To hell with that, Isobelle thought, lifting her chin. “No,” she said. “No . . . it wasn’t a lie.”

Jane’s eyes widened and shifted toward Gwen, and then slid back to Isobelle, searching for signs of this new concept on her friend’s familiar features.

Hilde’s lips curved into a smile, her rosy cheeks going pinker with pleasure, and she stepped forward to take Isobelle’s hand and squeeze it. “And here I thought you had not noticed the way you were looking at your champion’s sister.”

Isobelle gulped for breath, not having realized she’d been holding it. She glanced over at Gwen, her shoulders dropping with relief—only to realize Gwen wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at Sylvie, biting her lip, eyes full of sympathy.

Isobelle blinked. Did Gwen think Sylvie was jealous? True, Sylvie had been more suspicious of “Lady Céline” than the others, but . . . Isobelle inspected her friend, taking in the set of her jaw, the thin line of her mouth. Sylvie’s arms weren’t crossed, she realized—she was hunched in on herself.

“Sylvie . . . ” Isobelle said, ignoring the cold that had reached her fingertips now. “What’s going on? Why were you all gathered in my room, before Gwen and I got here?”

Jane and Hilde both looked to Sylvie.

Sylvie lifted her chin, eyes remote and calm. “My father has arranged my betrothal.”

Isobelle pressed her hand to her mouth. “What?” she managed, from behind it.

“He had an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Sylvie continued. “An unexpected offer, from a man who found himself in the market for a wife.”

Isobelle wanted to stop time. She wanted to take two quick steps back and bolt through the door. Back to the staircase, where she’d kissed Gwen, and had been invincible. Back to Hilde squeezing her hand, understanding her and Gwen, together. But the cold dread inside her rooted her to the spot.

“Sylvie . . .” she whispered.

Sylvie’s mouth tremored, just for an instant, before it firmed again. But that small hint was like watching the castle itself crumble, great stones falling to the ground as the walls collapsed. “I am to marry Sir Ralph.”

A sound emerged from Gwen like she’d received a physical blow—and Isobelle felt her own body go rigid all over. She could not take her eyes from Sylvie’s face, though, seeking something, anything, that would undo what she had said.

This is your fault.

The words forced themselves into Isobelle’s mind. She didn’t know if they came from herself, or from Sylvie, but they were true. If she hadn’t found a way to dodge Sir Ralph—if she hadn’t humiliated and infuriated him in doing it—he never would have looked for a way to bring her down a peg. For that was exactly what this was.