Isobelle did not even notice her own reply, though she must have said something, for Sir Ralph inclined his head in a bow, gracious and courtly in front of his fans, and slammed the visor back down before turning his horse to ride for the exit to the lists.

One of Isobelle’s companions, Sylvie, laid her fingertips on her friend’s arm. “Are you all right?” she murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.

Isobelle forced air into lungs that were trying to shrivel away from the cold seizing her body. “You never know, he might get knocked out before the finals,” she said brightly. “Or fall into the moat and find himself eaten by one of those lizard moat monsters the servants claim live there. The possibilities are endless.”

Sylvie squeezed her arm but correctly interpreted Isobelle’s desire to avoid speaking about the man who would almost certainly claim her as a prize in a few weeks’ time.

Meanwhile, the next two knights had ridden out into the lists. One was Sir Evonwald, somewhat older than the other knights but formidable in experience. The other was a knight Isobelle didn’t recognize, mounted on a gorgeous bay stallion, immaculate save for a tuft of mane that stuck up insistently at the front. Isobelle was familiar with the challenges of styling stubborn hair, and so was rather taken with him.

The horse and his rider were readying themselves for their first charge as the cheer girls fanned out into a half circle, creating . . .

“Is that supposed to be a dragon’s flame?” Hilde was on Isobelle’s other side and hadn’t heard the exchange between Isobelle and Sylvie. She was too busy leaning forward and frowning sweetly with the effort of artistic interpretation.

“Wait for it,” said Sylvie, leaning back in her chair, as cynical as the other girl was soft.

The girl at the center of the formation flipped a new layer down over her skirts and was suddenly clad in the bright pink that was Isobelle’s signature shade. As she marched about triumphantly, the others scattered to all corners of the list, clearing the way for the joust, and—presumably—demonstrating the power of the sacrifice to safeguard Darkhaven from draconic influences.

Isobelle kept her features smooth as a halfhearted smattering of applause started up around them, then died away.

Whatever she was forced to give them—and there was almost no limit to that—she would not let them have her composure.

The flag dropped, and Sir Evonwald and Sir Gawain—as the announcer had introduced him—prodded their horses to a rolling trot, gathering momentum as they charged toward each other from opposite ends of the lists. Their lances wavered and then firmed, and the two men braced themselves in their saddles, as they—

“I’ve got snacks!” a cheery voice announced from behind them. “Oh, someone open the gate, my hands are full!”