Isobelle herself, unable to hide the change in her heart from her friends, has to censor herself every time she opens her mouth. She can’t confess that when she and Lady Céline went to visit Sir Gawain, they actually went and made out in Isobelle’s hat cupboard. Or that when they left to take a bracing ride around the castle grounds, they never made it out of the stables, and had to spend a good twenty minutes picking straw out of each other’s hair.

Most of all, she can’t confess that underneath her undeniable happiness, worry seethes like a subterranean river eating away at the foundations of a castle. After Sir Belmar was Sir Lorenzo, who got in such a good hit before Gwen retaliated and unhorsed him that Gwen couldn’t breathe for almost a full minute. The skin on her chest was so black and blue that Olivia had had to alter several dresses to include a high-necked collar.

The victory against Lorenzo secured Gwen’s place in the final round, to face Sir Orson for the ultimate victory, but Isobelle can’t confess to her friends that she’d stop Sir Gawain riding in it if she could.

She can’t even confess it to Gwen.

And Gwen . . . well, even for Gwen, especially for Gwen, there’s no escaping Gawain Fever. Even as Céline, she’s mobbed by people seeking her acquaintance now, hoping to learn more about her brother by cozying up to her. Gifts show up at Isobelle’s suite multiple times a day, and Olivia occasionally has to serve as bouncer to prevent eager ladies from trying to infiltrate Isobelle’s inner circle. The moments Gwen sneaks with Isobelle are the only moments of peace she gets.

If we’ve timed this right, we should be in the bridge of your anthem now. Perhaps it strikes a minor key—perhaps the beat fades out, a symbolic evocation of the dark night of the soul that looms over our heroes.

Each knight Gwen takes down is another step closer to victory, to saving Isobelle.

But . . . then what?

Gwen is now the most famous man in Darkhaven. What would happen to all that fervor and fanaticism if they learned that Sir Gawain was no knight, that he was not a noble, not even a man at all?

She sleeps at night by visualizing her next joust. The next opponent, the next strategy. She looks ahead, but she stops herself before she looks too far, because that hazy mist of uncertainty that follows victory in the upcoming final is too terrifying to face. The tiniest glimmer of something elusive and fragile and beautiful lurks there, a hope she can’t name even to herself for fear of shattering it. There comes a moment, in her imagination, after the victory: a blinding release as she pulls off her helmet in front of the world.