Another chant began, another name, another woman stepping forward. Gwen shifted her weight again and Isobelle responded at her side—they leaned together, getting comfortable, deciding without words that they would watch every moment of this ritual. That they would listen as the names and the voices of women carried on the wind across the moonlit forest enfolded them, too, inside the circle beneath the oak tree.

As one by one, they were made whole.

Interstitial

Ah, dear reader, did I catch you sighing or smiling just now? I suppose I can’t blame you. The word “chemistry” won’t exist for another few centuries, but I assure you, when it does, the dictionary will feature a lovely little engraving of these two as an example of its less scientific meaning.

I feel I must caution you, though: you may wish to wipe that grin off your face. If you’re one of those who likes to put down the book when everyone is happy, this is your chance.

But, Unnamed Narrator, you cry, surely you are wrong! There are no misunderstandings, no convenient obstacles, no sign of the devices storytellers often use to keep star-crossed couples apart. And no mixed love languages or clashing attachment styles to drive a wedge between them. All is well, no?

All is not well. After all, Gwen has not let herself think about what will happen when—not if—she fails to win the tournament. And Isobelle can’t imagine a future in which Gwen does not succeed.

Reality is a far harsher mistress than either of them expects.

I can see you considering turning the page anyway. Fine, keep reading and ignore my caution—you readers are all alike.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Chapter Twenty-Seven
I thought we’d have more time

Isobelle woke slowly from the most delightful dream.

Light flickered across her closed eyelids, and something brushed her cheek—her questing fingers retrieved a small twig. She blinked her eyes open and forced them to focus as she realized she was not in her own bed. Thorny branches and tight green leaves crisscrossed her vision. Her head rested on something soft and warm, a surface that shifted under her—

Gwen.

Her head was pillowed against Gwen’s hip—the other girl had draped one arm over her shoulders, and was sleeping quite soundly, to judge from the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

And then it all came flooding back. The tale of the dragon. The women at the castle. The witches beneath the stars. And the glorious moment last night when she and Gwen had stood together, knowing that if either one of them had moved by even a hair’s breadth, they’d have broken the last of their restraint. That the thing shimmering between them, the thing sending her blood surging through her veins, would have sprung to life with a dragon’s roar.