‘Let’s go dance first,’ she heard herself say. Her own voice seemed dim, as if she was hearing it from across a vast distance. ‘You did go to all that effort to get the dancing going.’
Isobelle laughed and squeezed her hand. But her gaze was shadowed as she turned to lead Gwen back into the square, an unspoken question, asking what was wrong.
Gwen was wondering the same damned thing. Something had been wrong ever since they arrived, and as Isobelle pulled her onto the dance floor, a single question kept reverberating in her head.
What is wrong with me?
12
Under a spell
Something was wrong. Three months ago, when Gwen slew the dragon, she’d thrown herself into Isobelle’s arms, clinging to her with a raw, unselfconscious strength, asking Isobelle if it was dead, if it was over.
Today, after the sea monster’s body had sunk down out of sight beneath the waves, Gwen had simply brushed past Isobelle and down the gangplank, unbuckling her now-empty scabbard.
Her beautiful sword, made with her own hands, which she had spent every night on the road engraving, honing and polishing, was lost to the depths of the harbour. And Gwen barely seemed to notice.
She seemed almost herself now as they swung around the town square together, the musicians carrying them along with a merry tune, the brightly coloured best clothes of the townsfolk flaring to life amid the darkness whenever they whirled near the burning torches.
Someone (probably the local lads, encouraged by Jane and Hilde) had put a hat that looked very like Lord Bingleton’s on the grand paladin statue’s head, and it looked far jauntier than Isobelle felt, though she had managed to find one of her favourite dresses among her luggage. Without Olivia it had taken her an absurd amount of time to get into the thing, but she’d always felt better when she knew she looked her best. Somehow, that boost of morale had failed tonight. Twice, when she would have stopped dancing, Gwen kept her out for another, and it was several dances later when they finally stumbled to the edge of the square, both out of breath.
‘Dessert, my lady?’ One of the women from the town was (wo)manning a griddle of honey cakes, the most delicious smell wafting up from them. The child beside her was so sticky that his small face glistened in the torchlight, and Isobelle took this as a testament to the quality of his mother’s cooking.
‘Yes, please. You know, at Darkhaven’s market they do dragon-shaped cheesecake on a stick, which is delightful. I wonder if you could make these long and curvy, call them sea monster tentacles? Lord Bingleton does love a theme.’
‘That he does, m’lady,’ the woman agreed, tone carefully neutral as she deftly flipped the honey cakes onto little plates, drizzling them with sticky sauce.
Isobelle decided to take the direct route to her destination. ‘Do you have a history of sea monsters in theseparts? I’m rather surprised I don’t see any embroidered on aprons, or that the hot springs aren’t fashioned after them.’
‘No, no history, m’lady,’ the woman said, eyes firmly and determinedly on her task as she produced a rag of questionable cleanliness, wiping a little stray sauce from the edge of one of the plates.
‘It was the sorceress.’ That was the glistening child, who paused in the licking of his own plate to contribute this information.
Gwen gave the boy a sharp, intent look. ‘The old sorceress who was defeated?’
‘They say she’s coming back.’ He gazed at her, evidently delighted to have drawn such interest. ‘She could bring monsters with her mind.’
Isobelle’s eyes flicked enquiringly over to the child’s mother, who made the mistake of looking up and letting Isobelle expertly capture and hold her gaze. ‘The sorceress was a monster summoner?’ Isobelle asked. ‘And she’s coming back?’
The woman’s cheeks flushed and she swallowed hard, her lips pressing together. Then they parted briefly and it seemed almost as though she were about to speak, before she cut herself off with a soft, agonised sound and thrust the plates at Gwen and Isobelle with a silent plea in her eyes.
With a sigh, Isobelle released her and took a bite of her honey cake. ‘Oh, this is delicious. Gwen, try yours!’
Gwen, who was gazing out at the still waters of the harbour, started as if surprised to find herself standing beside Isobelle with a plate of fried dough in her hand. She obediently took a bite, though, and made a sound of appreciation that quite frankly did things to Isobelle’s insides. ‘Delicious,’ she echoed, around a mouthful.
With a smile of thanks at the woman, Isobelle linked an arm through Gwen’s to take a stroll around the square. ‘Isn’t the moonlight lovely?’ she said, perhaps a little too loudly, as they walked away. And then, lower, ‘Did you see, Gwen? It just happened again! It’s magic, isn’t it?’
‘Something’s not right here,’ Gwen agreed softly, her gaze troubled. ‘But magic? I don’t know.’
They walked in silence for a little – or rather, surrounded by music and noise and chatter, but not speaking themselves. It wasn’t an awful, strained sort of silence, but it wasn’t quite companionable, either.
Something’s not right here. Gwen had that much straight. There were a great many things that weren’t right in Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea. And though a part of Isobelle told her to let at least one of them lie for the night, she found herself speaking anyway.
‘You said you didn’t throw the sword. You said that you let it go.’ Those words had stayed with her. Letting her weapon go was different from dropping it by accident. A fine distinction, but still.
For several steps Gwen said nothing, and Isobellethought perhaps she wouldn’t answer. But she waited, her insides twisting up with a hopeful fear.
‘I—’ Gwen seemed to choke on the word, and for a moment Isobelle thought it was just that – that she’d inhaled a piece of her honey cake. She quickly disentangled her arm from Gwen’s, preparing to thump her on the back, but then Gwen inhaled sharply, the sound closer to a sob, and pressed her lips together hard. It wasn’t that she couldn’t breathe. It was that she couldn’t continue.
