Gwen came back to life. “We weren’t doing anything!” she blurted. “And . . .” Looking down, she seemed to notice she was still wearing the bottom half of Sir Gawain’s armor. She looked at it, looked at the girl in her arms, and sagged, letting go of Isobelle. “I don’t think there’s any way to walk this back, actually,” she mumbled.

Isobelle wrapped an arm around Gwen’s waist and watched her old friend, waiting to see which way he’d take this.

“This is just . . . I mean, there’s a lot to unpack here,” Orson said slowly. “This is . . .”

“It’s a lot,” Isobelle agreed soothingly.

“Is Gawain . . .” Bewildered, he turned to study Gwen. “You’re a girl?” His voice rose in a way that suggested he very much knew the answer to his question but needed someone to say it out loud.

Gwen lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “I am.”

“Huh.” He nodded slowly, then nodded again, and Isobelle wondered how many times he’d do it if he weren’t interrupted.

“Orson,” she said slowly. “We’re—”

“You were kissing her,” he said, just now catching up with this fact. Orson never interrupted her, but he didn’t even register that she’d spoken.

“I—”

He whipped back to Gwen. “Where did you learn to joust?”

Gwen blinked at him. This was presumably not the follow-up question she’d anticipated. “Um,” she said. “A little by watching. A little by practicing in the woods near my village. But mostly, I learned in the last couple of weeks.”

“So—” Isobelle tried again.

“And she’s got armor,” Orson said to her plaintively. “Girls don’t wear armor.”

“Demonstrably not true,” Isobelle countered.

“It’s better than mine,” he protested. “I’ve been thinking about the articulated joints since I saw him take on Sir Evonwald. Her, I mean. How did . . .” But his momentum, having carried him this far, ran out. His voice trailed away, and he rubbed at the back of his neck.

Gwen’s gaze shifted carefully from Orson to Isobelle, and then back again. “I could make some for you,” she said. And then, after a short pause, in exactly the same tone—as if she could overwrite what she’d just said: “I could have some made for you.”

It wasn’t a bribe—that wasn’t Gwen’s way—but it wasn’t not a bribe.

Orson silently mouthed the words, but—though Isobelle suspected he wished with his whole heart that he could—he didn’t quite manage to erase the first version of the sentence. “Izzie,” he said plaintively. “Gawain is a girl. Who knows how to joust. And makes her own armor. And who was kissing you just now.”

“All true,” she conceded. “It’s a lot, I see that. Orson, you and I have known each other a long time, and—”