In that moment, she could have kissed Gwen. She had wanted to kiss Gwen. But the act of wanting had been so surprising, so staggering in its implications, that she had found herself holding still.

She’d seen understanding dawn in Gwen’s eyes. Watched as Gwen, without any impatience, any blame at all, had simply made space for Isobelle to face those feelings. To take her time.

While the knights at the castle fought to possess her, Gwen offered her the chance to take ownership of herself, of her own choices.

Gwen worried, sometimes, that she was nothing like them.

Isobelle thought it was her finest quality.

“Gwen,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Mmm?” Gwen stretched languorously, then stopped as she registered Isobelle’s head in her lap. She went still, and then: “Oh, shit! We stayed out all night—we’ve got to get back!”

“It’s morning now,” Isobelle pointed out.

“I know, that’s why we have to get—”

“We will,” Isobelle replied, hauling herself up to a sitting position and suppressing an unladylike groan. “But that bird has flown the coop, Gwen. The sun’s up, and a scramble won’t make a difference. Olivia will cover for us if Whimsitt comes round.”

Gwen’s hair was mussed where she’d been leaning against the tree, and Isobelle had the most compelling urge to lean over to stroke it smooth. Except then it would be all too easy to let her hand slowly curve around the back of Gwen’s neck, and . . .

“Fair point,” Gwen conceded. “But we still have to get back, Whimsitt or no Whimsitt. We have to submit Sir Gawain’s papers this morning.”

That was enough to put some of the morning’s chill back into the air, and reluctantly—wishing she’d given herself a few more minutes to lie in the sun and listen to Gwen’s soft breathing—Isobelle set about extricating herself from the blackberry thicket. It was as though the thorny branches had curled around them as they slept, snaring their thick wool skirts to hold them in place. Isobelle couldn’t help thinking of the charms the hedge witch sold at the market—the bracelets made from blackberry brambles.

Love charms.

She peeped through the edge of the thicket, out toward the field. The oak stood, leaves green now where the night before they’d been silver in the moonlight. There was no sign of the witches’ circle, or the altar, or the magic they’d summoned.

By the time she and Gwen were free, their hair was tangled and their clothes were torn, but they were both laughing helplessly. They paused to gather a few handfuls of the late summer blackberries for the walk back to the castle.

And as they made their way up the road, Isobelle slipped her hand into Gwen’s.