Orson’s brow furrowed. “Well... yes. More knights are maimed or killed in the opening rounds than any other time.”
An involuntary tremor went through Isobelle, and her cup fell from her lifeless fingers—she sprang to her feet to keep it from soaking her skirts.
Orson pushed his chair back, brushing a couple of stray drops from his shin. “All right, Izzie?”
But now, she truly couldn’t speak. The early rounds could bebrutal.
She had been sitting here worrying about her marriage, when she should have been worrying about Gwen’slife.
“Will you look out for him?” she heard herself say. “For Gawain? If you get a chance? I’d—I’d hate to see his sister upset.”
“Of course,” Orson said slowly, his keen eyes thoughtful and curious. He looked at her, head tilting slightly, and his lips parted to speak—and then the door to Isobelle’s suite banged open to admit the girls, Sylvie stalking in, Jane and Hilde in her wake.
Orson rose to his feet, bowing politely. “Good day, ladies. Isobelle... I’ll do as you asked.” And then, in the face of four female stares, he took his leave.
“What did Awesome want?” Sylvie asked, walking over to inspect the remaining croissants.
“Seeing if I needed company for the tourney,” Isobelle replied, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “I should have asked him if he knew any hedge witches who could curse Sir Ralph.”
“There’s still time,” Sylvie replied. “Where’s Céline?”
“Gone to wish her brother good luck.”
“I do hope she’s not avoiding us,” Jane said, brow creasing as she walked over to carefully pick up the broken pieces of Isobelle’s teacup, setting them on the tray. “I was sorry she missed Lord Whimsitt’s feast last night.”
“And we lost both of you at the bonfire the night before,” Sylvie pointed out, her eyes narrowing a touch, every bit as thoughtful and penetrating as Orson’s. “I came by here to look for you, but you were nowhere to be found.”
“Are you all right?” Hilde asked, marching up to inspect Isobelle, then reaching out to carefully pinch her cheeks and bring some color to them.
“I’m fine,” Isobelle managed, which was so great a lie it nearly lodged in her throat—but one which at least spared her from answering Sylvie’s question. “It’s just... very real now. No more games. Now they’re playing to win.”
And whoever won would have Isobelle as his prize. No matter who it was—even Orson—she found she couldn’t bear the thought.
“Chin up, shoulders back,” said Jane, reaching out to give her arm a squeeze. “We’ll go out and face it together.”
They fell in behind her as she made her way through the castle. As though the whole place knew something had changed, people gave way to her, stepping aside like figures in a dream.
Or a nightmare.
A ripple went through the crowd as Isobelle and her companions appeared in her viewing box, and she took her place with Sylvie on one side and Jane on the other, Hilde firmly closing the door behind them and setting down the plate of cakes she’d somehow acquired on the way.
There was no opportunity for reverie out here—though Isobelle was holding on to her skirts with a white-knuckled grip, all around them were laughs and shouts, bodies crammed in on the benches to watch the tournament favorite kick off the proceedings. There were merchants selling snacks and toy dragons, bookmakerstrying in vain to interest anyone in betting against Sir Ralph, and the cheerleaders were out in front of the grandstands, waving their streamers and urging the crowd to louder cheers.
Below her and to the right, Isobelle spotted Madame Dupont. The woman’s head lifted, as if sensing eyes on her, then tilted so she could meet Isobelle’s gaze. She allowed herself the tiniest of nods—the most acknowledgment they could share under such public scrutiny—and then Dupont was looking away again. But even from here, Isobelle could see the tension in her shoulders.
“Is Lord Whimsitt coming?” Jane asked, startling Isobelle. Jane accepted a small cake from Hilde with a pleased sound.
“Too hungover this morning,” Sylvie predicted. “He’ll probably show up for the afternoon rounds.”
Isobelle could barely hear them. The wild urge had seized her to gather up her skirts and vault over the front of his lordship’s box, to run straight across the grounds to the little tent on the far side, where Gwen must be getting ready. To grab her, to let her words come pouring out, to stop time until she’d told Gwen...
... told her what?
Isobelle could admit to herself that she’d never really thought about how this would end. She’d never yet met a situation that wouldn’t bend to her sheer force of personality, and so she’d tripped into this like it was some sort of lark. A game they could play and win.
And now Gwen would pay the price.
Gwen, who had held her hand as they walked through the dark. Who had looked at her with those green, oak-touched eyes. Gwen, who wanted to kiss her, but was willing to wait as long as Isobelle needed, for the earth-shattering reverberations to settle from therealization thatshe wanted to kiss Gwen back.
