The woman standing in the shadows was older than her, but not old enough to have earned the gray and white streaks through her sable hair. They gave her the air of a striped tabby cat, and the slow blink of her eyes as she took Isobelle in did nothing to dispel that image. Her dress was plain, well mended and cared for, and she wore a wide belt holding up several pockets and pouches.

If everything about her didn’t scream hedge witch!, possibly while waving some of those streamers the cheerleaders at the tournament were using, then the wicker charm dangling from the leather thong around her neck certainly would have gotten the job done.

Isobelle reacted on instinct, bobbing a polite curtsy—not too deep, but flawless in execution. On the upper end of the I-very-much-respect-hedge-witches spectrum. She threw in a smile and a dimple for good measure. Sweet, harmless maid from the castle. That’s me!

The woman’s brows rose—Isobelle had a feeling she’d just been thoroughly examined and completely understood—but when she laughed, the sound wasn’t unkind. “Well, aren’t you charming? And you’re new.” She inclined her head in a hint of a bow, an oddly formal response to the curtsy.

“Izzie,” Isobelle offered. “I’m from the castle. Gwen told me she’d show me what a real celebration looked like.”

“Delia,” the woman offered. “And the real celebration won’t start until later this evening. The circle will take place by the river—there’s an old oak. You’ll find it if you follow the creek out past the fields.”

“The circle?” Isobelle blinked at her foolishly before understanding arrived. “Oh! I’m—I’m afraid I’m no witch.”

Delia studied her for a moment that went on a beat too long, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Are you not?”

“I’m—” Why was Isobelle even hesitating? It wasn’t the sort of thing you missed about yourself, any more than you missed that you were seven feet tall, or a knight in shining armor, or that you were attracted to . . . “No,” she said, her tone somewhere between apologetic and confused.

“Mmm,” Delia said eventually. “Forgive my mistake, in that case. How are you enjoying the tournament?” the hedge witch asked, and Isobelle suddenly knew what it felt like to be a mouse played with by a cat. Did Delia know things, or did she just cultivate an air that made it feel as though she did?

“It’s very loud when the knights crash together,” she replied. “None of it makes much sense to me.”

“You should ask our Gwen about it,” Delia replied. Bat, bat, went her paws. Isobelle-mouse squeaked somewhere inside. “She could explain it to you. And here she comes.”