This was always how it was going to end. They had been careening toward catastrophe for weeks, and now it was here. And Isobelle’s world was going up in flames.
After several hours—or perhaps an eternity, who was she to say—Isobelle lay on Gwen’s bed, crying. Olivia had shoved her into Jane’s and Hilde’s hands with orders to get her back to the suite, and then vanished. When she returned from her mysterious errand, pink-cheeked and smelling somewhat of horse, she’d taken one look at Isobelle sobbing on the bed and then started packing.
Isobelle could not summon enough interest to ask Olivia where she’d been. The wind had gone out of Isobelle’s sails, the fire had gone out of her veins, and the unshakable certainty that had carried Isobelle through life so far was in ashes.
Gwen was locked up below the castle. Olivia had heard from the servants’ gossip channels that the dragon had flown away out of sight, and most of the castle’s forces were focused on fighting the fires in the town below.
“There’s no point in packing,” Isobelle called to Olivia, hugging the pillow harder. It smelled like whatever Gwen used to wash her hair, and a little just like Gwen. A warm smell that was part leather, part Achilles, and part linen. Isobelle had always liked it, and now she breathed it in again, wrapping it around her heart.
“No?” Olivia called back, visible through the doorway as she carefully pushed a set of knives into pockets on a long strip of canvas, and then rolled the whole thing up to shove it in a bag.
“No. I’m not going anywhere.”
Olivia looked up from her work, let out a sigh, and walkedacross to brace her hands against the doorframe. “And what’s your plan, my lady?”
“I’m going to lie here until I grow moss,” Isobelle replied, allowing herself a sniffle.
“Is that what Gwen would tell you to do?” Olivia asked, raising one eyebrow.
Isobelle buried her face in the pillow, muffling a genuine sob, and most of her words. “No. She’d tell me to run. But she’d be wrong.” Another sob pushed its way up from her gut, shaking her body. “That’s what I told her, last night. That she waswrong.”
“Isobelle,” Olivia said, clearly reaching for patience. “My job is to keep you safe. And once those men have put out the fires and had time to think, they’re going to work out that you knew what Gwen was doing. That you were wrapped up in all this, handing Gawain your favor in front of everyone. This is going to go badly. I hammered those rings outside the balcony for a reason, and this was it. You and I are going to head down that rope with our emergency supplies. I’ll have you in Londonne by tomorrow morning, and on a boat to Europe by tomorrow night.”
“You’ll have to drag me,” Isobelle shot back.
“We both know I can, if that’s what it takes. Listen, I’m onlymostlysure they’re not going to stake you out for a dragon to take you. That the conversation even took place tells me we’re done here.”
Isobelle squeezed her eyes shut. The same image of Gwen kept welling up in her mind—blood trickling down her face, pale beneath her freckles, green eyes fixed on Isobelle.I’m sorry, she’d mouthed.
Sobs took over again. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave. She hadto tell Gwen thatshewas the one who was sorry. But Gwen was under guard, and nobody was taking another drugged custard tart, and her head was throbbing, the urgent beat of her heart drumming through it as her thoughts ran in circles.
But... wait. The loud pounding was someone thumping at the door.
Isobelle lifted her tearstained face. Olivia shot her a look warning her to stay put, then threw open the door to reveal... Sylvie.
“I’ve just heard,” Sylvie said by way of greeting, heaving for breath as though she’d been running.
“I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to go out and find you,” Olivia said, stepping out of her way and tilting her head to send Sylvie through to Isobelle’s—or rather Gwen’s—room. “I’ve been trying to provoke her into doing something—see if you have better luck.”
Isobelle gazed up at her as she filled the doorway. “Where were you?” she whispered, hoarse. “You didn’t show up to the final.”
“I was—never mind.” Sylvie squinted at her, then strode over to throw open the curtains. “What are you doing just lying there, hugging Céline’s—Gwen’s—pillow? Isobelle, what’s wrong with you?”
But when Sylvie dismissed the question about where she had been, Isobelle felt a horrible certainty click into place. There wasalwaysa reason that Sylvie was anywhere, and she hadn’t been at the joust.
“You told,” she gasped, sitting up straight.
“What?” Sylvie took a step back.
“You told them about Gwen,” Isobelle whispered, horror creeping over her. “Because if Gwen hadn’t ridden, Sir Ralph would havemade it through, and you never would have— I know you blame her. And me.”
Sylvie stood perfectly still, her expression made of stone. When she spoke, she shaped each word carefully, as though if she didn’t, one of them might drop to the floor and shatter. “Isobelle, you are an idiot in love—it would be obvious even if you hadn’t told us, you should have kept a straighter face around her if you didn’t want to give it away—so I’m going to pretend you didn’t just accuse me of betraying our friendship.”
Isobelle had to remember to draw in a breath, her chest so tight she thought the air wouldn’t come. Then with a hiccup and a sniffle, she managed it. “You didn’t?”
“I wouldnever,” Sylvie replied, her voice rising as she continued. “Listen, if I’d had the right gossip to destroy her when I thought she was lying to you about who she was, perhaps I would have done it to keep her from hurting you. But I would never—not for anything—betray her tothem.”
Her words echoed between the pair of them, and Isobelle felt them settle into her bones with the weight of truth, followed by a hot flush of shame—her own guilt had planted the idea that Sylvie had betrayed them.
