It seemed all Darkhaven had turned out for the dragon bonfire. The grassy slopes around the castle were a riot of sounds and colors, with commoners and nobility alike mingling to enjoy the spectacle. Dotting the grounds were piles of wood and brush waiting to be lit, and directly down the hill from the castle gate was a vast open area and a platform where the speeches and main entertainments would take place.
From the moment Olivia had popped into Gwen’s room with a pile of fabric over one arm and a box of cosmetics in the other, Gwen had been dreading the entire affair. Dealing with Isobelle was a challenge at the best of times, when Gwen was wearing armor or riding her horse or holding a sword, and all was as it should be between them. But thus far, every effort to face her down on her home turf—the land of fabrics and cosmetics and social niceties—had been disastrous.
She’d tried a halfhearted protest, but Olivia had taken a step back and looked at Gwen, chin lowered, eyes intent, and said evenly, “The only way you are escaping this room is wearing this dress, these cosmetics, and these hair ribbons. Do I make myself clear?”
Now, as Gwen stood on the edge of the bonfire grounds, waiting for Isobelle to finish rounding up the girls, her heart was doinga flip-flop in her chest. She’d never been one for pretty garments, or rouges to make her lips redder, or herbal rinses to make her hair shine. Hazily, she remembered her mother occasionally doing her hair or prettying up a dress with a spare bit of ribbon, but by the time she was old enough to learn those strange and arcane rituals of femininity for herself, her mother was too ill to teach her the proper magic.
For the most part, trying to look “pretty” made Gwen uncomfortable. Far more uncomfortable than she felt roasting on a summer’s day in a suit of armor, facing down an opponent over a sharpened bit of stick. At least the worst thing that could happen to her in that situation was gruesome and painful death.
But this dress... this dress was doing something to her.
It was a deep, dark green that looked inky in the twilight, except for the way its velvety fibers caught the light and flashed whenever she moved, like verdant lightning. Olivia had cut the neckline low and square, revealing freckles on Gwen’s pale shoulders that she hadn’t even noticed herself before. Despite the veritable army of potions and pots and paints Olivia had brought with her, she’d done very little to Gwen’s face except to darken the lines of her eyelashes and add a deep, dusky rose to her lips. And through her hair she’d tied a ribbon of the same material as the dress, pulling the strands back on one side into a twist and left to fall in heavy waves on the other.
Olivia had shown her a mirror right before she left. Gwen looked like some kind of sorceress, emerging from the forest with magic crackling around her ankles and smoky, sultry promises in her eyes.
As she stood waiting, Gwen could feel eyes on her, though whenshe turned in a slow circle, she could see no one staring. She tried to dismiss the sensation, and yet something was sending a shiver down her spine—a not altogether unpleasant sensation.
“Céline!”
Isobelle appeared from behind a group of ladies who looked somewhat surprised to find her popping up in their midst. Isobelle’s dress was a brilliant violet blue, cut in her signature style and done up in flounces and layers. Her hair was absolute perfection, eyes sparkling, lips a bright pink and shining softly in the light from the torches. Gwen swallowed, trying to find some other detail to stare at.
Isobelle’s cheeks were pink, much pinker than Olivia ought to have painted them. Closer to her now, Isobelle lowered her voice and murmured, “Gwen, you look so beautiful!”
Gwen shrugged, glancing away to watch the crowd. “Olivia is talented.”
Isobelle’s fair eyebrows drew in. “Why do you always do that?” she asked, a flicker of genuine distress in her face. “If I compliment you on your riding or your smithing, you’re fine. But god forbid I should say you look nice, or you start scowling and rolling your eyes at me.”
Gwen blinked at her. Moments ago she’d been standing there, reflecting on how uncomfortable all the finery made her feel, and Isobelle had seen through her in a heartbeat. “I... I don’t know,” she managed, fighting the inexplicable urge to tell Isobelle absolutely everything about herself, her past, her heart. “But you’re right, I do do that. I’m sorry.”
The scowl smoothed away, and the gleaming lips curved a touch. “Why do I get the feeling you’re telling me what you thinkI want to hear? Never mind. Just say ‘thank you, Isobelle, you look gorgeous, too.’”
“Thank you, Isobelle.” Gwen let her breath out as Isobelle came up beside her to link arms and steer her over toward the festivities. A shiver ran up Gwen’s arm from the point where Isobelle’s hand rested against her sleeve, and Gwen ruthlessly halted the rather foolish smile threatening to spread across her features. “You look gorgeous, too.”
“Good girl,” said Isobelle, her tones velvety with smugness. “Now, we can either catch up with the girls—they’ve got a spot not too far from where the speeches will take place—or we can explore.” Isobelle’s eyes swung up and to the side, watching Gwen through her lashes.
Had Gwen imagined the slight, barely perceptible trailing off, a sign of reluctance, when Isobelle mentioned joining the other girls? Or did she justwantIsobelle to be reluctant, want her to wish for Gwen’s company over that of the others? She’d never had a close female friend before—was it normal to want to keep her all to herself?
“Gwen?” The blue eyes widened a touch in concern as Isobelle turned toward her more fully. “You okay?”
“Uh.” Gwen cleared her throat. “I’ve never seen this version of the dragon bonfire before—it’s different in the village. Let’s explore.”
The concern evaporated, and Isobelle flashed her a look of pure delight. “Excellent, that’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
Isobelle led her through the makeshift festival streets, with tents set up in rows along the hillside selling food, drinks, and knickknacks. One stall owner was painting faces with a most spectacular level of skill—Isobelle proposed Gwen get a knight’s visor painted on her face, and then burst into silvery laughter at Gwen’sexpression. Musicians were stationed at regular intervals, all playing their own music, so the tunes shifted as they walked—spritely fiddle morphed into soulful flute into a drum circle into a quartet playing a waltz.
“We could dance?” Isobelle’s offer was a touch hesitant. The only couples moving around the quartet were composed of men and women. In the village, no one would care too much to see two women or two men dancing together, even in a partnered dance such as this one. But perhaps the rules of high society were stricter about this—they certainly were about far more trivial matters, like which fork to use and how deep to drop into a curtsy.
“I don’t know how much more dancing I can take after Madame Dupont’s endless drills,” Gwen admitted ruefully, giving Isobelle’s hand a squeeze in the crook of her elbow. “Though, between you and me, I actually rather enjoy it.”
“Anyone who doesn’t enjoy Dupont isn’t paying attention,” Isobelle replied airily, moving along from the quartet. “That woman could defeat a dragon all on her own.”
“Gosh, how marvelous would it be to see that?” Gwen’s mind had filled with the most fantastic image of the stately middle-aged woman in armor, astride a war horse, javelin tucked under her arm as she faced down an enormous, craggy bronze dragon. “It’d almost be worth having dragons around just to witness it.”
Isobelle laughed, evidently not nearly so captivated by the image as Gwen, and led them on through the festival.
Scents of grilling meat and frying dough filled the air, along with wafts here and there of spices and caramelizing sugars. Music continued to float by, tugging Gwen’s attention this way and that. Though the big bonfires had yet to be lit, smaller fires had beenlaid, sending their sparks shooting skyward like ephemeral fireflies trying to court the stars.
Suddenly, the only thing Gwen could think of was the night before, in the hayloft, when she’d interrupted Isobelle.
