I were not promised to my Arnau, I would seek him out to know him better.”
“Gawain is, um, rather shy,” Gwen said, curling her fingers around the handle of the teacup. “You probably won’t see him much. Who’s Arnau?” Desperately, she tried to change the subject.
Sylvie opened her mouth, but Isobelle swooped into the conversation first. “Arnau is Hilde’s beau, and a very charming man by all accounts.”
“He is away in France,” Hilde said with a sigh, gazing down into her teacup. “We miss each other so.”
“Yes, they wrote each other constantly,” commented Sylvie, tilting her head back so she could settle a stray hair into place with one perfectly manicured hand. “For the first year or two. How long has it been now? Six years?”
“Oh, but he is so very busy there,” exclaimed Hilde, though Gwen could see her fingers tightening on the handle of her cup. “He would write more often if he could.”
“So,” interrupted the third girl—Jane, Isobelle had called her—in an obvious attempt to change the subject before Sylvie could needle poor Hilde any further. “You say your brother is a romantic? Perhaps we will see him at the ball at the tournament’s end, then. You must tell him to save his first dance for me.”
Jane leveled her gaze at Gwen. She had a round, luscious figure, gleaming auburn hair and full lips, with eyelashes so long theyswept her cheeks. Just now, her eyes were fixed on Gwen, one corner of her mouth lifted in a smile that made her throat tighten.Talk about a tiger sighting prey, Gwen thought, privately relieved Jane’s interest was in her fictitious alter ego and not herself.
“None of that, Jane,” Isobelle cut in swiftly before taking a prim sip of her tea. “Sir Gawain is mine, you keep your hands off him. His first dance belongs to me.”
Gwen barely had any time for her relief at the rescue to register before the rest of Isobelle’s words sank in. “Uh,” she said, trying to catch her eye. “I doubt Sir Gawain will be attending any ball. He is more comfortable in hisarmor,after all.”
But Isobelle just laughed, her eyes gleaming.
Jane’s eyebrows had shot up, her teacup settling against her saucer loudly enough to cut through Hilde’s giggle. “Hang on,” she said. “You’re into Sir Gawain? Has someone managed to displace Tristan of Cambridge? Are you telling me that his dark eyes—”
“Dreamy eyes,” Hilde corrected her. “She said they weredreamy—”
“That the poet’sdreamyeyes,” Jane graciously corrected herself, “have lost their hold on you?”
“He is a very talented poet,” Hilde informed Gwen, raising her cup to the absent man in a toast. “When he came through on tour, Isobelle made us attend all three of his performances.”
“I never spoke a word to him!” Isobelle finally managed to break in, her gaze threatening to set the two of them on fire.
“More’s the pity,” Jane replied. “The man’s diction was beautiful. No doubt just as beautiful as his—”
“Jane!” Finally Isobelle managed to quell her friend. “Honestly, if a girl can’t admire a traveling poet, what’s left in the world?”
“Sir Gawain, apparently,” Jane replied, unrepentant.
Sylvie’s eyes were swinging between Isobelle and Gwen, taking in everything and revealing very little. “Perhaps he is merely the least of all the evils awaiting this year’s dragon sacrifice.”
