Gwen glanced down and saw Isobelle’s hands balled into fists at her sides, and before she could register the impulse, she sat down on the stone, slid forward, and reached out. Gwen curled her fingers over Isobelle’s, her thumbs settling against the backs of her hands. They felt chilled compared to Gwen’s—she longed to lend Isobelle some of her warmth. Gwen let the pad of one thumb slide across the dips and swells of Isobelle’s knuckles, and with some astonishment, watched the tension ease away under her touch.

In a rush, Isobelle said, “We have to do something. If no one else is going to do something about it, then we should.”

Gwen allowed herself the briefest look at Isobelle’s face, and immediately wished she hadn’t. The sight of her—lit by shifting moonlight, anguish flooding her gaze, rosebud lips in a thin, determined line—almost robbed her of speech and sense entirely. Gwen imagined pulling her closer, flush up against the rock where Gwen sat, so she could lean forward and soften the clench of Isobelle’s lips the way she’d done her hands.

“We will,” Gwen managed faintly, having put so much effort into staying still that she had none left over for words. “You and me. We’ll do something about it.”

Gwen must have moved after all, because Isobelle answered her summons and shifted closer against the rock, her hips between Gwen’s knees where they dangled over the edge of the stone.

“Olivia will tell us in the morning where they’re being held, and on what grounds.” Isobelle blinked, gaze shifting from a place of future plans and deliberation to refocus on Gwen’s face. “This whole white knight thing,” she said with a laugh. “I can see why you like it.”

Gwen swallowed, so moved she couldn’t answer. Isobelle could simply have dismissed Bertin’s story and the women who’d come seeking help. It would have been easier for her to let it all be a mere blip of unpleasantness marring an otherwise frivolous evening of snacks and bonfire festivities.

But here she was, rewriting her entire understanding of the world, and making plans to charge into battle to fix it.

“Thank you,” Gwen whispered finally, daring no more than to give one of Isobelle’s hands a tiny squeeze. “For coming here tonight with me.”

“I’m more glad you brought me than you’ll ever know.” Isobelle’s face was earnest—Gwen could feel the blue stare fixing on her again in that unnerving way it had of trying to see through her carefully constructed barriers. Isobelle drew breath to speak, but then stopped, that breath hitching.

Gwen’s eyes snapped up, automatically wary. Isobelle, hesitating? She’d have been less surprised if a dragon had charged out of the undergrowth.

“That girl from before,” Isobelle said finally, her words somewhat rushed. “The dancer, at the village bonfire?”