“Oh, hi, Theo,” Gwen said, employing what Isobelle immediately recognized as a Maintaining the Gap voice. There was a distance between these two that Theo wished to close, and Gwen was maintaining by shuffling away. She took a step back now, angling her body to include Isobelle in the conversation. Good move, Gwen. Strength in numbers, when fending them off.

“Is-zie. Izzie.” Gwen recovered from the stumble quite well. “This is Theo. He’s helping out my father while I’m completing my internship. Theo, Izzie’s a maid from the castle.”

“Pleasure,” said Isobelle, carefully moderating her smile and unleashing about a seven out of ten on him, just to see what would happen. It distracted him for a moment, but then he blinked free of her and turned his attention back to Gwen, sending a flash of irritation through Isobelle.

Why had she done that? Gwen clearly didn’t want him, so why was she trying to show Gwen he wasn’t worthy of her?

Isobelle did not believe in lying unless it was strictly necessary, and she tried above all to be honest with herself. And so there was only one conclusion: despite Gwen’s clear lack of interest in Theo’s charms, Isobelle was nonetheless jealous of him. She probed this realization in the same way one probes a loose tooth, poking and prodding for a reaction.

“The dancing’s almost done,” Theo was saying. “But I’m sure we could squeeze one more song out of them.”

Gwen tensed. “I have my friend here, and . . .”

Theo’s face fell, and Isobelle had to give him credit—his earnest features were perfectly suited to looking utterly crestfallen. “I could give you an update on how things are going at the forge,” he offered. “Tell you how your father’s getting on.”

Isobelle eyed the boy, grudgingly awarding him a point on her mental scoreboard.

Gwen muttered something under her breath and stepped forward. “Two minutes,” she promised Isobelle.

“By all means, dance!” said Isobelle cheerily, and clamped her jaw shut before she managed to say something like Dance all night, you make a lovely couple! Or, even worse: No—stay, and dance with me instead.

Fortunately, before any of those words could escape, Gwen and Theo were gone.

“Poor lad,” drawled a dry, amused voice behind Isobelle.

She desperately wanted to pretend the voice wasn’t talking about Theo, and wasn’t talking to her. She needed space to steady herself, to try to calm her whirling head, which was reeling like a punch-drunk boxer from a succession of blows.

“Though hardly his fault,” the voice continued. Slowly, Isobelle turned.