“I saw it,” piped up another voice, farther back in the shadows. “A great black monster flying over the village just before the headman’s house exploded in flames.”

Another woman stepped forward. “Not black,” she argued. “Sort of brownish green, an awful color, like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Gwen glanced at Isobelle, brow furrowed, obviously thinking the same thing she was: no wonder no one had believed these women and their tales of dragon attacks. No two of them were telling the same story.

Isobelle stepped back, leaving Gwen to continue her examination of the cell door, and glanced at Olivia, who was still within sight up the passageway. “What do you make of this?” she called, keeping her voice low, as the women in the cell debated the sequence of events that had driven them out of their homes.

Olivia was listening with half an ear, her attention partly directed back the way they’d come. “Eyewitnesses are unreliable at best,” she said, though her voice was slow and troubled. “The more traumatic the event, the harder it can be to recall exactly what you saw. It doesn’t necessarily make them liars.”

Isobelle sighed. “You could have just said ‘I don’t know,’ Olivia.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow and glanced at her, lips quirking the tiniest bit. “Come now, Isobelle. You know I know everything. Keep working here, I’m going to check on our sleeping beauties.”

Isobelle turned her attention back to the women, infusing her voice with the kind of calm confidence she imagined was helpful when leading armies, and undertaking other great deeds requiring courage and confidence. “We’re going to get you out of here,” she told them. “We’ll keep searching for the key, as long as it takes to—”

“Actually,” Gwen said, interrupting her and lifting her head. “We don’t need the key.”

“You can pick the lock?” Isobelle asked, leaning in, heart pounding. “Or break it?”

“I don’t need to. Look at these hinges—simple pegs, relying on the weight of the door to keep it closed. Everyone focuses on the locks.” Gwen gave a disgusted shake of her head. “Amateur hour over here.”

Isobelle had to hide a smile. “Well, why don’t we go find whoever’s in charge, and let them know what they’re doing wrong? Really make sure no one can get out of this place next time.”

Gwen looked up at her and blinked in the torchlight, before a breath of laughter escaped her. “Point taken. The bottom line is that these hinges are atrocious. I can get the door off, with a little help—is Olivia still back there?”

Isobelle handed Gwen the torch and went scurrying up the disgusting corridor as quickly as she dared, regretting her choice of slippers. She found her maid going through the guards’ pockets, but at a glance from Isobelle, she straightened up.