But Gwen wasn’t there.
Instead, she found Gwen’s bedroom door open, her bed neatly made, not even an echo of her presence. Her mouth dry, she stood there frozen, wondering if Gwen had simply left her quarters already, or if Gwen had...left.
At a soft noise behind her, she whirled, only to find Olivia in one of the armchairs, calmly mending the gray dress Isobelle had borrowed from Gwen in the village. Somehow the blackberry stains were gone, and her maid was on to the rips and tears the thorns had left.
“She went to start getting ready,” Olivia said, answering the unspoken question. “There’s a while yet before it’s time to go watch her ride. Come over here, and you can get started on this mess you’ve made of the hem.”
By midmorning, Isobelle had helped Olivia mend both the ruined dresses, stress-cleaned the living room, heartlessly culled her wardrobe—the perfect time to get rid of dresses you’d beenhanging on to was when nothing seemed to matter—and choked down a croissant that only made her think of Gwen. Whathadthat girl done to her? Isobelle couldn’t even enjoy a good stress-eat anymore.
Her stomach churned, tying itself in knots as Olivia laced her into her dress and smoothed down the folds of rich emerald-green fabric with gentle hands. Isobelle bowed her head so her maid could tuck sprigs of lavender in around her temples and across the crown of her head. It felt as though she were about to walk to the gallows, and all she had left was her dignity.
Then came a knock at the door, and her heart leapt, a flood of... ofsomethingrunning through her, sending a thrill of anticipation through her limbs. She pulled away from Olivia and, fingers fumbling to finish tying the ribbon at her bodice herself, she hurried—ran, if she was being entirely honest—to fling open the door.
Orson was waiting on the other side, blinking in surprise at the drama of her greeting. “Good morning,” he ventured. “That’s a nice dress.”
“I... oh.” Isobelle felt numb, wishing she could simply ask him to leave, but she couldn’t remember how to do it nicely. “Come in.”
With an expression that said he wanted to ask who she’d been expecting, he followed her inside and took a seat. Olivia poured them each a cup of tea and then disappeared into Isobelle’s room to make the bed, or—more likely—listen at the door.
“I wanted to see how you’re feeling, with the tourney proper kicking off,” Orson said, watching Olivia go. “You’ve got a brave face on, but I know you better than that.”
And he did, the dear thing. Orson had been there since Isobellewas small, like a friendly piece of furniture. She’d seen him cry when he’d fallen off his first pony, a beast of a creature called Snowflake, who had frequently tried to bite him. He’d been there during the awkward phase when she’d tried to dye her hair the deep red of a traveling actress she’d admired.
Isobelle studied his profile. He was classically handsome: square jaw, blond hair that tousled nicely, even a fetching scar on his eyebrow—though it was less roguish when you knew it had come courtesy of an evil-minded pony.
He should have been enough. She wished he were.
“I’m all right,” she said when she realized he was still waiting for a reply. “Just... for the first time in my life, I’m finding it hard to have towatchas things unfold.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “You know that.”
“Of course,” she murmured, her eyes on her skirts as she sat and smoothed them out around her. The note in her voice was all wrong, too dull, and she knew he’d heard it.
“I know I’m not what you dreamed of,” he said, giving her the most uncomfortable feeling he’d read her mind.
“Any girl would be lucky to have you,” she said firmly.
“But you wanted a love story,” he returned, his smile gentle, remembering conversations long past in their childhood.
Isobelle looked down at the cup of tea in her hands. She couldn’t remember having picked it up. “That was a silly thing to want,” she whispered.
“I think we could be happy,” he ventured. “If I won. I don’t... desire you, as the others do. That’s not a part of me. But there are worse things than a marriage of friends, don’t you think? Once we’d got it over with, had an heir and a spare, well. Your dowrywould make us comfortable. And you’d have my respect, and my friendship, and a great deal more freedom than most women.”
Isobelle’s chest felt tight, and she couldn’t find the words to reply. Or rather, the words she couldn’t speak tried to force their way up her throat, past her lips. It was a better option than any of the others she was facing, and a better offer than most women in her position could hope to find.
But how could I want such a gray and cloudy day of a life now I’ve seen a rainbow?
The silence went on too long, and Orson’s eyebrows drew in. “I shouldn’t speak so plainly,” he murmured.
“No, no,” Isobelle replied, glancing up at his honest face with a pang. He was her friend. In his own way, he must dread a marriage too, and she must seem like his best option as well. She searched for the right lie, and when she found it, she let it spill out. “It’s just too soon to think about it. I can’t let myself want anything. Not yet.”
“I understand,” he said. “Will you be watching today?”
“Yes,” she managed, the numb dread surging back in. “My friend’s brother is riding. Sir Gawain.” She tried to speak the name without any emphasis, but she saw Orson’s gaze sharpen on her curiously.
“Right, against Sir Ralph.” He winced. “Well, at least it will probably be over quickly enough. Let us hope so, at any rate. The early rounds in particular, with the less experienced chaps, can be brutal.”
Isobelle started, unable to conceal the pang that ran through her. “Brutal?” she echoed.
