Gwen could walk from her door to Isobelle’s in a few long strides. And yet she’d seen so little of her. How was that possible, unless Isobelle was avoiding her? She gritted her teeth as Olivia wound another strip around her shoulder, and resolutely turned her eyes away from the door.

That wasn’t entirely fair. She’d seen Isobelle, sat with her, laughed with her, chatted amiably . . . but only with the other girls around. Gwen had come to enjoy Hilde’s cheeriness and Jane’s sly jokes, and even to understand why the others appreciated Sylvie’s needle-sharp wit. But now . . . now she would quite happily have dropped them off the balcony to get a moment alone with Isobelle. Instead, Gwen had to sit there demurely sipping her tea—actual tea, this time—while Isobelle and her friends gossiped and giggled about the charming, handsome, alluring mystery that was Sir Gawain.

And as much as Gwen thrilled at the sidelong looks and occasional sly winks from Isobelle when she’d wax eloquent about Gawain’s charms, a part of her chafed at the secrecy. Her friends were all so delighted to see Isobelle crushing on someone—evidently it was a rare enough thing, limited to traveling poets and famous knights.

Just never, apparently, a girl. Maybe Isobelle had simply been carried away by the romance of the tournament, of being rescued by a literal knight in shining armor. Maybe she was rethinking what she’d chosen, the leap she’d made. Maybe . . .

The only time she stopped thinking about Isobelle every ten seconds was during her training sessions with Dupont. They’d been focusing on stretching and protecting her shoulder, while learning to dodge. And then there was an awkward afternoon with Sir Orson, where he swung wildly between the easy camaraderie he would’ve offered another knight, and the confused distant courtesy he would’ve offered a lady. And an interminable feast at Lord Whimsitt’s table, offering Gwen one of her first good looks at Isobelle’s guardian, after which she was forced to agree with Isobelle’s eyerolls regarding him. And more training, and more tea, and dodging questions as Céline about her brother, and . . . and . . . and . . .

“Ow, easy!” Gwen flinched away as Olivia yanked the strap tight.

Olivia flashed her a look of satisfaction. “That’s what you get when you daydream,” she said sharply. “Keep your focus here, Sir Gawain.”

When Olivia had finished strapping her shoulder, Gwen carefully dressed herself in Céline’s clothes and slipped out while Isobelle and the girls bustled about in the room off the lounge area that served as Isobelle’s closet—though it was large enough to have fit the village smithy inside. She felt Isobelle’s eyes on her, begging her to look up, but Gwen hurried through the door.