“It was you that did it, though,” Isobelle pointed out, positively bubbling with pride.

Gwen smiled. “So it was a little bit of you, and a little bit of me.”

Isobelle kissed her for quite a long time after that.

“Gwen,” she said eventually, as they turned to hurry up the servants’ stairs toward their apartments. “I can’t wait to see you take on Orson in the final. You and I are going to be absolutely unstoppable.”

And in that moment, floating up the stairs on the wings of their victory, dizzy with kisses and schemes gone right and doing her best to ignore every misgiving she’d been shoving aside for the past week, she very nearly believed it.

That feeling dissolved when Isobelle opened the door to her rooms.

“Isobelle!” Hilde leapt to her feet, wringing her hands. “There you are!”

“Hilde? What . . .” Isobelle paused, as she took in the room. “What are all three of you doing here?” Her mind was scrambling, trying to think of any excuse to explain Gwen’s attire, to redirect their attention, to stop the revelations she felt sure were on the verge of exploding. But her thoughts felt like molasses, after so much else happening in such a short period of time, and she could only stand there in confusion.

Sylvie slowly unfolded herself from a chair, crossing her arms and looking Isobelle and Gwen up and down. Something about her wasn’t right—it was hard to tell with the lamps so low, but Isobelle could have sworn Sylvie’s eyes were red. Suddenly, she felt colder. But before she had a chance to ask, Sylvie spoke.

“Who died, Isobelle?”

“What?”

“Your dress,” Sylvie replied, like a patient tutor with a forgetful student.

Isobelle looked down. “Ah,” she said. “Yes.”

“Forget the dress,” Jane cut in. “Why is Céline wearing trousers?”

“They are very fetching,” Hilde said. “I like the silver highlights at the knees. But Céline, I am not sure you should wear them about the castle.”

That dreadful coldness spread through Isobelle as she stood, rooted to the spot, watching Sylvie walk over to Gwen. They were of a height, the two of them, and Gwen met her eye with a steady gaze.

“Sylvie,” Jane began. “We must—”

Sylvie cut her off with a raised hand, not turning her head to look across at their friend. “I would like to look at these clothes first. Are they your brother’s, Céline?”

Gwen’s lips parted to respond. Then, slowly, she closed them again and simply lifted her chin, as if daring Sylvie to land a blow. She knew what was coming.

Sylvie dropped to a crouch in a fluid movement to inspect the patches of mail armor at Gwen’s knees. “They fit you very well,” Sylvie murmured.

Hilde tried to break the tension, her brow creased in confusion. “Perhaps they will become a fashion,” she said. “Sylvie . . .”