This is your fault.
The words forced themselves into Isobelle’s mind. She didn’t know if they came from herself, or from Sylvie, but they were true. If she hadn’t found a way to dodge Sir Ralph—if she hadn’t humiliated and infuriated him in doing it—he never would have looked for a way to bring her down a peg. For that was exactly what this was.
And now Sylvie—sharp, clever, dangerous Sylvie—was going to lose her claws. She was going to diminish slowly on some country estate, far from everyone who loved her, for there was no way she’d be allowed to stay with her friends, the only people who would support her, help her keep her strength.
“Oh, Sylvie,” Isobelle whispered.
“Don’t say anything,” Sylvie replied tightly.
So Isobelle didn’t. Instead, she flung herself at her friend and wrapped her arms around her neck, wishing she could shield her from all the harm in the world.
With a wordless sound, Sylvie’s arms went around her in return.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I can show you a thing or two
Gwen slipped out of Isobelle’s suite the next morning as quietly as she could. Jane had apparently passed out on one of the chaise longues, and was snoring tiny, delicate snores. Gwen suspected that Hilde and Sylvie had slept over too, but were in Isobelle’s room with her.
Sylvie.Gwen’s stomach churned just thinking the girl’s name, much less remembering the remote, pale look on her face as she stared Isobelle down while she delivered her news, each sentence slamming home for Isobelle like a direct hit from a lance. Gwen had never seen Isobelle look so suddenly stricken, not even when she’d gotten a glimpse of Gwen’s bruises after her joust against Ralph.
A soft sound alerted Gwen to another presence in the room. Olivia had returned from seeing the freed villagers to safety, and sat by the window, re-feathering a pink-and-teal confection of a hat. Her fingers moved automatically at their work, her eyes on Gwen.
Gwen hesitated, raising her eyebrows. Her instincts told her it would be wise not to let Sylvie see her here when she woke, that Isobelle could better handle her friend’s despair about her fate if the instrument of that fate wasn’t sitting nearby, wearing Sylvie’s modified dresses and eating cake.
But maybe her “instincts” were just telling her what would be easier for Gwen.
Olivia let Gwen hang there for some time, expression inscrutable. Though she’d seemed pleased with Gwen’s abilities the night before, Olivia still gave off a faint air of disapproval, as if she knew what Isobelle and Gwen were trying to ignore: that this plan, all of it, was ultimately a fool’s game.
When Olivia finally spoke, her voice was barely audible, a practiced thing that carried far less than a whisper. “The villagers are safe,” she said, securing a neatly trimmed peacock plume to the hat with a careful half hitch. Her needle glinted in the morning sunlight.
Gwen eased closer, eyeing the sleeping Jane and lowering her voice. “Where did you take them?”
Olivia’s eyes betrayed something, fleeting and easily missed—a gleam of amusement. “Ellsdale.”
Gwen’s breath caught, and she frantically swallowed to try to stop herself from launching into a fit of noisy coughing. “My village? Why?”
Olivia’s needle dipped back into the fabric, circled the calamus of the peacock plume again, and pulled tight. “I needed a place that wasn’t too far for them to walk. And they seemed like nice people there. I felt certain they’d find places for those women and their families.”
Gwen eyed her askance, confusion having supplanted her unease about Sylvie and her fate. “You’ve been to my village?”
Olivia eyed her flatly. “If you think I didn’t learn everything there was to learn about you the day you showed up here to take part in my lady’s ridiculous plan, you’re a fool.” The needle dipped again calmly. “Your father had things well in hand when I left.”
Gwen tried to imagine her father having anything at all well in hand. But Olivia had a way of speaking that brooked noopposition—even Isobelle responded to that note when Olivia employed it.
A muffled thump and rustle from behind Isobelle’s closed doors made both Olivia and Gwen glance toward them. Olivia reacted first, looking up at Gwen and tilting her head. “I believe you were sneaking out to avoid the aftermath, yes? Might want to see that through.”
Gwen shot her a grateful look and slipped out.
The morning had dawned clear, with the faintest of crisp tangs in the air that warned of the turning of the seasons. The sun would banish that warning within the hour, but Gwen inhaled deeply as she walked across the courtyard toward the stables, allowing her mind to summon the smells of fallen leaves and apples, of long-roasted meats and winter stews.
They were the smells of her village in autumn. Would Gwen be there this year to enjoy them?
Gwen’s throat tightened and her stomach roiled. Each time she pushed those thoughts away, each time she made herself focus on the final tomorrow instead of what would come after, the fear gripped her all the harder next time. The tangle of thoughts was like a flaw in a blade; she could hammer it smooth through sheer brute force as many times as she wanted, but the fault was still there, and once she finished the forging, the metal would shatter when it cooled.
And now, she had one more thread to add to the awful tangle of worry and confusion. She couldn’t have known it would happen, but the simple truth was that her involvement in this scheme had ruined Sylvie’s life.
Achilles greeted her with cheerful enthusiasm, snuffling at herclothes as she saddled him, searching for treats she hadn’t brought. She belted her sword to the saddle, swung a leg over—it was early enough no one would be around to see “Lady Céline” riding astride—and galloped away toward the practice fields.
