Gwen led Isobelle away from the village center and between the fields of Lambton and his neighbor, out to where the trees began. The transition was stark, for the farmers kept the land clear right up to the line of the forest. One moment they were walking through knee-high grass, and the next, they were beneath the ancient canopy of oak and blackthorn and ash. The weight of their age had given Gwen a strange, shivery feeling as a child—as if she were stepping back in time, able to glimpse the ghosts of what these trees might have witnessed centuries ago.
Like dragons.
Isobelle was being uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes focused on where she put her feet. Ahead of them was the creek whose groundwaters fed the village well half a league away, and its whispering chatter rose as they approached, filling the silence between them.
Gwen had grown up listening to Bertin’s stories. She’d always known dragons weren’t far lost to history—when she’d play in these very woods as a child, her parents would warn her to keep one eye on the branches and the other on the undergrowth, just in case. A village doesn’t lose its memories that quickly.
Isobelle, however, had just learned that dragons werereal. Not a creature found only in ancient histories, but a flesh and bloodmonster that had nearly cost old Bertin his life.
They came up on the edge of the creek at one of Gwen’s favorite spots, where a crop of boulders interrupted its flow in a series of babbling, rushing rapids and tiny waterfalls. She began to climb them automatically, but stopped after the first boulder when she realized Isobelle was lagging behind.
Gwen turned, then dropped into a crouch, wishing the moon were not quite so fickle about hiding behind the clouds. Just now, it was difficult to see Isobelle’s face in the darkness.
Then Isobelle spoke. “No one is going to help those women,” she said quietly.
Gwen paused. She’d expected her to burst out with some comment about Bertin’s story, or the difference between the memories kept by castle and village.
Instead, Isobelle met Gwen’s gaze through the gloom. “No one in power is going to listen to those villagers who came asking for help. No one will believe them.I’mstill struggling to believe them, and I just met a man whose face was disfigured by dragonsfire.”
The treetops began to whisper against each other, though the air below was still. The clouds over the moon shifted, allowing a wash of pale light to filter through the leaves, casting swaying spirits of silver across Isobelle’s face.
Gwen glanced down and saw Isobelle’s hands balled into fists at her sides, and before she could register the impulse, she sat down on the stone, slid forward, and reached out. Gwen curled her fingers over Isobelle’s, her thumbs settling against the backs of her hands. They felt chilled compared to Gwen’s—she longed to lend Isobelle some of her warmth. Gwen let the pad of one thumb slide across the dips and swells of Isobelle’s knuckles, and with someastonishment, watched the tension ease away under her touch.
In a rush, Isobelle said, “We have to do something. If no one else is going to do something about it, then we should.”
Gwen allowed herself the briefest look at Isobelle’s face, and immediately wished she hadn’t. The sight of her—lit by shifting moonlight, anguish flooding her gaze, rosebud lips in a thin, determined line—almost robbed her of speech and sense entirely. Gwen imagined pulling her closer, flush up against the rock where Gwen sat, so she could lean forward and soften the clench of Isobelle’s lips the way she’d done her hands.
“We will,” Gwen managed faintly, having put so much effort into staying still that she had none left over for words. “You and me. We’ll do something about it.”
Gwen must have moved after all, because Isobelle answered her summons and shifted closer against the rock, her hips between Gwen’s knees where they dangled over the edge of the stone.
“Olivia will tell us in the morning where they’re being held, and on what grounds.” Isobelle blinked, gaze shifting from a place of future plans and deliberation to refocus on Gwen’s face. “This whole white knight thing,” she said with a laugh. “I can see why you like it.”
Gwen swallowed, so moved she couldn’t answer. Isobelle could simply have dismissed Bertin’s story and the women who’d come seeking help. It would have been easier for her to let it all be a mere blip of unpleasantness marring an otherwise frivolous evening of snacks and bonfire festivities.
But here she was, rewriting her entire understanding of the world, and making plans to charge into battle to fix it.
“Thank you,” Gwen whispered finally, daring no more than togive one of Isobelle’s hands a tiny squeeze. “For coming here tonight with me.”
“I’m more glad you brought me than you’ll ever know.” Isobelle’s face was earnest—Gwen could feel the blue stare fixing on her again in that unnerving way it had of trying to see through her carefully constructed barriers. Isobelle drew breath to speak, but then stopped, that breath hitching.
Gwen’s eyes snapped up, automatically wary. Isobelle, hesitating? She’d have been less surprised if a dragon had charged out of the undergrowth.
“That girl from before,” Isobelle said finally, her words somewhat rushed. “The dancer, at the village bonfire?”
Gwen’s heart thudded, and her alarm narrowed down to a single focus. “Fiora,” she provided. “What about her?”
Isobelle was looking down at the stone between them. When Gwen dropped her gaze, she saw their skirts pooled together on the rock, the moonlight blending them into one.
“You said you used to have a crush on her,” Isobelle said, evenly enough. “What made you stop?”
You.
The mental response was so quick that Gwen had to bite her lip furiously to stop the word from coming out. In actuality, it wouldn’t have been true anyway. She’d given up pursuing Fiora a year ago, long before she ever met Isobelle.
Not that you’re pursuing Isobelle now, her mind told her, biting back that moonlit pathway of thought just as furiously as she was biting her lip.
For one glaring moment, Gwen considered making something up.
