Gwen swallowed, scanning her father’s torchlit features. “Dad... how did you get in here? The whole place is guarded. How...” Now that her shock had worn off, she could scan hisattire, trying to wrestle with the confusion of seeing her father, who in her entire life Gwen had only seen wear a total of three shirts, all in the same style, dressed as a castle guard.
Amos laughed and released his grip on her hands enough to pat one of them gently. “Gwen, my darling—wemakethe armor for the castle guard.” He rapped his knuckles against the breastplate with a lopsided smile.
Gwen felt herself losing her grip on her own emotions, an uneven sob of laughter escaping her. Then she looked up, meeting her father’s eyes, and swallowed hard. “Dad... there was no blacksmithing internship.”
Amos’s expression softened, and he patted her hand again. “I know, Gwen. I’ve known since the first day you came back, glowing like a miniature sun, and tried to tell me you didn’t know if you’d gotten your internship.”
Gwen’s legs, already unsteady, gave way and she sat down rather heavily on the floor of her cell. “What? You knew? Why... why didn’t you tell me you knew?Howdid you know?”
Her father grinned at her, then groaned as he braced a palm on the stone and sat down on the other side of the bars. “I’d love to blow your mind and just say ‘A father knows, dearest.’ But the truth is, everyone was talking about this mysterious new Sir Gawain, who’d rolled up out of nowhere and earned a spot in the tournament by unseating Sir Evonwald.”
Gwen stared at him, still trying to process that her father had known what she was doingall this timeand had said nothing.
Her father raised his eyebrows, eyeing her. “Gwen, how thick do you think I am? You’re not the only one with ears who was around to hear your mum’s stories. Sir Gawain this, Sir Gawain that...and, mon chou, you even said your alter ego was from Toussaint, where your mum was born.” He reached through the bars, fitting his larger hands with some difficulty, and patted Gwen’s knee. “I didn’t say anything because you didn’t want me to.”
Gwen’s eyes were burning as she scanned her father’s features, her muscles tensing under a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying. “But... you weren’t worried? Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I’m gratified you think I could’ve stopped you. Of course I was worried. But my daughter is strong and clever, and a damn sight better at fighting than most of those puffed-up nobles in shiny armor. She can take care of herself. She’s been taking care of me for years.” His smile vanished as his eyes met hers. “Oh, Gwen... what kind of dad would I be if I tried to stop you from being who you were born to be?”
Gwen felt that weight on her shoulders collapse, slipping away, and she leaned forward with a sob to press her forehead against her father’s hands. She could not remember the last time she had wept that way—possibly not since the day her mother had died. But she couldn’t have stopped herself now if the dragon itself had knocked the prison down around them.
The storm was intense, but brief. After, she lifted her head, tears making her father’s visage waver and dance in the torchlight. “Dad, it’s all gone so wrong. I’ve messed everything up so badly.”
Amos’s eyes were damp, and he sniffed loudly before saying briskly, “I don’t see how. You’re talking about that girl, I presume—the one you brought home the night of the dragon bonfire?”
Gwen choked, having thought her father had run out of terrifying surprises to spring on her. “Wh— You know about Isobelle, too?”
“Is that her name?” Amos’s eyes twinkled. “Listen, as far as she’s concerned, I don’t think you have to worry. If you don’t get yourself out of here soon, I imagine she’ll be storming the place to get you out.”
Gwen swallowed hard. “But everything else—the tournament, the nobles... they all know. I never got to show them who Ireallyam, never got to finish what I started. And now... now I can’t be a knight anymore.”
Her father’s eyebrows drew together. “Gwen, that has to be one of the silliest things I’ve ever heard you say. Why do you care what those people think of you?”
Gwen blinked at him. “I don’t, I just...”
“You want to be a knight?” her father pressed. “Then be a damned knight. It’ll take a little while to fix your armor, but...”
Gwen gaped at him in confusion.
Amos gave a noise of frustration and dug in his pocket. When he lifted his hand again, he held a tiny, perfect figurine of a knight, the twin of the one still left in Gwen’s room in Isobelle’s suite, with Gawain’s pennant flying in an imaginary breeze.
Then she looked closer and recognized the articulation in the joints that she’d invented, replicated there to the last detail.
This figurine wasn’t Sir Gawain... it washer.
“You may be surprised to learn that we are quite a bit richer now than we used to be,” her father said, offering the figurine for her to take. “They’ve been selling faster than cheesecake on a stick.”
“But... but now they all know that I’m not Sir Gawain.”
Amos gave a wave of his hand. “You think that’s stopped them? I left Theo dealing with a crowd outside the smithy a dozen strong, waiting for a new batch of figurines to drop. Yes, Lord Whimsitt isan idiot, and yes, I’m sure he managed to tell a bunch of other idiots what they should think about the idea of a woman in armor. But not everyone is listening to him, Gwen.”
Gwen inspected the little figurine resting in the palm of her hand. He’d even captured Achilles, down to the cowlick in his mane that insisted on standing up, no matter how she tried to comb it down. Her horse. Her armor.Her.
Her father reached through the bars, took her hand, and gently curled her fingers closed over the figurine in her palm. “Look at me, Gwen.”
Gwen swallowed around the lump in her throat and lifted her face toward her father.
“All those stories your mum used to tell you, about chivalry and slaying monsters and defending the helpless... none of those stories were about being a knight.” He squeezed her hand, his voice rough with emotion. “They were about being ahero.”
