She was halfway down the spiral stone stairs when she heard a rush of footsteps, and she turned in time to catch the flurry of blond hair and magenta skirts that came flying at her.

Gwen staggered, but tightened her arms as she felt Isobelle’s go round her neck.

“You were going down without me?” Isobelle gasped, coming to rest a step above Gwen, and looking down now instead of looking up a couple inches, as she usually did. “The absolute nerve!”

Gwen tried to cling to some form of dismay at being caught, but it was impossible to lie to herself when Isobelle was gazing at her with those ridiculously blue eyes. “I . . . I should have done a better job sneaking. But . . . I’m glad you came after me. I think I wanted you to come after me,” she admitted in a quieter voice.

Isobelle’s eyes lowered. “I should have come sooner. I just didn’t know what to say, or how to . . .” She swallowed audibly, an uncharacteristic tension tightening her features. “Gwen . . . are you sure this is a good idea?”

Gwen felt a sickening jolt of dismay clench inside her, silencing her. Perhaps that first kiss had just been adrenaline, joy at escaping Ralph, elation at a plan well executed . . . and now she didn’t know how to tell Gwen she didn’t want what she’d started. Perhaps that was the real reason Isobelle had been avoiding her. She’d decided one kiss was enough. Gwen’s mind seemed to shatter into an infinite number of possibilities, each of them razor-sharp, more cutting than the last.

Isobelle, seeing some echo of this on her face, widened her eyes. She touched Gwen’s cheek, apologetic. “The joust, I mean! Not the kissing. You don’t get to be unsure about the kissing.”

Gwen started breathing again. “Oh. Good.” She paused, the rest of Isobelle’s words catching up to her. “Wait, what do you mean? Of course I want to joust.”

“But you’ve beaten Sir Ralph. You’ve already saved me from him. Maybe . . . maybe it’s better if Sir Gawain vanishes into the mystery whence he came.” Isobelle’s hand slid lightly to her shoulder, her palm moving slowly, caressing the place where, beneath the fabric of Gwen’s dress and the strapping Olivia had done, the bruises were darkest.

Gwen swallowed hard, aware she had a limited window of time to get to Sir Gawain’s changing tent and lay low to avoid anyone making the connection between Lady Céline’s arrival and Sir Gawain’s emergence. But . . . it felt like it had been weeks, rather than days, since she’d felt Isobelle lean into her this way.