Bingleton was staring at Isobelle, mouth open and brow furrowed. ‘I beg your pardon? A spell?’
‘They’re all incapable of speaking about the sorceress without being choked by some invisible hand.’ Isobelle’s eyes were intent on Bingleton, her manner quite focused – Gwen found herself watching Isobelle, instead of the young lord in the hot seat. ‘And they say the sea monster was because of her – because she summoned it, because she’s coming back somehow.’
Bingleton gave a choking sound and shook his head. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘You yourself said she had a lover,’ said Tabitha quietly. She was standing near the window and had been gazing out at the view of the distant sea. Now, she regarded Bingleton with those steady hazel eyes. ‘And that he practised necromancy. The ability to bring things back from the dead?’
Gwen felt an involuntary shiver travel up her spine, a vision from her nightmare briefly imposing itself – the dragon, its body and face decaying, rising again and again to continue their eternal battle in her mind … She swallowed hard, fighting her way back to the here and now, the brightly lit receiving room, and Isobelle beside her.
‘But that’s all made up,’ Bingleton protested. ‘None of that is true!’
Gwen forced her voice out through a tight throat. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the sorceress – a witch, really – and the order of paladins, that part is true. But the necromancer, the tower … allthatis just make-believe. The tower didn’t even belong to the witch, she lived in a cottage out by the woods. The tower was built by the paladins, and abandoned when they left. There’s no necromancer.’ Bingleton’s face had darkened with a faint flush of shame. ‘It … makes for a better story, you know?’
Isobelle glanced at Gwen, brow furrowed. Gwen eyed her back, feeling the same puzzlement sweep through her.
Gwen cleared her throat. ‘So … there was no evil sorceress at all? Just an ordinary witch in a cottage by the woods?’
Bingleton shook his head, clutching at the arms of the chair. ‘Oh, there was evil, all right.’ His eyes flicked between Gwen and Isobelle and he gave a theatrical shudder. ‘She did go mad and start attacking people. Ask any of the townsfolk.’
‘Wecan’task the townsfolk,’ Isobelle reminded him. ‘They clam up every time we try.’
Bingleton considered that, looking rather gloomy. ‘Oh, I know … you ladies haven’t yet visited our hot springs, and I do particularly want your thoughts on it, miss … sir … Gwen. Old Gargery oversees the springs, and he’s the one you’ll want to talk to about the witch.He lives outside of town, maybe he won’t be as reticent as the others. You can kill two birds with one stone … experience the delightful springsandget your fill of old stories.’
Despite her annoyance at Lord Bingleton’s complicated relationship with objective truth, Gwen felt herself brightening a little. She’d never been to a hot spring, but she’d had a few hot baths while living at the castle, and had found the act of submerging herself in hot water utterly magical. She cast a sidelong look at Isobelle, expecting to see her perking up at the thought of spending the evening soaking.
But Isobelle was gazing intently at Bingleton, her fists clenched against the arms of her chair, and there was a strangely grim determination in the set of her features.She’s taking this whole ‘town under a spell’ thing far too seriously, Gwen thought, and reached out to lay a hand over Isobelle’s.
The other girl flinched, glanced at her, and then drew a long breath. ‘What a splendid idea. The hot springs. That’s where we’ll go next.’
They rose, turning to leave. Gwen lingered by Isobelle, hoping to catch her elbow and ask once more what was bothering her. But Lord Bingleton was right on their heels, fidgeting and watching them somewhat anxiously.
‘Um, you won’t tell anyone that I made most of this stuff up, will you?’
The afternoon was nearly over by the time they were ready to depart for the springs.
It took longer than Gwen had hoped to get moving, but Isobelle had spent quite some time digging through her trunks, strewing clothes around her room, before she conceded she had not brought a bathing costume. Gwen reminded her that Bingleton had said the hot springs staff would provide them with everything they needed, but Isobelle was sure she could not have neglected such an obvious part of her wardrobe. She seemed to be in possession of three pairs of dancing shoes, a bonnet from Freya’s Fashion Emporium, advertising the sponsor of the Tournament of Dragonslayers, and a beekeeper’s veil, but that was the sort of thing that was wont to happen when Olivia wasn’t there to do the packing.
Gwen entertained herself by offering crumbs to the tavern’s cat, a portly ginger tom. But though he’d been amenable to this in the past, this time he backed up, hissed and turned to disappear down the stairs with more speed than she’d have thought him capable of.
Both girls gazed after him, caught by surprise.
‘Everyone’s a critic,’ Isobelle said lightly, dumping a pile of clothes on the floor and abandoning her search.
By the time they’d collected the girls from the inn, deposited Orson and Tabitha at the bar –why would I want to sit around stewing in hot water?he’d asked with a sniff – andset off for the springs, Gwen was more than ready for some relaxation.
Along the road, someone had erected a large wooden sign declaring that this was the way to the Dragonsfire Pools. The girls, who had been walking ahead of Gwen and Isobelle, had stopped to look at it.
Gwen glanced up at it, and then stopped short, horror and indignation flooding every particle of her being.
On the giant sign was a portrait ofher, larger than life, with the words: ‘Forsooth, the Lady Dragonslayre Always Taketh a Soake Wyth Us After a Longe Daye’s Smytinge of Foul Beastes!’
But even that wasn’t what had stopped her dead.
Isobelle, at her side, was trying to conceal her laughter. ‘Well … you look very, um, dashing. I mean, it’s quite a look, really.’
The board showed Gwen wielding a sword and wearing armour – but no armour like she’d ever seen. The helmet was more of a tiara, with her unbound hair whipping around her face as if in a gale. The articulated shoulders she’d designed were there, but her arms were bare down to the wrist, where delicate little vambraces gleamed like bracelets. The hip joints were there and, though they looked more skirt-like than anything else, the faulds were there, too. Beneath that, her legs were as bare as her arms but for implausibly skintight metal boots –heeled boots –that went up to her knees. The sword was practically no longer than a dagger,a delicate little thing that wouldn’t have taxed the apparent strength of those smooth, un-muscled, unscarred bare arms.
