Olivia walked over, leaning down to offer her a hand. Isobelle took hold, and Olivia’s strong grip pulled her up.
“Last rounds of the qualifiers tomorrow,” Olivia said. “And then comes the dragon bonfire, and then the start of the tournament proper.”
“I know, I’m looking forward to it,” Isobelle replied, enunciating her words as carefully as she could and resting one hand casually on the balustrade to make sure she didn’t wobble. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s Lord Whimsitt,” Olivia replied grimly.
“What’s he done now?”
“He’s worried about interlopers in the tournament, that the wrong sort of people might weasel their way in for the money. The head steward has announced that every entrant will be required to provide formal patents of nobility, with seals attached.”
Isobelle felt all the heat draining from her face, leaving something very cold in its wake. “But we don’t have those for Gwen.”
“No,” Olivia agreed. “We don’t.”
When the sunlight crept across Isobelle’s face in the morning, slowly dragging her toward wakefulness, the patents of nobility weren’t the first thing she thought of.
The first thing she wondered was why the inside of her mouth felt and tasted like a hessian sack. The second thought—much slower, trickling into the cracks in her consciousness until it had flooded her entire mind—was of Gwen.
She had tossed and turned until shortly before dawn, rehearsingconversations with Gwen, trying to plan out every way their next encounter might turn.
She owed Gwen an apology, of that much she was sure.
She just wished she were entirely clear on what the apology wasfor. She felt a strange sense of loss—the uncomfortable feeling that something between them had gone, and she couldn’t see how to get it back when she wasn’t even sure what it had been.
In the bright light of the morning, Isobelle wasn’t sure what she needed, except to talk to Gwen. Whatever had happened the night before, now their heads were clear, and she would fix it. Isobelle’s greatest strength had always been her ability to select a course of action and then simplybelieveher way to success, and that was what she would do now. She would fix this hiccup with Gwen, and things would go back as they were.
So she rolled out of bed and set about strapping on her own armor.
The right clothes always fortified one against difficult situations. She chose the deep purple dress with yellow trim that reminded her of an iris, and, wondering vaguely where Olivia had gotten to, wriggled into it on her own.
Leaning into the botanical theme, she bound up her hair with green ribbon, pinched her cheeks to make them pink, and headed for the door to the living room—only to find the world had begun its morning without her.
Olivia had a map spread out on the table and was leaning over it with Gwen and Madame Dupont, their three heads bowed together as Olivia traced out a route with her finger. Saddlebags were sitting in a heap in the middle of the floor, and a pile of bread and cheese presumably constituted breakfast.
Gwen glanced up as Isobelle emerged. Her gaze lingered briefly, then dropped to the map again.
You can hide behind cartography for now, Sir Gwen,Isobelle told her silently, trying not to examine too closely the stab of disappointment she felt at Gwen’s unwillingness to meet her gaze.But we have a conversation waiting for us.
“Good, you’re up,” Olivia said. “The three of you can get on your way.”
“To?” Isobelle asked, heading for the bread and cheese. Mental and emotional confusion was no reason to skip breakfast. In fact, Isobelle had discovered that breakfast often helped sort out such things. Or at least provided a helpful distraction.
“I’m sending you to an old friend of mine,” Olivia replied, stepping in behind her to tighten the laces on her dress. “He may be reluctant to assist you—if he objects, give him this.” She pressed a small round token into Isobelle’s hand. It bore a worn depiction of an owl in flight, each feather individually engraved into the metal.
Isobelle eyed Olivia askance. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking what this is about?”
Olivia shrugged. “He’s an old friend. This will remind him of a debt he owes me. It should take you half a day’s ride to reach him—Madame Dupont will escort you.”
“What about Whimsitt?” Isobelle asked, hearing the words and hating herself for caring. Ordinarily she would have cheerfully risked his wrath, but there had been a different, darker edge to his anger the night she’d snuck out to meet Gwen. An edge that made Isobelle, for once, hesitate.
“If he asks, I’ll cover for you. Easy to say you’re indisposed with a monthly condition of some delicacy.” Olivia’s lips quirked. “I canguarantee he won’t ask any further questions.”
Olivia always had an answer ready. It was Isobelle’s experience that Olivia could sort out almost anything, though it was often better if you didn’t ask for details.
She wasn’t particularly surprised to find the wheels of their salvation already in motion this morning, and from that point on, she devoted her attentions to gathering up more of the bread and cheese, in case there wasn’t a nice place to stop for morning tea along the way.
Half an hour later, they were on the road.
