Then came a knock at the door, and her heart leapt, a flood of . . . of something running through her, sending a thrill of anticipation through her limbs. She pulled away from Olivia and, fingers fumbling to finish tying the ribbon at her bodice herself, she hurried—ran, if she was being entirely honest—to fling open the door.

Orson was waiting on the other side, blinking in surprise at the drama of her greeting. “Good morning,” he ventured. “That’s a nice dress.”

“I . . . oh.” Isobelle felt numb, wishing she could simply ask him to leave, but she couldn’t remember how to do it nicely. “Come in.”

With an expression that said he wanted to ask who she’d been expecting, he followed her inside and took a seat. Olivia poured them each a cup of tea and then disappeared into Isobelle’s room to make the bed, or—more likely—listen at the door.

“I wanted to see how you’re feeling, with the tourney proper kicking off,” Orson said, watching Olivia go. “You’ve got a brave face on, but I know you better than that.”

And he did, the dear thing. Orson had been there since Isobelle was small, like a friendly piece of furniture. She’d seen him cry when he’d fallen off his first pony, a beast of a creature called Snowflake, who had frequently tried to bite him. He’d been there during the awkward phase when she’d tried to dye her hair the deep red of a traveling actress she’d admired.

Isobelle studied his profile. He was classically handsome: square jaw, blond hair that tousled nicely, even a fetching scar on his eyebrow—though it was less roguish when you knew it had come courtesy of an evil-minded pony.

He should have been enough. She wished he were.

“I’m all right,” she said when she realized he was still waiting for a reply. “Just . . . for the first time in my life, I’m finding it hard to have to watch as things unfold.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “You know that.”

“Of course,” she murmured, her eyes on her skirts as she sat and smoothed them out around her. The note in her voice was all wrong, too dull, and she knew he’d heard it.

“I know I’m not what you dreamed of,” he said, giving her the most uncomfortable feeling he’d read her mind.

“Any girl would be lucky to have you,” she said firmly.

“But you wanted a love story,” he returned, his smile gentle, remembering conversations long past in their childhood.

Isobelle looked down at the cup of tea in her hands. She couldn’t remember having picked it up. “That was a silly thing to want,” she whispered.