‘I do wish I knew where Gwenwas, though,’ she said, holding still as Hilde inspected her nails.
‘She won’t have gone far,’ said Jane, appearing in the doorway with a tray of morning tea. ‘I was out in the stables just now, and Achilles is still there.’
‘What were you doing in the stables?’ Sylvie asked with a wrinkle of her nose. ‘Not a groom, Jane.’
‘What a dreadful snob you are,’ Jane chastised her. ‘But no, somebody was screaming and I thought I ought to check – it was only a man that Princess Buttercup was trying to bite.’
‘Should I …?’ Isobelle half rose, as Hilde clucked and pulled her back down.
‘She was only being assertive, and he got away all right,’ Jane replied. ‘Anyway, if you want my advice, you’ll give Gwen a little space. She slew a monster yesterday. It was only her second time. I expect she’s working out her feelings.’
And so Isobelle, reflecting that Jane was perhaps the wisest of her friends, stayed where she was and let Hilde braid her hair. It was another hour before she fortified herself with a small slice of cake and went in search of her knight.
As it happened, she found Sir Orson instead.
He was standing outside the tavern, leaning against the railing where the townsfolk hitched their horses, gazing out at the sparkling grey sea visible at the bottom of the hill.
Isobelle considered slipping away again, annoyed bythe sudden jumble of feelings the sight of him brought. Her oldest friend in the world. Also, the guy who had betrayed Gwen to imprisonment and possible death in an effort to force Isobelle to marry him against her will.
With a sigh, Isobelle fetched up beside him and assumed a similar pose. ‘The beard quite suits you,’ she said. ‘You need a haircut, though.’
He cast her a sidelong glance, brows drawing together. ‘I should’ve left this town the minute they mentioned a sea monster. Of course you and Gwen would show up here.’
Isobelle would’ve been happier had they never encountered him, either. ‘Have you seen Gwen this morning?’
‘She’s in the smithy,’ replied Orson. ‘Just follow the admiring crowds.’
Isobelle pushed away from the railing, preparing to resume looking for Gwen.
‘Izzie, wait.’ Orson’s eyes were lowered, fixed on the featureless packed earth of the road. ‘I’m … I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ Isobelle stopped short, turning to look back at him in astonishment. ‘Sorry?’ The rush of anger in her chest nearly staggered her, as surprising as it was intense. ‘They could’ve killed Gwen for impersonating a knight, and you betrayed her.’
‘I betrayed you, too,’ Orson pointed out glumly. ‘Do I seem like I’m proud of what I did? I made a mistake, one I’ve regretted every day since.’
‘You think moping around drinking in backwater taverns is atonement enough, andsorrywill do?’ Isobelle caught her breath, trying to pull herself back together.
‘What else can I do but apologise?’ Orson retorted, his voice heating not with anger, but with frustration. ‘I’m asking honestly, Izzie … what can I do? Is there any act or word I could employ that would change how you feel?’
Isobelle wanted to shout back, but the anger swelling her chest deflated a little, and she rubbed her brow, which had begun to ache. ‘I don’t know.’
Orson was silent for a while, gathering his own composure again. ‘I’ll do it, whatever it is; name my penance. We were friends once. I—’ He muttered under his breath, and then said, ‘I miss you.’
Isobelle’s heart gave a little wrench of longing, wishing only in that moment to have her old friend back. But the magnitude of his sin against her, againstGwen, made forgiveness impossible.
But who decides whether an act is unforgivable?
Casting about for something, anything, with which to combat Orson’s plea, she spotted Tabitha returning from some errand in the town.
Tabitha, who had comforted Gwen, because Gwen had confided her nightmares in her, not Isobelle.
‘Tabitha!’ she heard herself call brightly. ‘I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced to Sir Orson.’ A part ofher felt ashamed; was she really jealous of Tabitha to the point where she’d shove her at the nearest handsome man to gauge her interest? Especially one whose moral worth had quite recently been found lacking?
Orson made a soft sound of protest as Isobelle slipped neatly out of the tension between them. But he straightened courteously, and Tabitha hurried over to offer a curtsy. Her coppery hair was braided back and wound into a net, and she’d borrowed one of Sylvie’s dresses, a saffron gown that set off the earth tones in her skin.
Not that Orson would necessarily appreciate any of it, but Isobelle could tell Tabitha knew she was looking quite lovely today.
‘Sir Orson, this is Tabitha, who joined us on the journey here. Tabitha, this is Sir Orson, one of my oldest friends, though currently I’m very cross at him. Orson, Tabitha’s mother is from Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea.’
