The morning of the tournament dawned clear and bright, as though the weather knew the importance of the day and did not dare bring rain or fog to mar it. The air was thick with buzzing anticipation, more people crowded into the tournament grounds than Isobelle had ever seen. Children ran about, laughing and fighting each other with wooden swords and lances, people stood waiting in lines a hundred strong for snacks, and musicians were stationed at intervals around the grounds, entertaining those waiting to find their place to watch.

Merriment was everywhere—and all Isobelle could do was paste a smile onto her face.

If she hadn’t already been wrestling with the guilt and unhappiness threatening to swallow her, she would have had to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation when Olivia showed up to watch the final joust.

Usually her maid preferred to lurk on the edges of major events, but she must have shared Isobelle’s concern that things might move quickly today. Olivia was sitting in the back of his lordship’s box, behind Isobelle, Jane, and Hilde, but Isobelle couldn’t see how even Olivia, with her nerves of steel, could handle the horrible thickness of anticipation in the air.

“Where’s Sylvie?” Jane whispered, leaning in close.

“I wish I knew,” Isobelle muttered, twisting to glance back at the gate keeping the crowd at bay.

“Perhaps she is with Sir Ralph,” Hilde suggested, wrinkling her nose as if trying to speak the man’s name without letting it touch her lips.

“No,” Jane replied, tilting her chin. “He’s over there with some of the visiting nobles.”

Then where was Sylvie? Why had she stayed away? There was an uneasiness knotted inside Isobelle’s chest no matter how she tried to tell herself that there was some explanation for it—that the apprehension winding its way through her veins was guilt, that Sylvie had simply chosen not to come, having bigger things to worry about. But even facing down her doom, Sylvie was a master at the twisted game that was life in this castle. If she wasn’t here, there was some reason behind it. Isobelle just didn’t know what.

“Is that meant to be Gawain?” Hilde murmured, pointing at a sort of giant scarecrow a group of spectators were trying to hoist above their section of the grandstand.

Isobelle knew it was an attempt at distraction, but she barely heard her friend. Her own words from the night before kept ringing in her head, far too loudly for anything else to stand a chance.

You don’t get to make my choices for me.

But hadn’t she been trying to do the same for Gwen?

You’re no better than they are.

It had been the last thing she’d said to Gwen.

Please, please let it not be the last thing she ever said to Gwen.