“This is the dragon bonfire—we seek your aid!” she screamed as another pair of guards grabbed her, pulling her away from his lordship. “If you won’t help us, then at least know you were warned—the dragons are alive. Remember us when they come for you, too.”

A gasp spread through the crowd like wildfire, and Jane tilted her head like a spaniel. “Isobelle, is this meant to be a reenactment?”

“It is a little violent for a play,” Hilde chimed in as the woman kicked at the guards again, her companions downhill fighting for their own freedom. “Though excellent dramatic timing, and I do not mind the interruption to the speeches.”

“She doesn’t look like she’s acting to me,” Gwen said slowly.

“I don’t think she is,” Isobelle replied, a feeling like a stone inside her chest. “I think she believes it. Poor thing. The bonfires must have set her off. I wish they’d let go of her friends so they could come and fetch her. Someone should be taking care of her. She needs a hedge witch.”

All around them, debates were breaking out about whether the woman was a paid actor, but their little rug was an island of quiet. They watched as the woman and her companions were corralled away by the guard, and as one, the girls winced as a cry of pain arose from one who struggled too hard.

After a hesitant glance at Lord Whimsitt, the herald climbed up onto the stage once more. “And now,” he shouted, “a word from our sponsor, Freya’s Fashion Emporium, featuring the brightest designs from the continent!”

Gwen reached across to take Isobelle’s cup and refill it, and when their eyes met, she tilted her head toward the shadows to indicate a desire to speak privately.

“Do excuse me, ladies,” Isobelle said, popping up to her feet like the sparkly little cat that sprang out of her clock on the hour. “Nature calls.” She held out her hand to Gwen—everybody knew that no lady went in search of the privy alone when she could bring a friend—and Gwen rose to her feet with barely a hint of pressure on her fingers, as though she’d been fighting the urge to stand.

As soon as Gwen reached the shadows, her steps lengthened, and Isobelle muttered imprecations against her impractical shoes as she skipped along to keep up.

“Gw—Céline,” she hissed, as they made their way past the picnickers who’d chosen more remote spots, half hidden by darkness, ignoring their meals in favor of each other. “I think the people here might like some privacy!”

She kept her eyes firmly on the other girl’s back, feeling her cheeks heat and fighting the urge to take an educational peek at what they were passing. It was one thing to drink tea and practice, but a girl needed practical information at some point.