“Jane,” Isobelle tried, but she was swallowed up by the sensation that something inside her was falling. This was the moment it all came undone. Gwen was looking at her, white beneath her beautiful freckles.
Sylvie whirled around to face Jane and Hilde, her hand sweeping down Gwen like she was some kind of tourney prize. “You don’t see it, girls?”
“What?” Jane blinked.
“But how...?” Hilde managed, one beat ahead of her friend.
Gwen closed her eyes. It hurt to watch her, to see the instant it was all stripped away.
Gwen, I’m sorry. I thought we had longer. I still have things to say.
“Ohhhhhh,” said Jane slowly, her eyes widening as comprehension wormed its way into her brain and made itself at home. “Oh, nowonderCéline never came to the jousts!”
“Well, I for one don’t blame us for not seeing it sooner,” Hilde said firmly, hands on her hips. “Whoever would have guessed it?”
Sylvie tilted a glance at Isobelle. “I assume this was your idea?”
“Be fair,” Hilde chided. “Céline could already joust. Isobelle just recruited her to this particular cause. Have you jousted secretly in Europe, Céline?”
Gwen puffed out her cheeks, then let out a slow breath. “No,” she said simply, before making things considerably more complicated: “And my name’s not Céline. It’s Gwen. I come from Ellsdale. My father’s Amos, the village blacksmith.”
Ah, thought Isobelle.So we’re divesting ourselves of the lies completely. May as well, I suppose.
“Oh!” Jane lit up. “Your father’s the one who made the delightful horseshoes!”
“I think,” said Hilde slowly, “that it was Gwen who made them.”
“Wait... so your whole romance with Gawain was a lie, Isobelle?” Jane asked, far more distressed by that than by the revelation of Gwen’s identity.
Gwen’s gaze fell on Isobelle, waiting. Even now, she was giving Isobelle the space she needed to make her decision. Permission to keep this much, at least, a secret—to stay in the comfortable familiarity of her friends without challenging the way they saw her.
To hell with that, Isobelle thought, lifting her chin. “No,” she said. “No... it wasn’t a lie.”
Jane’s eyes widened and shifted toward Gwen, and then slid back to Isobelle, searching for signs of this new concept on her friend’s familiar features.
Hilde’s lips curved into a smile, her rosy cheeks going pinker with pleasure, and she stepped forward to take Isobelle’s hand and squeeze it. “And here I thought you had not noticed the way you were looking at your champion’s sister.”
Isobelle gulped for breath, not having realized she’d been holding it. She glanced over at Gwen, her shoulders dropping with relief—only to realize Gwen wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at Sylvie, biting her lip, eyes full of sympathy.
Isobelle blinked. Did Gwen think Sylvie was jealous? True, Sylvie had been more suspicious of “Lady Céline” than the others, but... Isobelle inspected her friend, taking in the set of her jaw, the thin line of her mouth. Sylvie’s arms weren’t crossed, she realized—she was hunched in on herself.
“Sylvie... ” Isobelle said, ignoring the cold that had reached her fingertips now. “What’s going on? Why were you all gathered in my room, before Gwen and I got here?”
Jane and Hilde both looked to Sylvie.
Sylvie lifted her chin, eyes remote and calm. “My father has arranged my betrothal.”
Isobelle pressed her hand to her mouth. “What?” she managed, from behind it.
“He had an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Sylvie continued. “An unexpected offer, from a man who found himself in the market for a wife.”
Isobelle wanted to stop time. She wanted to take two quick steps back and bolt through the door. Back to the staircase, where she’d kissed Gwen, and had been invincible. Back to Hilde squeezing her hand, understanding her and Gwen, together. But the cold dread inside her rooted her to the spot.
“Sylvie...” she whispered.
Sylvie’s mouth tremored, just for an instant, before it firmed again. But that small hint was like watching the castle itself crumble, great stones falling to the ground as the walls collapsed. “I amto marry Sir Ralph.”
A sound emerged from Gwen like she’d received a physical blow—and Isobelle felt her own body go rigid all over. She could not take her eyes from Sylvie’s face, though, seeking something, anything, that would undo what she had said.
