Gwen’s breath caught, and she frantically swallowed to try to stop herself from launching into a fit of noisy coughing. “My village? Why?”

Olivia’s needle dipped back into the fabric, circled the calamus of the peacock plume again, and pulled tight. “I needed a place that wasn’t too far for them to walk. And they seemed like nice people there. I felt certain they’d find places for those women and their families.”

Gwen eyed her askance, confusion having supplanted her unease about Sylvie and her fate. “You’ve been to my village?”

Olivia eyed her flatly. “If you think I didn’t learn everything there was to learn about you the day you showed up here to take part in my lady’s ridiculous plan, you’re a fool.” The needle dipped again calmly. “Your father had things well in hand when I left.”

Gwen tried to imagine her father having anything at all well in hand. But Olivia had a way of speaking that brooked no opposition—even Isobelle responded to that note when Olivia employed it.

A muffled thump and rustle from behind Isobelle’s closed doors made both Olivia and Gwen glance toward them. Olivia reacted first, looking up at Gwen and tilting her head. “I believe you were sneaking out to avoid the aftermath, yes? Might want to see that through.”

Gwen shot her a grateful look and slipped out.

The morning had dawned clear, with the faintest of crisp tangs in the air that warned of the turning of the seasons. The sun would banish that warning within the hour, but Gwen inhaled deeply as she walked across the courtyard toward the stables, allowing her mind to summon the smells of fallen leaves and apples, of long-roasted meats and winter stews.

They were the smells of her village in autumn. Would Gwen be there this year to enjoy them?

Gwen’s throat tightened and her stomach roiled. Each time she pushed those thoughts away, each time she made herself focus on the final tomorrow instead of what would come after, the fear gripped her all the harder next time. The tangle of thoughts was like a flaw in a blade; she could hammer it smooth through sheer brute force as many times as she wanted, but the fault was still there, and once she finished the forging, the metal would shatter when it cooled.

And now, she had one more thread to add to the awful tangle of worry and confusion. She couldn’t have known it would happen, but the simple truth was that her involvement in this scheme had ruined Sylvie’s life.

Achilles greeted her with cheerful enthusiasm, snuffling at her clothes as she saddled him, searching for treats she hadn’t brought. She belted her sword to the saddle, swung a leg over—it was early enough no one would be around to see “Lady Céline” riding astride—and galloped away toward the practice fields.