Still, Isobelle felt a strange lightness in her chest as the others all swooped into action, breaking into individualconversations punctuated by the scraping of chairs as they all stood and began to gather up their dishes.
They had a plan. A next step. And Gwen was still here, though she was angry and hurt. Neither of them had given up.
Absently, Isobelle slid her untouched bowl of porridge close again and reached for her spoon.
Tonight, there would be magic.
Reader, it occurs to me that you may have been wondering: where has Olivia been all this time?
Isobelle’s maid, a young woman with an inexplicably wide array of skills – the very woman who taught her wayward charge how to rappel down from her balcony in case of emergency – is never far from her lady’s side.
To come at the point another way: if you have not been wondering where Olivia has been all this time, perhaps you ought to have. That business about taking leave for a ‘family matter’ back on page 36 seemed a bit thin, even if Isobelle was too polite to press for details.
Let us visit Olivia now.
Here she is, seated at a desk piled high with correspondence and liberally decorated with half-finished cups of tea. It is difficult to make out her exact location – no window is visible, and there is no hint of her locale in the plain furnishings we can see.
Through a complex network of forwarding arrangements, Isobelle’s letter has just reached her, and we are present as a young man hands it to her with a deferential nod. She recognises the handwriting immediately, lips curving into a smile as she breaks the seal. Her fondness is unmistakable.
But watch, now, as she starts to read. Her face freezes, her lips parting with a quick intake of breath. Watch as her eyes flicker back and forth over the lines, desperately hoping the contents will change.
Watch as she launches herself from her chair, grabbing a rucksack that always sits in the corner, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Watch as she slings her go-bag over her shoulder.
We’ve seen Olivia in a number of difficult situations thus far. We’ve seen her protecting her lady as she undertook a most unwise gambit with a village girl of no particular distinction. We’ve seen her single-handedly taking out a room full of guards to effect a prison break. We’ve seen her talking her lady out of despair, making plans to escape a castle, and maintaining Isobelle’s highly complex wardrobe while doing it. We’ve seen her facing down a dragon.
But we’ve never seen her look … frightened.
Watch, now, as without a backward glance, Olivia turns for the door and begins to run.
18
Something just scared her once
The waxing crescent moon shone down against the canopy of the forest, carving silver-edged knives out of bare branches and taloned claws from the few remaining browned leaves. Gwen ran a hand along the edge of her cloak, drawing it closer about her shoulders, and tried not to shiver.
There was a difference, she thought, between summer moons and winter moons. One particular summer moon lingered vividly in her mind. It had beckoned them onward the night she and Isobelle had crept out to the old lightning-touched oak near Ellsdale and hid under the shelter of a blackberry briar to watch the witches gather.
The moon then had been soft and full, flirting with the racing clouds and bathing the landscape in generous light.
This moon was sharp and cold, as remote as some cruel, indifferent goddess. The points of each thin horn stabbed through the night sky, just bright enough that thedark of the moon seemed a trick of the eye, visible only if she looked away.
This moon had teeth.
Isobelle stood murmuring praise and comfort into Princess Buttercup’s pricked ears. They were in a puddle of moonlight, the mare’s neck arched prettily as she bent her head to listen to her mistress’s voice, shifting her weight from hoof to hoof as if to say,I’m still uneasy, don’t stop what you’re doing.
Achilles bent his head and thrust his whiskery nose against Gwen’s shoulder hard enough to stagger her a pace. She eyed him askance and whispered, ‘Don’t you dare. If you start acting like that spoiled creature, I’ll disown you.’
Achilles grumbled and turned his head to lip, without much hope, at some frost-wilted shrubbery.
‘Quit making fun of my horse,’ said Isobelle, raising her voice enough for Gwen to hear her. ‘She’s not a bad horse. Something just scared her once, that’s all.’
Gwen’s throat tightened, and she turned to check the straps on her chainmail, the buckle of her sword belt. Had she really sunk so low as to be jealous of ahorse?
Get a grip on yourself, she told herself firmly.
She could count on her fingers the number of times she and Isobelle had spoken to each other since the morning. The most notable was when preparing to depart for the forest, and Tabitha’s ritual, and they’d both emerged from their rooms at the same time.
Isobelle had stepped out wearing a most spectacular gown, expertly tailored and slit to allow for riding, but no less stunning than what she would wear to a ball. A deep, midnight indigo, embroidered with silver thread that winked and twinkled in the meagre light, tailored tightly around the bodice and featuring a neckline that Gwen would’ve baulked at, if she’d been asked to wear it.
