And now Sylvie—sharp, clever, dangerous Sylvie—was going to lose her claws. She was going to diminish slowly on some country estate, far from everyone who loved her, for there was no way she’d be allowed to stay with her friends, the only people who would support her, help her keep her strength.

“Oh, Sylvie,” Isobelle whispered.

“Don’t say anything,” Sylvie replied tightly.

So Isobelle didn’t. Instead, she flung herself at her friend and wrapped her arms around her neck, wishing she could shield her from all the harm in the world.

With a wordless sound, Sylvie’s arms went around her in return.

Chapter Thirty-Eight
I can show you a thing or two

Gwen slipped out of Isobelle’s suite the next morning as quietly as she could. Jane had apparently passed out on one of the chaise longues, and was snoring tiny, delicate snores. Gwen suspected that Hilde and Sylvie had slept over too, but were in Isobelle’s room with her.

Sylvie. Gwen’s stomach churned just thinking the girl’s name, much less remembering the remote, pale look on her face as she stared Isobelle down while she delivered her news, each sentence slamming home for Isobelle like a direct hit from a lance. Gwen had never seen Isobelle look so suddenly stricken, not even when she’d gotten a glimpse of Gwen’s bruises after her joust against Ralph.

A soft sound alerted Gwen to another presence in the room. Olivia had returned from seeing the freed villagers to safety, and sat by the window, re-feathering a pink-and-teal confection of a hat. Her fingers moved automatically at their work, her eyes on Gwen.

Gwen hesitated, raising her eyebrows. Her instincts told her it would be wise not to let Sylvie see her here when she woke, that Isobelle could better handle her friend’s despair about her fate if the instrument of that fate wasn’t sitting nearby, wearing Sylvie’s modified dresses and eating cake.

But maybe her “instincts” were just telling her what would be easier for Gwen.

Olivia let Gwen hang there for some time, expression inscrutable. Though she’d seemed pleased with Gwen’s abilities the night before, Olivia still gave off a faint air of disapproval, as if she knew what Isobelle and Gwen were trying to ignore: that this plan, all of it, was ultimately a fool’s game.

When Olivia finally spoke, her voice was barely audible, a practiced thing that carried far less than a whisper. “The villagers are safe,” she said, securing a neatly trimmed peacock plume to the hat with a careful half hitch. Her needle glinted in the morning sunlight.

Gwen eased closer, eyeing the sleeping Jane and lowering her voice. “Where did you take them?”

Olivia’s eyes betrayed something, fleeting and easily missed—a gleam of amusement. “Ellsdale.”