Olivia didn’t ask why the two of them were in plain, unfamiliar dresses, why those dresses were torn all over, or where the blackberry stains had come from.

Instead, she bundled her yawning charges into new clothes, scrubbed their faces like a mother cat cleaning a pair of kittens, and promised she had already taken steps to find out what the deal was with the women who’d shown up at the bonfire the night before.

Isobelle worked to keep her head still as Olivia yanked tangles out of her hair—most of her attention was on the way Gwen’s cheeks were still becomingly pink after Olivia had scoured the blackberry juice off. She felt caught halfway between the world she had come from—the world of beating hearts and anticipation, of moonlight shimmering with possibility—and this ordinary, sunlit world of the castle, where there were practicalities waiting, and routine around every corner. Just as one hugged the pillow come morning after a particularly delicious sleep, Isobelle wanted to cling to the last strands of the place she had been.

When Gwen slid a small smile in her direction, she lost her focus entirely, and stumbled back into Olivia. Her maid gave a soft, knowing hmph and set her back on her feet, salvaging the braid and tying it off with a ribbon. Then she picked up a package and held it out to Gwen, and suddenly the glorious color of the morning dimmed.

It was Gwen’s—or rather Sir Gawain’s—patents of nobility and credentials.

“They’ll be fine,” Olivia said firmly, correctly interpreting Isobelle’s lip-nibble. “Just slide them in when the herald is busy, so he hasn’t time to wonder why it’s Céline doing it.”

Gwen closed her hands around the packet Archer had prepared and pulled it in against her chest like a shield. “Best get it over with.”

“You mean best get on with the next step of our glorious plan,” Isobelle replied. She could feel Gwen’s nerves, but the world was new, and they were invincible, and Isobelle didn’t have the slightest doubt their forged papers would be accepted without a second glance. “I don’t suppose you have any snacks we can eat on the hoof, Olivia?”

The bonfires of the night before seemed to have signaled the turning of the season—there was a new crispness to the midmorning air as they made their way down to the tourney grounds, nibbling on croissants.

The crowd was moving slowly, and there were plenty of pale faces and quite a few fairgoers attempting to treat last night’s hangovers with a scale of the dragon that singed them, tankards already in hand. The minor competitions—foot races, archery, wrestling—were underway, but none of them were holding much of anyone’s attention.