His proximity made Isobelle crane her neck a touch to look up at him—which she did, with a brittle, fully dimpled smile.
“Sir Ralph,” she replied. “How nice to see you.”
Gwen froze, unable to stop staring at the man towering over them. Sothiswas the Sir Ralph who was favored to win the tournament—and thus, win Isobelle? This was the man she would have to face in the lists in order to win Isobelle’s freedom.
He must be three times Isobelle’s age, but where other men might have put on some fat and lost some muscle, he looked solidly built. His face was angular, and it would have even been handsome but for an undefinable miserly quality to his expression. The eyes were a pale hazel, narrowed, piercing, like those of a bird of prey.
Or a dragon, thought Gwen.
“Enjoying the informality of the festival, I see,” he said, gaze sweeping across their rumpled blanket, the remains of their feast, and the semi-reclined forms of Isobelle’s friends. His voice had an uncomfortable thickness to it, like something—phlegm, perhaps—was permanently lodged in his throat. “How fortunate Lord Whimsitt decided to permit you to attend.”
“Indeed,” said Isobelle, allowing her smile to fade now the greeting was over. “What is tonight for, if not for relaxing the restrictions of conventional society?”
“I heard,” said Sylvie brightly, “that in Spain, their dragon bonfire ceremonies are masked, and it leads to all sorts of bad behavior.Though I’m not entirely sure I know what they mean by that.” That last was with an innocent, puzzled flutter of her lashes. Sir Ralph’s gaze slid toward her, allowing Isobelle a moment to breathe.
Sylvie was taking the heat off her friend, if only for a few heartbeats.
Gwen could have hugged her just then.
Sir Ralph’s piercing, raptor-like gaze swiveled back toward his intended prey. “I have brought you a gift, Lady Isobelle.”
Isobelle was a beat too late in responding. Gwen could feel the other girl’s flare of panic. A gift, from someone like Sir Ralph, was little more than a transactional loan.
Isobelle would be expected, eventually, to pay him back in whatever way he demanded.
“How kind of you,” she said finally.
“I seem to recall you being fond of dragonscale sweets,” said the man, reaching for a pouch hanging from his belt and unhooking it. “I thought I would bring you a bag, so you wouldn’t have to knock anyone down to get them this year.”
“Knock anyone...” Isobelle looked blank for a moment, until a wave of realization swept through her, and she pressed her lips together as though she might be sick. “I was seven years old when that happened, Sir Ralph.”
The man smiled, though it did little to dispel the predatory set of his eyes. “Yes, I distinctly remember remarking on it to my wife, may she rest in peace.Seven years old and already such a beauty.” He inclined his torso in as courtly a bow as any girl could wish from a suitor and placed the bag of sweets in front of Isobelle on the blanket. “Enjoy your evening, Lady Isobelle.” A glance toward Sylvie, even the slight pretense at a smile vanishing. “Ladies.” This, utteredin the same tone one might say “boils” or “fungus.” And then he was turning to move on toward a group of dignitaries.
Nobody spoke until he was out of earshot.
Hilde broke the silence with a vocalized shudder, extending one leg so she could kick at the bag of sweets and knock it off the blanket. Then she looked over at Isobelle, who was sitting stock-still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes distant. “He will not win, Isobelle,” said Hilde softly. “I know it in my heart.”
Gwen couldn’t take her eyes off Isobelle’s face. For a stretch of heartbeats, she didn’t move, didn’t respond, didn’t so much as acknowledge Hilde had spoken.
Then Isobelle blinked, as if hearing a voice across a long, long distance and waking from a dream. “Hmm?” Her head turned, and she laughed, a high, sweet sound that wiped away the memory of Sir Ralph’s low, rattly tones. “Don’t worry. If he does win, I’ll just have Olivia assassinate him after all.”
That elicited a laugh, however strained, from the other girls. Slowly, they began to claw themselves back toward some kind of normal—weaving around them that soft, careful magic of camaraderie that kept the world, and men like Sir Ralph, at bay.
But Gwen’s whole body still felt chilled. It was one thing to know Isobelle would be married off to whoever won the tournament, or even to imagine someone harmless like Sir Orson at her side. It was another toseethe man everyone expected to win her as a prize.
Gwen had never quite let herself imagine truly winning, for what good could possibly come from it? Isobelle would hardly be allowed to marry a fictional knight—even if the deception held through the inevitable ceremonies and awards to follow a victory.
But now, in this moment, she realized she could not bear to lose.
As the other girls turned their attention back toward the bonfire, Gwen took a slow, steadying breath and leaned toward Isobelle.
“I won’t let him win,” she whispered.
Isobelle met her gaze for the first time since Sir Ralph had approached their blanket. She said nothing, but that remoteness in her eyes faded, and, hidden between their bodies on the blanket, her pinky slid over and curled around Gwen’s.
“I cannot wait until tomorrow,” Hilde’s voice cut in, and Isobelle jerked her hand away from Gwen’s. “Have you a favorite, Céline? Someone other than your brother, who you intend to give your favor to?”
Gwen scrambled for an excuse as to why she wouldn’t be watching the joust, but her mind was on the way her hand was still tingling against the blanket. “A favorite?” she echoed.
