Gwen had to admit it wasn’t the worst idea. “Just . . . maybe stop short of implying I’m half dragon or King of the Fae or that I turn into a bat and go flying around by night.”

“Oh man, those are great ideas. Hang on, let me find something to write those down . . .” Orson burst into laughter when he saw Gwen’s stricken face, and then held out his arm with perfect chivalry. “Come on, Lady Céline. Let’s go find Isobelle.”

But they didn’t find Isobelle. Her friends had already swept her off—Olivia told Gwen, when she reached Isobelle’s suite, that they’d gone on a mission to try to find where in the castle Sir Gawain was staying, and lie in wait for him.

That night, as Gwen soaked and resoaked a cloth to bring the swelling down in her shoulder, she could not help but visualize the moonlit living quarters stretching between her bedroom and Isobelle’s. Gwen closed her eyes and tried to focus on the wet cloth cooling her skin.

Instead, she could only think of her disappointment that Awesome was the one who came to celebrate with her afterward, and not Isobelle.

With a sigh, Gwen tossed the rag back into the water basin and sat up. She reached for the dressing gown slung across the foot of her bed and shrugged into it before easing silently out of her room.

She got two-thirds of the way across the sitting room before she stopped, heart pounding, ears straining for any telltale sound from beyond Isobelle’s door.

There was only silence.

Gwen drew a long, slow breath, trying to calm her nerves. Just because she couldn’t sleep knowing Isobelle was so near, didn’t mean she had the right to wake her.

Still, she waited there for a long time, far too long, embarrassingly long, a single thought playing on repeat: Isobelle, are you there? I’m right outside. . . .

Eventually, swallowing her disappointment and feeling entirely too cowardly for someone who’d just won her second official joust in a row, Gwen crept back into her room and shut the door.

Chapter Thirty-Six
Ride off into the sunset with nothing but a change of underwear

Isobelle lay on her bed, tossing and turning as if she were trying to shake off some invisible foe. She kept punching her fancy French pillow to no avail, and her impractical nightclothes were so twisted around her nether limbs that when she yanked them straight, she heard one of the sweet pink bows rip free of the lacy fabric.

Finally, her willpower giving out, she vaulted off the bed and scurried over to the door. She eased it open slowly, avoiding the creak it always gave, and peered out across the moonlit living room.

Gwen’s door was firmly shut. She must be in bed, fast asleep.

Her voice was still echoing around Isobelle’s head.