Gwen shook her head once more, and this time the movement was a sharp jerk, as if she were trying to shake off an attack. ‘No,’ she murmured.
‘No?’ Isobelle echoed. ‘But, Gwen, you—’
‘No!’ Gwen’s gaze swung around to meet Isobelle’s now, and there was a pain in her eyes, a fear more animal than human. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘Isobelle, I can’t … no. I can’t open that door. I can’t do it.’
Can’t?echoed the little voice in Isobelle’s head.Or won’t?She squeezed Gwen’s hands, stepping in so their bodies fitted flush together. Gwen was trembling – it seemed as though she might bolt and disappear into the night.
Was this the fear spell at work, or was this Gwen’s own terror of whatever woke her from her dreams, bathed in sweat, breathing as hard as if she’d fought a battle?
It doesn’t matter.
The realisation settled over Isobelle slowly, bringing a blanket of calm with it. Gwen didn’t need her to press, didn’t need Isobelle to try to crack her open so she could see inside and find what needed fixing. Gwen needed Isobelle to trust her – that she would tell her when she could.
Isobelle rose up onto her toes, releasing Gwen’s hands so she could wind her arms around the other girl’s neck,pressing her cheek to Gwen’s, and letting their breathing synchronise.
There they stood, the candles burning down beside them, the only sounds a soft whicker from Princess Buttercup, the call of an owl as it set off on its nightly hunt. Slowly Gwen’s arms came up to wrap around Isobelle’s waist, and her body began to unwind.
The cold of the failed spell faded, replaced by Isobelle’s awareness of her own heartbeat, of Gwen’s, of their breath coming and going together. Of the fact that they were simply together – and what was said, or not said, didn’t matter tonight.
‘Isobelle,’ Gwen whispered, her lips against Isobelle’s ear.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Isobelle murmured in reply.
‘No, Isobelle – can you feel that?’
Isobelle’s eyes snapped open, widening in surprise. The heat of Gwen’s body against hers was changing.
The golden glow was back, growing between them. With it came that sunshine warmth once more, the sense of certainty, of rightness, of safety that it had brought last time. As Isobelle watched, still holding firm to Gwen, the air around them seemed to glimmer with energy.With magic, Isobelle thought.
Her lips curving into a smile, she slowly eased back from Gwen, running her fingertips down the other girl’sarms, until they could join hands, weaving their fingers together. The golden magic wrapped itself around their joined hands like a ribbon, as Isobelle met Gwen’s gaze.
With a tilt of her head, she indicated what they should do next. Gwen released one of her hands, so they could walk over to the candlelit trunk of the oak tree. With her free hand, Isobelle picked up the abalone shell, the golden light dancing across the rainbows on its interior. She carefully poured the water into the spell jar, sending little fragments of dried agrimony dancing in the currents, soaking the scrap of parchment.
Gwen reached for the cork stopper, and pushed it into the jar. There was no telltale glow in the jar or ringing of mystical bells to tell of success – magic didn’t work that way. But Isobelle couldfeelthe jar, humming in her mind with a new sense of anticipation and readiness.
She looked across at Gwen, pausing to drink in her beloved’s familiar features – the faint constellation of freckles across her nose, the mossy green of her eyes, the curve of her lips.
I love you, she thought.We’ll have a conversation about that when all this is done.
But for now, she simply smiled, and Gwen – exhausted, loyal, determined,beautifulGwen – grinned back.
‘Ready?’ she asked, a light in her eyes that Isobelle hadn’t seen in weeks.
Isobelle reached for the spell jar, readying herself for action. ‘Let’s go storm a castle.’
Gwen raised an eyebrow. ‘Technically, it’s a tower.’
Isobelle let her breath out in a whoosh and staggered a step. ‘Curse it, Gwen! It was such a good line! Did you have to ruin it?’
Gwen snorted and replaced her grin with an expression of utter contrition. ‘Apologies, my lady.’ Her eyes softened. ‘Let’s go storm the castle.’
33
Welcome, Sir Knight, Lady Isobelle, to your doom
The forest thinned out as they drew nearer the sea cliff upon which the tower perched like some large, ominous bird of prey. With the passage collapsed, they had no choice but the direct approach, along a packed-earth road that the forest had begun to reclaim in the fifteen years since the tower was in use.
Achilles handled the occasional foliage and saplings sprouting from the middle of the road with ease. Princess Buttercup, on the other hand, assumed that every vine was a venomous adder, and every brush of a leaf against her flank was some woodland predator leaping out in ambush.
