Gwen grinned a cheerful grin. She might not be getting better at most ladylike endeavors, but she was certainly learning how to copy Isobelle’s public smile. “Olivia was clever and knew I might be needing to make quick changes of clothing, given my many identities in our deception. She’s put the lacings down the side on all my dresses, so I can do it easily by myself.”

Isobelle made a soft “ah” and turned away. Though Gwen kept her eyes averted, she could hear the rustle of fabric as Isobelle pulled the beautiful violet dress off over her head and began wriggling into the plainer, coarser fabric of Gwen’s old gray one.

Gwen ducked her head and got to work on her own cleverly designed laces that she could undo all by herself.

Damn you, Olivia.

Chapter Twenty-Five
What a perfectly normal conversational gambit

The village bonfire was in the middle of the square, with a few dozen villagers ranged around it. The golden flames must have been more powerful than the castle bonfires, though, because Isobelle could feel the heat on her skin long before they reached it.

She matched her pace with Gwen’s as they approached, and found herself twisting her hands around her borrowed skirts. She released her grip and tried to smooth out the wrinkles with sweaty palms.

Just now, above the smithy, Gwen’s fingers had struck a spark, and Isobelle had been the waiting kindling. She had stood there as the flames started to creep along her limbs and embers tingled beneath her skin, and if those louts outside hadn’t broken into laughter, hadn’t thrown a bucket of cold water over the pair of them . . .

With a wrench of effort, she directed her attention to her surroundings, though all she wanted to do was linger in the moment when Gwen had slowly unlaced her dress.

Rapidly calculating all the variables in a new social situation was one of Isobelle’s strong suits, and she distractedly took in the dancers, the musicians, the families eating and drinking, before noticing the two people at the center of the crowd’s attention.

One was a man playing a handheld drum, his fingers rapping out a rhythm so fast the firelight rendered them a blur. He shifted the beat and tempo without warning—and his eyes were on the other figure, a young woman who was circling the fire, dancing.

The girl was uncommonly lovely, with long dark auburn hair down her back, left to sway unbound around her hips, her skin gleaming with a faint sheen of perspiration. Every time the rhythm shifted, so too did her steps—she was matching him, challenging him. It was a sort of duel, she realized. The drum beat fast then slow in compelling syncopation, and Isobelle felt her own heartbeat drumming in time with it.