To take it again now would be to reveal that Gwen simply wanted to hold her hand.

For the last hour, as they made their way down from the castle, Gwen had tormented herself in a limbo between reaching out and turning away. Her palm burned where it had rested against Isobelle’s. Inexplicable tension sang between them like a taut wire, and knowing she was the only one feeling it made it all the more terrible for Gwen to bear. The few miles separating her home from the castle had never felt so vast. By the time the glow of the village bonfire shone through the branches bowing low over the road, she was ready to scream.

Rather than head toward the village center, Gwen turned and led Isobelle around toward the smithy via the garden path. The scent of the lavender filling the garden beds was ghostly on the evening air, the aromatic oils heated by the afternoon sun almost gone now. Isobelle, unfamiliar with the terrain, took a step off the packed path and into the softer soil, releasing a waft of perfume as her skirts brushed a cluster of dusky purple blooms.

For the love of god, Gwen, FOCUS. You are here on a mission.

Gwen eased the latch of the back door open. Light spilled onto the path, and when Gwen glanced back, she could see it falling on Isobelle’s face. After so long walking together in utter darkness, interpreting every step and breath, to see her expression so clearly felt like being blinded by a sudden glare of sunlight. Gwen just blinked at her, dazzled.

“Are we sneaking in?” Isobelle whispered, her eyebrows rising.

Gwen commanded herself to get a grip. Isobelle’s manner was easy and calm, and utterly oblivious to the tension that had seized Gwen the entire walk here from the castle. “If we can. Come on, up the back steps.”

The steps were more ladder than staircase, and while Gwen had been climbing them in full skirts all her life, Isobelle wouldn’t be used to them. She was trying to figure out which would be easier—to have Isobelle climb first, so Gwen could follow and break her fall should she slip, or to go up herself and offer a hand down to assist—when a voice shattered the quiet.

“Gwen, is that you?”

Her father’s voice was slow and rough, suggesting that he’d been dozing before the hearth. Her heart ached guiltily—she’d been longing to find the time to sneak back to Ellsdale and catch up with her father, but this was certainly not that time.

“Dad, hi,” she called, glancing at Isobelle and putting a finger to her lips before gesturing to the steps up to the loft. “I’m just changing my clothes and then I’m going to catch the rest of the bonfire.”