Another lunge, a parry, a twist of her arm... and Orson’s sword thudded heavily into the dirt a few feet away, followed not much later by Orson himself, staggering backward with too much momentum to avoid crashing to the ground with a thud and a whoop of expelled breath.
Gwen’s heart pounded so loudly she barely heard the scrape of her sword as she slid it back into its sheath. She took a few steps toward Orson, who sat like a crab with his hands braced behind him and his bent knees slightly akimbo, blinking up at her. She saw that flash again, searing and unlikely on Orson’s friendly face. Her heart sank, but she held out her hand anyway in a silent offer to help him up.
Orson stared at her a moment longer—and then he burst out laughing, running one hand through his sweaty, disheveled hair and then clapping the other against Gwen’s palm. “Well, damn,” he said cheerfully, eyes dancing. “I guess I’d better hope I knock you off your horse tomorrow, huh?”
Relief washed through Gwen like a gust of fresh air after a lifetime of being stuck underground. “Want me to showyoua few things?” she offered with a grin as she hauled him to his feet.
Orson rolled his eyes, shook his head, and went off to locate his sword in the tall grass. “Give me a sec to catch my breath, and then we’re going again.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
If I taught you to dream, then I was wrong
Isobelle pressed a coin into the man’s hand, unleashing the full force of her blue eyes. “Remember,” she said. “I’m relying on you.”
“We won’t fail you, my lady,” he assured her. Then he turned away to lift his fiddle and tuck it under his chin, launching into another tune that set the dance floor swirling.
Under any other circumstances, Isobelle would have been buzzing about the ball for weeks in advance, planning her gown and accessories, discussing dancing and partnering strategy with the girls, and perhaps, justperhaps, allowing herself the tiniest little fantasy about some dashing, mysterious stranger showing up to sweep her off her feet.
Instead, she had found herself that evening looking blankly at a crimson dress Olivia had picked out for her, trying to summon some enthusiasm for something so frivolous as a dance, when her mind was on Gwen, on Sylvie, on the fate awaiting Isobelle herself, if—when—all their plans unraveled.
Now she found herself bribing the musicians to play the one song she knew where women partnered each other for sections of the dance, so that she could look Gwen in the eye for just a moment.
She paused at the edge of the dance floor, letting her gaze sweepover the room with practiced ease, absorbing the social intricacies of the scene before her without conscious effort.
There was Jane, chatting in a corner with a boy who looked suspiciously like the squire she fancied. She’d stuffed him into noble’s clothes, and he was somewhere between thrilled and terrified, his eyes huge.
Once upon a time, Isobelle would have laughed with delight at the deception. Now, it made something knot with anger inside her. Why shouldn’t the two of them be together? Why should the boy have to hide himself, just because he wasn’t born to the right parents? Why shouldn’t Jane be allowed to choose him if she wanted?
Next she found Sylvie. Her friend looked like a perfect glass figurine, whirling around the dance floor in Sir Ralph’s possessive arms. Sylvie’s form was flawless, but her gaze distant, as though she was barely aware he was touching her at all.
I’m sorry, Sylvie. I should have seen it coming.
It had been unbearable, the night before, when Sylvie had finally wept. It had felt impossible to be the cause of her pain and somehow try to comfort her. Clever, sharp-tongued Sylvie had always been her most dangerous friend, but also her dearest.
Sylvie’s gaze was tracking something, and when Isobelle turned her head slightly, she saw that Sylvie was watching Gwen.
Gwen had found herself dancing with Sir Makarios of Rhodes, the man who had laughed and congratulated Sir Gawain for defeating him. He laughed again now as Gwen said something to entertain him. And when Gwen smiled, Sylvie’s expression flickered in something akin to a flinch.
Olivia had outdone herself with Gwen’s gown—it gathered in at her trim waist, using fabric in a warm gold that brought out thesame shade in her green eyes. It seemed to fold around her body as though she were emerging from a bright, golden flame, accentuating the high neckline necessary to hide her bruises. The underskirts had been thinned out so Gwen could move as she preferred, and Olivia had even got her to sit still long enough to carefully paint shimmering gold around her eyes, giving her the look of a magical creature who’d wandered into Lord Whimsitt’s ball.
Gwen wasbeautiful, and smiling at Sir Makarios as he peppered her with questions and comments about Sir Gawain, but Isobelle could see the strain in her face.Shewas the one who had bested him. The compliments on his lips were forher, not her imaginary brother. But Gwen would never—could never—see that admiration directed at her.
All around her, Isobelle’s gaze took in the same story, over and over.
Jane, Sylvie, Gwen, and Isobelle herself, all trapped in different cells of the same jail, with the men of the court holding the keys.
The musicians drew to a close with a flourish, and her heart leapt as she stepped forward—it was time to claim Gwen, time to take her hand, even if only for a few seconds, and—
“May I have the honor?”
Orson took her arm gently, and she nearly threw him off, nearly whirled away, her breath catching with the effort of it as she restrained herself to a single twitch.
“Izzie?” His eyes widened, his hand falling away. “Are you...?”
“Orson, I’m sorry.” She made her mouth smile, made her eyes focus on him.
“It’s the saltarello,” he pointed out cautiously. “Very few opportunities for me to step on your toes.”
