There was no opportunity for reverie out here—though Isobelle was holding on to her skirts with a white-knuckled grip, all around them were laughs and shouts, bodies crammed in on the benches to watch the tournament favorite kick off the proceedings. There were merchants selling snacks and toy dragons, bookmakers trying in vain to interest anyone in betting against Sir Ralph, and the cheerleaders were out in front of the grandstands, waving their streamers and urging the crowd to louder cheers.

Below her and to the right, Isobelle spotted Madame Dupont. The woman’s head lifted, as if sensing eyes on her, then tilted so she could meet Isobelle’s gaze. She allowed herself the tiniest of nods—the most acknowledgment they could share under such public scrutiny—and then Dupont was looking away again. But even from here, Isobelle could see the tension in her shoulders.

“Is Lord Whimsitt coming?” Jane asked, startling Isobelle. Jane accepted a small cake from Hilde with a pleased sound.

“Too hungover this morning,” Sylvie predicted. “He’ll probably show up for the afternoon rounds.”

Isobelle could barely hear them. The wild urge had seized her to gather up her skirts and vault over the front of his lordship’s box, to run straight across the grounds to the little tent on the far side, where Gwen must be getting ready. To grab her, to let her words come pouring out, to stop time until she’d told Gwen . . .

. . . told her what?

Isobelle could admit to herself that she’d never really thought about how this would end. She’d never yet met a situation that wouldn’t bend to her sheer force of personality, and so she’d tripped into this like it was some sort of lark. A game they could play and win.

And now Gwen would pay the price.

Gwen, who had held her hand as they walked through the dark. Who had looked at her with those green, oak-touched eyes. Gwen, who wanted to kiss her, but was willing to wait as long as Isobelle needed, for the earth-shattering reverberations to settle from the realization that she wanted to kiss Gwen back.

Gwen, who had come to the castle, pretended to be someone else, run the gauntlet of her friends, and risked imprisonment or worse, all for Isobelle.

Gwen, who now had to ride out and face Sir Ralph alone.

The opening rounds can be brutal.

The herald was finishing announcing Sir Ralph’s pedigree in ringing tones. He shuffled his papers to squint at Gawain’s, then once more raised the metal cone amplifying his voice. “And our challenger!” he cried. “Sir Gawain of Toussaint! Sir Gawain, son of Armand, son of André, son of Guillaume of Toussaint!”