Gwen, managing to get herself under control again, glanced askance at Isobelle. “Maybe you’ll enjoy it this year,” she murmured. “I may not care to watch my brother in the lists, but he has a rather unique style of combat. He may surprise you.”

“I look forward to marrying him, then,” Isobelle said wryly. On another night, it would be one of Isobelle’s flighty flirtations. Just now, Gwen could hear the edge in her voice.

Sir Ralph had rattled her. Because even if it wasn’t him, and wasn’t now, it would be someone eventually. Even the best-case scenario in their deception would not spare Isobelle forever.

It was one of those rare moments when Isobelle seemed fully aware that her wild plan to enlist her own champion was full of holes.

Gwen curled her fingertips into the blanket beneath her hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said slowly, “but the tradition states that the winner of the tournament may ask for the hand of the dragon sacrifice. May, not must.” Isobelle’s gaze swung over to meet Gwen’s. “Perhaps he will surprise you there, too. Maybe if he won, he would ask you what you wanted.”

Isobelle’s smile was wistful, as if she were regarding something lovely, but very far away. “If any knight ever thought to ask that, then I would surely wish to say yes.”

Chapter Twenty-Three
No lady went in search of the privy alone when she could bring a friend

As the speeches continued, covering the many fine qualities of men past and present, Isobelle let her mind drift. She carefully steered it away from the tangled maze of knights who asked her what she wanted, and knights who didn’t, and contemplated instead whether it was worth taking another turn around the stalls, to see if there were any sweets the girls had missed.

She was going to think about dessert, and nothing else.

“Are they doing some sort of play to commemorate the occasion?” Gwen asked, her voice summoning Isobelle back from her daydreams. A ripple of agitation was spreading outward from the base of the hill as a ragged group of women pushed their way toward the speechmakers.

“If it is a play, the lighting leaves something to be desired,” Jane murmured, squinting.

“Please!” The rough cry came from one of the new arrivals. “Let me through! I must speak with Lord Whimsitt! We seek protection!” The woman broke past those trying to hold her back, dodging her way up the hill toward the dignitaries. “It is your duty to protect us!”

Every line of the woman’s body spoke of desperation, her clothes ragged, her face filthy. With a well-placed kick that made one of the castle guards double over, she sprinted toward Lord Whimsitt, her hair streaming free from its braids.