“I have to fight.” Gwen’s vision swam with tears, and she felt one spill down onto her cheek. She could feel that fury in her belly shifting, changing, like lead being transmuted by an alchemist into something far stronger and far more precious than mere gold. “I want to fight.”

She blinked away her tears and refocused, meeting Dupont’s gaze, finding in it a glimpse of that same alloy of anger and pain and courage and love and the wanting of something more. The hand gripping hers squeezed.

“Whatever happens,” said Madame Dupont, “you will know that you chose to fight. You will know that Isobelle is watching, and that so am I. Even if by no one else but us, you will be seen. You will remember who you are.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine
Do you yield?

Isobelle woke early after a restless night, pulling a robe around herself and padding out to the main room. She didn’t know what she was going to do—knock on Gwen’s door? To say what?

But Gwen wasn’t there.

Instead, she found Gwen’s bedroom door open, her bed neatly made, not even an echo of her presence. Her mouth dry, she stood there frozen, wondering if Gwen had simply left her quarters already, or if Gwen had . . . left.

At a soft noise behind her, she whirled, only to find Olivia in one of the armchairs, calmly mending the gray dress Isobelle had borrowed from Gwen in the village. Somehow the blackberry stains were gone, and her maid was on to the rips and tears the thorns had left.

“She went to start getting ready,” Olivia said, answering the unspoken question. “There’s a while yet before it’s time to go watch her ride. Come over here, and you can get started on this mess you’ve made of the hem.”

By midmorning, Isobelle had helped Olivia mend both the ruined dresses, stress-cleaned the living room, heartlessly culled her wardrobe—the perfect time to get rid of dresses you’d been hanging on to was when nothing seemed to matter—and choked down a croissant that only made her think of Gwen. What had that girl done to her? Isobelle couldn’t even enjoy a good stress-eat anymore.

Her stomach churned, tying itself in knots as Olivia laced her into her dress and smoothed down the folds of rich emerald-green fabric with gentle hands. Isobelle bowed her head so her maid could tuck sprigs of lavender in around her temples and across the crown of her head. It felt as though she were about to walk to the gallows, and all she had left was her dignity.