“You can’t know—”
“I can, because it’s what happened to my mother!” Gwen snapped, breathing quicker, regretting the sharpness in her voice the moment she heard it cutting through the background din of the ball beyond the balcony doors.
Isobelle stared at her, one tear still rolling slowly down her perfect cheek, confusion muddying the distress in her eyes.
Gwen turned away, bracing her arms on the balustrade, relishing the cool stone against her palms. “My mother really was from Toussaint. Lady Céline of Toussaint is a real person—or was. She fell in love with my father when he was studying under a master blacksmith at the château where she lived, and when his apprenticeship was over, she gave up everything to return with him.”
Isobelle’s breath caught. “You had all those names ready when we went to see Archer for Gawain’s papers,” she murmured, her quick intelligence settling the pieces into place, more pieces thanGwen had realized she’d found. “And the way you spoke French so easily to Sylvie—that you own a horse like Achilles...”
“I think it killed her.” Gwen kept her gaze on the landscape below, stroking her thumbs along the top of the balustrade to ground herself. “I mean, I know it doesn’t work like that—I know my mother didn’t die because she was homesick. But as much as she loved my father, as much as she loved me... all she did was tell me stories of knights, and chivalry, and noble sacrifice. She just... faded away, Isobelle. While my father and I watched.”
A soft hand touched Gwen’s elbow, and Gwen fought the urge to turn into the comfort Isobelle was offering her. “I never met your mother,” Isobelle murmured. “But her story isn’t mine.”
Gwen shook her head tightly. “I can’t do that to you. My parents, with my father’s place in the village, with a good house and a community that accepted him—they had more than you and I could ever hope to have. And it still wasn’t enough. You don’t know my father—he’s the strongest man I know and watching her die nearly killed him, too. I don’t think I’m strong enough for that.”
The hand at her elbow fell away. Isobelle was quiet for a long time, though Gwen could hear her breathing, could feel the tension building in her, like steam under pressure.
Finally, Isobelle burst. “Gwen, you say you don’t want to do that to me—but you don’t get to make my choicesforme. Yes, I asked you to be my knight. But I never wanted you to be like the others.”
Gwen turned back to her, feeling her own temper rising beyond her ability to control it. “Proving my worth, and yours, that’s the only way forward for us!”
“And I’m telling you that’s impossible, that the world won’t change so easily.” Isobelle’s voice rose, her appeal in her luminouseyes. “Gwen, you’re telling me I’m too weak to leave luxury behind, making decisions to try to protect me—god, you’re no better than they are!”
Gwen felt herself take a single, staggering step back. Her vision swam and her head rang the way it did after an opponent got in a good hit, only there was no stiff armor supporting her, no horse beneath her to keep her upright. And when her vision cleared, it was no enemy’s visor in front of her eyes, but Isobelle’s face.
Isobelle drew a breath, stricken and pale, remorse writ clearly in her expression.
Gwen spoke first. “You’re wrong,” she managed in a low, even voice. “I am better than they are. And tomorrow I’m going to prove it.”
She slipped past Isobelle, twisting to avoid the hand that reached out to her, and threw herself back into the hot, loud chaos of the ballroom, heading for the doors. She thought she felt a pair of intense blue eyes tracking her as she lost herself in the crowd, but she didn’t look back. Perhaps she had only dreamed it.
Interstitial
Let’s pause for a moment here.
Lift your head and flip through the pages—there are still eighty to go. We’re still ten chapters from the end, and yet this is the eve of the great battle, isn’t it? This, right here, is the grand showdown that will determine whether likeable but not-for-her Sir Orson will take Isobelle as his prize, or whether Gwen will save Isobelle from a fate worse than... well, worse than a lot of things, anyway.
Surely there are only two ways the story could proceed from here: Gwen wins and Isobelle is saved. Or Gwen loses, Sir Orson sweeps the tournament, and both Gwen’s and Isobelle’s dreams are shattered.
There is, perhaps, a third option, where Gwen and Isobelle both swallow their pride and somehow flee together before the tournament even begins, but that feels a little unrealistic given the style with which they both just imploded.
Anyone who has ever loved a good story knows to be wary when it seems like the climax is approaching but the storyteller is just getting settled in. It suggests that the storyteller is about to pull the metaphorical rug out from under your metaphorical feet—a terrible, unfair manipulation by all accounts. Unforgiveable, really, what said storyteller’s about to do. For all intents and purposes: she is about to lie to you.
So, as the sun peeps over the forest bordering Darkhaven town and dawn begins to trickle across the hills and dales and picturesque thatched roofs, down to the tournament grounds already beginning to fill with fans, let us ponder a single question:
Given a choice between winning, losing, or running away... what could possibly happen that would be worse than all three of those fates?
Chapter Forty-One
The crowd went wild
The morning of the tournament dawned clear and bright, as though the weather knew the importance of the day and did not dare bring rain or fog to mar it. The air was thick with buzzing anticipation, more people crowded into the tournament grounds than Isobelle had ever seen. Children ran about, laughing and fighting each other with wooden swords and lances, people stood waiting in lines a hundred strong for snacks, and musicians were stationed at intervals around the grounds, entertaining those waiting to find their place to watch.
Merriment was everywhere—and all Isobelle could do was paste a smile onto her face.
If she hadn’t already been wrestling with the guilt and unhappiness threatening to swallow her, she would have had to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation when Olivia showed up to watch the final joust.
Usually her maid preferred to lurk on the edges of major events, but she must have shared Isobelle’s concern that things might move quickly today. Olivia was sitting in the back of his lordship’s box, behind Isobelle, Jane, and Hilde, but Isobelle couldn’t see how even Olivia, with her nerves of steel, could handle the horrible thickness of anticipation in the air.
