No, a triple life. Gwen the blacksmith’s daughter, Sir Gawain the knight, and Céline, his naive sister. Good god, this was a terrible idea.
But Isobelle’s dimples were rigidly on display. Whatever she was feeling—whatever concerns she might have about the game they were playing—she wasn’t showing it.
“Not you either, Céline?” asked Hilde mournfully.
Gwen blinked, then looked down at her cup. She hadn’t taken a drink. “My... my brother never would have let me hear the end of it if I had,” she said finally.
“I nominate Isobelle to ask the next question,” Sylvie said lightly.
“Hast thou ever...” Isobelle began, drawing out the words as she thought. “Left off your underskirts on a hot day, and hoped no one would notice?”
The questions continued in that vein, giving Gwen the opportunity to get to know the other girls in the group.
Hilde, the hopeless romantic, dreaming of the beau she’d been waiting on for years, deeply invested in finding happy endings for all those around her.
Jane, beautiful, easygoing, and quick to love—and more than willing to share that love, by the sound of it. Daring and kind all at once.
And Sylvie. Reserved, guarded, with no interest in courting suitors or chasing marriage. Revealing little of herself. Observing much.
It was Sylvie’s turn to ask the next question. Jane had slid to the floor with a piteous cry of “Braid my hair, Hilde!” and Hilde was giggling as she tried and failed to do something complicated involving ribbons.
Sylvie was smiling at Gwen as she suggested her next question. “Hast thou ever worn another lady’s gown?”
For a split second, Gwen didn’t understand the sudden interest from Sylvie, whythatquestion had made her watch for Gwen’s reaction.
Then her stomach clenched. Whose dresswasshe wearing? She’d assumed Olivia was altering Isobelle’s dresses for her, but she was closer to Sylvie’s size than Isobelle’s. Was this Sylvie’s castoff? Gwen’s mind went blank, sheer panic taking hold.
“Oh, come now, Sylvie, don’t torture poor Céline by making her drink every time.” Isobelle’s smile was honey sweet. “Her trunkswere delayed en route and should get here in a few days. I asked Olivia to alter a few of last season’s dresses to tide her over. Besides, we’ll all have to drink to this one—remember when Hilde spilled mead all over us a few years back?”
Gwen carefully lifted her cup for a sip, not meeting Sylvie’s eyes. Instead, she caught Isobelle sneaking a peek her way. A tiny reminder that Gwen wasn’t out here on the battlefield alone. Isobelle may have been acting like she hadn’t a care in the world, but she was monitoring the conversation like a hawk.
The questions went round and round after that, with the girls taking a special—if laughing, friendly—delight in following suit with Sylvie. One of the questions that made Gwen drink wasHave you ever had black hair?and another wasHave you ever had a brother named Gawain?Soon enough she was in a haze, and if she hadn’t had such secrets to keep, the haze—thehazing, she decided—would have been fun.
The temptation to let down her guard and give in to the game was strong. Gwen’s head was positively spinning after a few more cups of “tea,” and she was beginning to envy Jane’s spot on the floor by Hilde’s divan.
Isobelle was clearly feeling the effects of the beverage, too. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, and her voice spilled out in laughing, burbling quips. Gwen tried to keep her eyes on each of the girls in equal measure, but it was hard not to watch the queen of this court, presiding over her ladies with the perfect mix of tipsy whimsy and graceful composure.
The next question from Jane,Hast thou ever been from France?, made Gwen choke and take the tiniest sip she could manage from her cup.
“Please, I beg of you,” she pleaded, laughing. “Any more and I will lose the ability to speech. Speech.” She paused, then tried one more time. “Speak.”
Isobelle snorted, the sound rather startling Gwen—she usually kept herself in better check than that. Gwen wasn’t the only one who’d had too much of the uisce.
Hilde let out a long, lusty sigh. “Hast thou ever kissed a boy?” she asked, though no one had nominated her to ask the next question.
Jane slumped down into a supine position, moaned something about being personally victimized by this game, then downed the rest of her cup in one swig. Gwen watched Isobelle out of the corner of her eye, her own heartbeat sounding very loud in her ears. The queen bee of the group reached for the handle of her cup—but only to turn it on its saucer, adjusting its position.
“At least when I do,” Isobelle said cheerfully, “I’ll be ready for it.”
“There is that,” agreed Hilde with a giggle. “Practice makes perfect.”
Gwen was missing something, she felt sure—but before her fuzzy brain could quite grasp what it was, Sylvie was leaning forward, gazing at her with interest. “Hast thou ever kissedanyone?” she asked pointedly.
Everyone—except Gwen—drank.
Gwen watched Isobelle’s cup rise to her lips and lower again, her mind churning as it tried to understand, through her haze, the significance of that.
Hilde noticed Gwen’s cup still on its saucer and lurched upward. “Ach, but, Céline, how will you be ready? Surely you have had friends to practice with, back in Toussaint? Come now, wewill teach you. Maybe not Jane, unless you wish to lie down on the floor.” She took Jane’s cup from her, receiving a mild protest—or possibly a thank-you—from the supine girl.
