“I bluffed my way backstage last time the troupe was in town,” Isobelle confessed, tilting her head as she tried to parse that caution. What was Gwen really wondering?
Again, that pressure inside Isobelle that demanded an answer—that demanded she look at its questions directly and understand what they were—pushed to be released.
“Hard to believe you’d do something like that,” Gwen replied with her customary wry sarcasm, but again, there was that layer of... something. Could Gwen be...? Isobelle hardly dared whisper the word to herself. But if she didn’t know better, it would almost seem as if Gwen wasjealous.
“I wanted to talk to the costume designers,” Isobelle pressed on, like one who had been traipsing through the woods, then heard a concerning noise, and was now proceeding with considerably more thoughtfulness. “But then I met Astreta, and we got to talking about dessert...” She gestured to the sweets, which the dancer had already half devoured, but was now packing away. “I promised I’d come back this time with her favorite.”
“And so you did,” Astreta replied with a grin. “I must save a few for my husband, or he will be, what do you say? Cranky. He isalready not pleased he had to dance the part of the dragon’s behind.”
At that, everybody dissolved into laughter, and the strangeness was gone, vanished like smoke on the breeze.
“Well, it was a remarkable performance byallparts of the dragon,” Gwen told her. “Thoughyouexcelled.”
“I knew she would inspire you,” Isobelle replied, and Gwen shot her a quelling look, which was, in fairness, well earned.
“It made me wish I could dance like that,” Gwen agreed. “Truly, to move that way, each of you different but all in unison—you must practice from sunup to sundown.”
“Tak, yes, we rehearse until our bodies know their purpose,” Astreta agreed, resuming her undressing until she was down to the sleek black suit she wore beneath her armor, and fanning herself. “Until the steps are a part of the body, one must practice. One cannot be thinking of the steps—put my foot here, twist like so—and also of the emotion required.”
Gwen wasn’t bothering to hide that she was listening far more intently than the average noblewoman might. “And I imagine you can’t put your foot just so, or twist like so, if your emotions are caught up where they shouldn’t be, either.”
“The mind must be one with the dance,” Astreta agreed, delighted to have found a willing audience. “There are so many of us, and moving so quickly. We cannot simply learn the steps and then produce them like windup toys. We must become this great creature together.”
“And how do you do that?” Gwen leaned forward. “How do you clear your mind? I find mine spins on and on—as if I’m on a badly trained horse, and the harder I try to control it, the more it rebels.”
Astreta’s smile changed to one of understanding. “Ah, I donot clear my mind,” she replied. “I am part of a dance company, my friend. I am full of fire. There is always drama here—always someone coming, someone going, someone falling in love, someone crying out in grief. I cannot stop all the horses that wish to gallop through my mind. I simply guide them. I create a valley, with steep walls on each side, and tell them ‘You may run as fast as you wish, but run this way!’ Then I take all the power of their galloping, and I make it my performance.”
Gwen’s lips parted a little, as though she’d seen something she wanted but couldn’t have. Isobelle nibbled her lip, watching her. Had Gwen been worrying about her jousts, about knighting without panicking? She’d always seemed so calm, so determined. So natural at it, as Madame Dupont had told her.
“I wish I knew how to do as you do,” Gwen said simply.
“I am not sure how to teach it to someone,” Astreta replied thoughtfully. “But I will say this. The horses listen better if you are not afraid of them.”
That caught Gwen off guard—enough to make her eyes widen—and then her solemn expression cracked into a smile. “Are you sure you’re not a mind reader?”
Astreta laughed merrily. “I dance alongside a dozen others every night. We leap over, under, through. Of course I am a mind reader.”
Gwen echoed that laugh with a quiet one of her own, and Astreta drew a deep breath before continuing briskly, “I must see to the company, and make sure nobody plans to make any foolish decisions tonight. Isobelle, I shall write to you next month, from Spain.”
Isobelle had been so absorbed in the exchange that she startled at hearing her own name. “It was good to see you again, Astreta.”
Astreta flashed a smile at them, then poked her head into the other half of the tent to check the way was clear. “Matthew, put away your naked body!” she shouted. “There are ladies present.”
Isobelle made what felt like the obligatory disappointed sound, and led the way back out, turning her face up to the cool night air as she and Gwen left the tent.
“She was extraordinary,” Gwen breathed. “I’ve never met anyone like that in my life.”
“I suppose not,” Isobelle agreed, finding rather uncomfortably that nowshemight be the one experiencing a twinge of jealousy. “I’ve been trying to learn some Polish, to be polite, but it’s awfully difficult. Do you speak any?”
“Me? No.” Gwen sounded surprised at the idea. “Why would I?”
“You spoke lovely French,” Isobelle replied with a shrug. She didn’t want to make any assumptions about Gwen’s education—the French had been a surprise, and had reminded her that she didn’t know what commoners were taught. Maybe it wasn’t strange at all for Gwen to burst into another language as easily as she spoke English.
“French? Oh, yes.” Gwen sounded uncomfortable, then pressed on, letting Isobelle guide her through the crowd. “I think she’s right. Astreta, I mean. That’s what I have to learn, to fight in this thing. When I’m smithing, I can do it. It’s like being somewhere else, present but utterly focused. I don’t know how to do that with a sword in my hand, or a lance against my shoulder.”
“Perhaps,” Isobelle said slowly, “it’s not so different. When you’re smithing, you’re creating. Whether it’s something for yourself, or for someone else, you’re repairing, you’re bringing into being. It’s an act of... of love.” For some reason, Isobelle found her cheeksheating, and she kept her eyes on the ground.
She could feel Gwen’s eyes on her. “And you think that’s not so different from jousting? I wouldn’t call it especially loving to knock a guy off his horse with a big stick.”
