Gwen’s heartbeat was surely loud enough now to be heard. This time she very carefully didnotlook at Isobelle. The pleasant warmth in which the uisce had wrapped her suddenly felt heavy and cloying, an anxious knot twisting inside her. “Um... you all kiss each other? To practice for men?”
“It is a skill to be perfected to attract a rich husband, like any other.” Sylvie’s smile was wide and languid.
“And it’s fun,” Jane supplied from the floor.
“I would offer,” Sylvie continued, “but I’m so comfortable. Besides, I think it should be your friend, no? Perhaps we’ve been playing the wrong game all along. Izzie, Idareyou to kiss our new friend here. And make it a good one.”
Isobelle was rolling her eyes at Sylvie, though Gwen noticed she rather hastily put down her cup and saucer. Eager, or trying to hide an unsteady hand? She glanced back over at Gwen, blue eyes dancing and the tiniest bit unfocused. “It’s just for practice,” she assured her, her already pink cheeks going a little pinker. “And only if you want to.”
Gwen’s lungs constricted, her mind summoning up memories of girls in her village who would play at flirtation, never realizing Gwen felt something different, something deeper; never noticing her heartache when they ran off back to their beaus.
Gwen was frozen, gazing at Isobelle as she rose from the embroidered divan and came to drop down next to her, mirroring her pose with one leg folded under her—knee to knee, shin to shin. The dimples were there, but trembling slightly as she gazed beseechingly into Gwen’s face.
Of all the things that should’ve been running, screaming really, through Gwen’s mind—that this was risky when Isobelle was meant to be courting Céline’s brother, that this whole party was like something out of a nightmare, that they were both drunk and silly and maybe it didn’t matter—the only thought Gwen could think stood out like a fiery beacon amid warring feelings of longing and confusion.
Not like this.
Isobelle was actually leaning toward her when Gwen jerked back, sliding off the divan and getting unsteadily to her feet. “Um, sorry,” she managed, over the pounding of her heart. “I... I think I’ve had too much to drink. Forgive me.”
And without waiting to figure out if that was a ladylike,appropriateway to excuse herself, she turned tail and fled.
Chapter Fifteen
Everything is context
Isobelle scrambled to her feet, windmilled her arms for balance, and kept herself vertical mostly by sheer will.
Down at the tournament grounds there was an inflatable knight, held upright by the warm air of a fire beneath him that was constantly tended. He swayed gently in the breeze, and his arms flailed around unpredictably as the wind and updraughts caught them. Isobelle and the girls liked to joke about him:Full of hot air, just like the real thing.
Isobelle had an unpleasant suspicion she might have resembled him just now.
“Gw—Céline!” she called, hoping the slip sounded like a hiccup, and took off after Gwen.
Usually, after tea parties, Isobelle reclined in a languid fashion upon her daybed until her head was in good working order. Now, she was in the worst possible shape to be discovering a drawback to recruiting a fit, strong blacksmith as your partner-in-crime: they’refast. By the time Isobelle completed her barely controlled descent of the stairs, both hands grabbing at the wall, she caught only a flash of Gwen’s skirts as she disappeared around the corner at the end of the hallway.
Isobelle hurried after her, but when she rounded the corner,there was no sign of which way Gwen had gone next. A particularly stern-looking portrait squinted down at her in disapproval, and Isobelle rested one hand on the wall to catch her breath and return his glare. “You know,” she muttered, “I don’t recall asking your opinion.”
She had very little brain available for thinking through what had just happened as she commenced her search for her friend. Almost all of it was taken up with the combined tasks of guessing where Gwen might have run to and keeping herself upright.
There was no sign of her errant blacksmith down in the stables—though Achilles was very pleased to see her. She had no apples in her pockets to feed him, so she gave him a caress on his velvety nose.
She crossed into the wing of the castle that housed the ballroom, venturing into Madame Dupont’s territory, hovering at the door to see if she could spot Gwen hiding among the rows of young children currently learning their first carole.
And eventually, having managed a full lap of the castle, she was forced to drift back up to her own quarters.How could I have miscalculated so very badly?
She was about to drop onto the edge of her bed, defeat and confusion dragging her downward, when she saw a silhouette against the sheer curtains of the window overlooking the balcony stretching from her room to Gwen’s. Isobelle’s blood thundered in her ears as she eased the heavy door to the balcony open enough to peek through.
Gwen had her head bowed, both her hands braced against the stone railing, and she was taking long, steadying breaths. It wasn’t quite sunset yet, but the sun was low in the sky, bathing Gwen in agolden light. She seemed almost to glow.
Isobelle, having given up on the pursuit completely, pulled up short at the sight of her quarry, simply gazing at her. Gwen looked like a painting, a goddess or queen whose every detail had been lingered over by a master’s delicate brush. Suddenly, Isobelle felt something very close to... shyness? This was a new experience for her.
“Gwen?” she ventured, hovering at the open door. “May I join you?”
Gwen turned her head to blink at her, and the familiar frown line between her brows broke the spell. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you ask permission for anything before,” she murmured. Which wasn’t technically an invitation—but as she said it, she moved along the balcony, making a space beside her.
“First time for everything?” Isobelle suggested, easing up beside Gwen as though she were a spooked horse, keeping her movements small and slow. She curled her hands around the balcony railing beside Gwen’s and gazed down at them.
Gwen’s hands were not those of a lady, and even Olivia’s best manicure couldn’t hide the calluses. A few freckles dotted the backs of her hands, matching the ones that Isobelle so admired across her nose and cheeks. There were a few tiny white spots that must be old burn marks, long since healed.
