“I was wrong.” And though she tried to stop them, Isobelle’s tears began to fall all over again as despair washed over her. “If I taught you to dream, then I was wrong.”

Chapter Forty
No better than they are

Gwen stared at Isobelle’s tear-streaked face, part of her mind screaming at her to reach out, pull her close, wipe those tears away. But the rest of her felt so frozen that she found she could not move.

Ever since the night Isobelle had appeared under Gwen’s window in the village, calling for her to waltz off into an adventure, Isobelle’s sheer force of will had pushed Gwen through her own hesitations. Practical matters like “who could possibly be willing to train me?” and “but someone’s going to notice I’m not a man” melted away under that intense blue stare.

Gwen would never have ridden out as Sir Gawain again after that first joust if not for Isobelle. She’d come to rely on Isobelle’s nearly magical ability to imagine the world different, and simply make it so. Somehow, Gwen had started to believe, in her heart of hearts, that there was no limit to what Isobelle could make happen.

So how had she not noticed the point when Isobelle had stopped being the one pushing her forward?

Gwen’s breath felt shallow and harsh, her footing unsteady with fear at finding herself out on a precipice without Isobelle’s unconditional belief firming the ground beneath her. Isobelle had never raised her voice that way to her, and she battled the instinct to shout back. “We can’t stop now,” she said finally. “We have no other choice but to see this through.”

“We do have a choice,” Isobelle retorted. “I told you, we can run—”

“Run where?” Gwen swallowed. “Live where? On what funds, with what support? No one would welcome a woman blacksmith into their village—we couldn’t stay at mine, your people would find us there. We’d have nothing—no money, no titles, no safety net. Do you know what it’s like to live that way, Isobelle?”

Isobelle’s lips tightened, but she leaned forward, shaking her head. “I don’t care. If I were with you, I wouldn’t care.”

“You would.” Gwen felt her own eyes stinging, unable to stop the helpless tears prickling them. “You think you wouldn’t, but you would.”

“You can’t know—”

“I can, because it’s what happened to my mother!” Gwen snapped, breathing quicker, regretting the sharpness in her voice the moment she heard it cutting through the background din of the ball beyond the balcony doors.

Isobelle stared at her, one tear still rolling slowly down her perfect cheek, confusion muddying the distress in her eyes.