The woman behind the counter was a hedge witch. Her plump cheeks creased in a smile as Isobelle approached, and stretched even wider when Isobelle stopped, frowning. It was never particularly clear how much magic a witch actually wielded, if any at all. Had Isobelle turned toward this stall because of a spell, or simply because the woman had honed her vocal instrument to such a degree that she could derail just about anyone?
“A charm for the lady,” said the hedge witch, the offer far more command than question, gesturing to an array of attractive baubles made of wicker, braided wire, and polished stones.
Isobelle fished out one of her bright, cheery smiles and bobbed a respectful curtsy of greeting. It never hurt to be polite to a hedge witch... just in case. “Oh, they are lovely. But there’s nothing I need right now.”Nothing you can help me with, anyway.
The witch’s eyes narrowed as she inspected Isobelle’s face, gaze shrewd enough to make even Isobelle fight the urge to step back. “Ah,” said the witch, her fingers moving to indicate a bracelet made of woven blackberry brambles. “Here, lady... a love charm. Not always effective unless a seed is already planted, but for you... yes, you will make it sing.”
Isobelle felt herself stiffen. “Thank you, no.” It was all she coulddo not to visibly recoil. The last thing she needed was for any of the knights in the tournament to do something so inconvenient as fall in love with her. She hurried away, uncomfortably aware of the hedge witch’s eyes following her.
She made her way through the market, passersby bathed a dusty gold by the sunset. The merchants of the day were beginning to wind down, packing away wares and shutting stalls in preparation for the evening’s celebrations. She, unfortunately, would be back up at the castle by then.
It was only as she made her way past a line of horses tethered to the old wishing tree, a town guard patiently pinning parking violations to their bridles, that she realized where she was headed.
Up ahead, the ridiculous swordsmith with the unfortunate facial hair was still swishing his noisy blade around for a new pack of admirers. Across from him, the old smith was already gone, and his daughter was packing up their stall.
Gwen.That’s what he called her.
She had green eyes and fair skin and a generous helping of freckles. A black braid hung over one shoulder, and a streak of soot on one eyebrow lent her a sardonic appearance. During the knife demonstration, Isobelle had felt the oddest impulse to lean in and wipe that smudge away.
Then Gwen looked up and caught her staring.
Isobelle paused. She couldn’t very well melt away into the crowd—not in this dress, anyway. It was ridiculously,fabulouslypink. So, lifting her chin, she set sail toward the stall.
Gwen’s eyes widened, but Isobelle had long ago concluded that she couldn’t pause her daily business for people to get over their surprise and confusion, or she’d never get anything done.
“I’ve been thinking about the horseshoes,” she said, launchingherself into the conversation without much idea of where she’d take it next, but interested to find out.
Gwen drew in a quick breath, hands curling into fists and then dropping to smooth her skirts. She had the air of someone ready to do battle—longing for it, in fact—and then pulling herself back at the last minute. “If it’s about the price—” she began.
Isobelle waved the words away with one hand. “Never mind the price,” she said. She was well aware that, whatever a horseshoe did cost, it certainly wasn’t two shillings.
Gwen blinked at her, wary. “Then what?”
Isobelle, still not sure why she’d returned, reached for a reply. “I was wondering if you’d considered a line of miniature ones,” was where she landed, and she was quite pleased with it even as she said it. This felt like it might be genius, in fact.
Gwen rubbed at her brows with her finger and thumb, which explained how the soot had got there. “What would anyone want miniature horseshoes for?”
“Tiny ponies, I should think,” Isobelle said brightly, just to see her face.
Gwen opened her mouth, caught her breath, and then closed it again.
“Not really,” said Isobelle, taking pity on her. “I was thinking of one you could pop in your bag, or even sew into the lining of your skirt. As a lucky charm. They’d be so giftable!”
“Giftable,” said Gwen, who had repeated what she’d said quite a lot the last time they’d spoken as well. Isobelle often had that effect on people, though—it wasn’t the other girl’s fault.
Isobelle shrugged. “They will be afterIgift one or two.”
“I’ll... I’ll mention it to my father,” Gwen managed.
“Mm-hmm,” Isobelle agreed, with a twitch of a smile. She couldsee the caution in the other girl’s eyes—she could tell Isobelle had guessed who did the work at the stall, but she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it. That was the world, though, wasn’t it—you always had to wonder who you could trust.
Isobelle ran her eye over the remaining wares. There were the knives and the sliced leather bag from poor Gwen’s performance—though shehadlooked fearsome as she dragged the knife through the wineskin—a collection of horse-related bits and bobs, and a few repaired pots and pans. She considered asking, wide-eyed, what the frying pan was for, but was faintly concerned that might drive Gwen over the edge.
At the far end was—oh, interesting! A sword leaned against the table. It wasn’t really on display, though. Perhaps the smith—or his daughter—had brought it along and then decided not to show it off.
Isobelle squashed her skirts with both hands and slipped through the gap between the counter and the edge of the tent, popping out the other side like a champagne cork as Gwen made a startled sound. It was usually better to ask forgiveness than permission, Isobelle found.
She reached for the sword. The hilt was beautifully made—the grip wrapped neatly, the pommel carved with intricate knotwork designs.
