Gwen couldn’t take her eyes off Isobelle’s face. For a stretch of heartbeats, she didn’t move, didn’t respond, didn’t so much as acknowledge Hilde had spoken.

Then Isobelle blinked, as if hearing a voice across a long, long distance and waking from a dream. “Hmm?” Her head turned, and she laughed, a high, sweet sound that wiped away the memory of Sir Ralph’s low, rattly tones. “Don’t worry. If he does win, I’ll just have Olivia assassinate him after all.”

That elicited a laugh, however strained, from the other girls. Slowly, they began to claw themselves back toward some kind of normal—weaving around them that soft, careful magic of camaraderie that kept the world, and men like Sir Ralph, at bay.

But Gwen’s whole body still felt chilled. It was one thing to know Isobelle would be married off to whoever won the tournament, or even to imagine someone harmless like Sir Orson at her side. It was another to see the man everyone expected to win her as a prize.

Gwen had never quite let herself imagine truly winning, for what good could possibly come from it? Isobelle would hardly be allowed to marry a fictional knight—even if the deception held through the inevitable ceremonies and awards to follow a victory.

But now, in this moment, she realized she could not bear to lose.

As the other girls turned their attention back toward the bonfire, Gwen took a slow, steadying breath and leaned toward Isobelle.

“I won’t let him win,” she whispered.

Isobelle met her gaze for the first time since Sir Ralph had approached their blanket. She said nothing, but that remoteness in her eyes faded, and, hidden between their bodies on the blanket, her pinky slid over and curled around Gwen’s.

“I cannot wait until tomorrow,” Hilde’s voice cut in, and Isobelle jerked her hand away from Gwen’s. “Have you a favorite, Céline? Someone other than your brother, who you intend to give your favor to?”

Gwen scrambled for an excuse as to why she wouldn’t be watching the joust, but her mind was on the way her hand was still tingling against the blanket. “A favorite?” she echoed.

“Céline neither hands out favors, nor attends jousts,” Isobelle broke in smoothly and firmly. “The violence is too much for her delicate constitution.”

Gwen burst into a round of coughing and wished she had some food or drink in her hand on which to blame the sudden fit.

“She is more civilized than the rest of us,” Isobelle went on, raising her voice over the spluttering. “If only I could beg off, too. But I have to put on a smile and sit front and center through the whole thing.”