Gwen drew in a quick breath, hands curling into fists and then dropping to smooth her skirts. She had the air of someone ready to do battle—longing for it, in fact—and then pulling herself back at the last minute. “If it’s about the price—” she began.

Isobelle waved the words away with one hand. “Never mind the price,” she said. She was well aware that, whatever a horseshoe did cost, it certainly wasn’t two shillings.

Gwen blinked at her, wary. “Then what?”

Isobelle, still not sure why she’d returned, reached for a reply. “I was wondering if you’d considered a line of miniature ones,” was where she landed, and she was quite pleased with it even as she said it. This felt like it might be genius, in fact.

Gwen rubbed at her brows with her finger and thumb, which explained how the soot had got there. “What would anyone want miniature horseshoes for?”

“Tiny ponies, I should think,” Isobelle said brightly, just to see her face.

Gwen opened her mouth, caught her breath, and then closed it again.

“Not really,” said Isobelle, taking pity on her. “I was thinking of one you could pop in your bag, or even sew into the lining of your skirt. As a lucky charm. They’d be so giftable!”

“Giftable,” said Gwen, who had repeated what she’d said quite a lot the last time they’d spoken as well. Isobelle often had that effect on people, though—it wasn’t the other girl’s fault.

Isobelle shrugged. “They will be after I gift one or two.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll mention it to my father,” Gwen managed.

“Mm-hmm,” Isobelle agreed, with a twitch of a smile. She could see the caution in the other girl’s eyes—she could tell Isobelle had guessed who did the work at the stall, but she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it. That was the world, though, wasn’t it—you always had to wonder who you could trust.

Isobelle ran her eye over the remaining wares. There were the knives and the sliced leather bag from poor Gwen’s performance—though she had looked fearsome as she dragged the knife through the wineskin—a collection of horse-related bits and bobs, and a few repaired pots and pans. She considered asking, wide-eyed, what the frying pan was for, but was faintly concerned that might drive Gwen over the edge.

At the far end was—oh, interesting! A sword leaned against the table. It wasn’t really on display, though. Perhaps the smith—or his daughter—had brought it along and then decided not to show it off.

Isobelle squashed her skirts with both hands and slipped through the gap between the counter and the edge of the tent, popping out the other side like a champagne cork as Gwen made a startled sound. It was usually better to ask forgiveness than permission, Isobelle found.