Isobelle fought back a laugh. “What I mean is, when you’re smithing, your heart is open. But when I watched you practicing with Madame Dupont... I could see your racing thoughts from the other side of the orchard. It wasn’t about feeling, you were trying to think your way through it.”
Gwen made a soft sound, half exhalation, halfhmmmm. “Men speak of mastering their emotions,” she replied. “They say women are too emotional to fight, even if we were strong enough to wield a blade.”
“But Astreta can’t do what she does without her emotion,” Isobelle pointed out. “I don’t think you can beat the other knights by trying to be like them—your strength comes from a different place than theirs. Maybe all you need to do is stop trying to block it out, and... let it come.”
An answering silence made Isobelle lift her head finally, to find Gwen’s eyes on her, the green glinting with gold in the light of the torches. Gwen’s fair cheeks were flushed, her gaze intent in a way Isobelle had never seen before.
“I have to just let the horses run,” Gwen murmured. “And not corral them.”
Isobelle’s heart was leaping as quickly as it had been when the dragon dancers first coalesced into that mighty, ancient beast. For a wild moment, she wanted to grab Gwen by the hand and race with her back to the stables, to find Achilles, to ride out under the moon and watch her champion joustherway, their way. To see whatGwen could do when she let herself go.
Then a group of children tore by, shrieking with laughter and making them both jump. Gwen blinked and shuddered a breath, and Isobelle looked up with some surprise to realize they were in the middle of a crowd, not on a moonlit field of battle—and, worst of all, they were not far from where the other girls had set up a picnic on the lawn.
For a moment, Gwen looked as though she might say something. But then Hilde spotted them and called out—“Isobelle! Céline!”—and the moment was lost.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The violence is too much for her delicate constitution
It wasn’t until they’d reached the edge of the picnic blanket that Gwen remembered the uncomfortable truth. The last time she’d seen the rest of Isobelle’s friends, she’d been fleeing the room at the prospect of kissing Isobelle in front of them. Her steps flagged, but Isobelle had sped up, and she stood surveying the food the girls had collected in the center of the blanket like a trio of dragons hoarding their treasure.
Too late to run away now.
She pasted on her best imitation of Isobelle’s flighty smile and joined the other girls. They all looked spectacular—Sylvie was in a saffron gown that contrasted with her hair and her complexion like the yellow and brown petals of a pansy. Jane too drew the eye in a dress that loved her curves—Hilde was teasing her about her cleavage as Gwen approached.
Once she sat, the aromas of fried dough and grilled meat hit her nose, and she half forgot her qualms. Hilde gave her arm a kindly pat and then handed her a metal cup.
“Dragonsblood punch,” the German girl said with a wink. “Nowhere near as strong as the tea, ich verspreche.”
Jane gave a cheerful laugh and downed her cup, and all was normal again. Well, all except for Sylvie, who regarded Gwen with aflat, expressionless stare as she sipped her punch.
Though that, Gwen supposed, was becoming normal, too. She wished she could tell whether it was just that the other girl didn’t like her, or that she could tell something wasn’t quite right about “Céline” and her cover story.
Gwen took a cautious sip of her drink—it was sweet and dark, mulled wine mixed with berry juices, liable to stain her whole mouth a charming maroon—and surveyed the food as the other girls regaled Isobelle with bits of gossip they’d picked up from around the festival.
The main bonfire, some distance down the hill from where they sat, was being lit. Workers carried bundles of sticks and straw to the giant pile of wood, where a torchbearer set them ablaze before they were thrown, streaming sparks, onto the heap. The whole thing leapt to life, changing the colors of the night from violet and azure to smoldering orange and gold.
Isobelle had seated herself beside Gwen. “I’m excited for you to see the ceremony,” she said, leaning back with a grin. “Even if most of it is boring speeches about the days when the villages hit by dragon attacks would send representatives to the castle seeking aid and shelter.”
Sylvie cocked her head in their direction, one eyebrow rising. “Do they not have dragon relief ceremonies where you come from, Céline?”
“Hmm?” Gwen blinked at her, pretending she hadn’t heard to buy herself time to think. “Not in Toussaint, no. The dragons tended to stay farther north, and at any rate we are a small enough province that the—the peasants”—Gwen choked the word out—“were dealt with one on one.”
A fanfare erupted down by the bonfire, and the girls turned toward the action, sparing Gwen any further interrogation about the homeland she’d never been to. Lord Whimsitt had arrived to a smattering of halfhearted applause, and was starting to give a rather predictable speech about the trials of ages past, when dragons roamed the land. Rolling her eyes, Hilde began quizzing Jane on the latter’s newest boyfriend, a lowly squire to one of the visiting knights—But he’s sostrong,girls, if you could see him without his shirt, my goodness.
Whimsitt’s speech wrapped up, and a visiting nobleman took his place to give his own speech. Others began to circulate among the clusters of society scattered along the hillside. Whenever they stopped at Isobelle’s miniature court, she would introduce Gwen as Céline and mention her fictional brother—doing exactly as Madame Dupont had instructed her. Fortunately, Gwen was not required to contribute much at all to these conversations. It seemed perfectly acceptable for her to smile shyly and say nothing.
A familiar form passing some distance away caught her eye, and Gwen had to stifle a laugh. When Isobelle glanced at her, Gwen leaned in and whispered, “There is Sir Evonwald. He’s still limping.”
“How tragic for him,” Isobelle whispered back, her lips close enough to Gwen’s ear to stir the hair there, and making Gwen lose track of her amusement altogether.
“Don’t look now, Isobelle,” said Sylvie sharply, her tone for once devoid of the knowing languor that so often marked it, her eyes fixed on someone amid the crowd.
Isobelle’s gaze snapped over, and she gave a swift gasp, her face paling. “Oh, crap. Hide me, girls. Quick—”
There was a flutter of activity and a hissed, “No, no, it’s too late, he’s seen you,” and then all was serene again, as a middle-aged man in a rust-colored doublet approached the blanket.
“Ah, Lady Isobelle,” he said slowly, coming to a halt a step closer to their blanket than was strictly necessary.
