But even she cannot see further than that instant, and she drags herself back to the parts of her path she knows. The next joust. The next opponent. The next strategy. She stops herself from stepping beyond the borders of the map she can see, because there . . . well. There be dragons.

She knows, as Isobelle knows, as everyone in on the secret knows, that this run can’t last forever.

This is, after all, a story . . . and what good is a story where the heroes can’t seem to stop winning?

Chapter Thirty-Seven
You’d be very surprised by what a fancy lady can get done

Two days before the final joust was to occur, Olivia summoned Isobelle and Gwen for a council of war. Not to discuss what would happen after the tournament ended—even Olivia could not see that far ahead—but to lay out her plan for helping the villagers who had come the night of the dragon bonfire, who had been arrested for making a scene.

Olivia herself was far from thrilled with the plan she’d made, but time had run out, with the tournament final looming up ahead. She’d drilled both Gwen and Isobelle on every step, until they could repeat it back to her word for word—and now they were making their way down, down into the twisting corridors beneath the castle.

Under any other circumstances, a secret mission of this sort would have been quite thrilling.

Isobelle was, however—despite carefully cultivated popular opinion—capable of taking things seriously. And just now, she was taking the safety of the women imprisoned beneath the castle very seriously indeed.

“Are we clear?” Olivia whispered, as they paused at the midpoint of the servants’ staircase.

“We stay put, and don’t speak to the guards,” Gwen whispered.

“And I, especially, do not try to help you chat them up,” Isobelle added. “Unless you need my help, that is.”

“No,” Olivia snapped. “No unless. You stay here until they’re down. We’ll get to the cell and try to locate the key. No heroics, remember?” Olivia sighed, then muttered, “It will be a miracle if this works. I don’t like bringing you two into it.”

“Well, a miracle is required,” Isobelle said. “And anyway, we’re all you’ve got.”

“Rarely have I so sorely felt the lack,” Olivia replied glumly. She was dressed in a simple gray servant’s dress, her hair braided back neatly, and she held a small basket of freshly baked custard tarts.

Gwen was dressed in the simple black clothes she wore beneath her armor, with small patches of mail at her elbows and knees. The trousers clung both alarmingly and delightfully to her legs, and to her . . . above her legs . . .

Isobelle had given careful thought to her own outfit. Something dark, to blend in with the shadows, but she might only assist on one jailbreak in her lifetime—she wanted her look to be memorable.