The words fell into the silence of the crowd like the incantation of a spell. Having been told what to think, how to react, a handful of spectators began jeering, calling out a few of the more vile obscenities Whimsitt was too well-bred to speak. The jeers spread, not as fast as the chanting and cheering had done when Sir Gawain first rode out onto the field, but fast enough. Gwen turned in time to see them pull a giant straw effigy of Sir Gawain down off the post they’d been using to wave it around. The crowd milled about and then cast the effigy down onto the ground before the stands.

They’d tied a rope around its neck.

Gwen’s vision and hearing went strange after that—the scene played itself out in bits and pieces, some mental scribe inside Gwen’s head struggling to record everything and noting only a few random moments.

She felt rough hands tear at her straps, and then a blade slicing through the leather to pry the pieces of her armor away.

You’re ruining it, she wailed, her voice stuck inside her own mind, as they pushed and pulled at her. She knew she ought not to care about such a small thing now, in the midst of all that was happening, but she’d made that armor herself, piece by piece over the years, modifying and perfecting it with an attention to detail that she hadn’t even understood herself until she wore it on the jousting field.

They tossed the pieces of her armor into the dust.

She felt cold metal around her wrists as they jerked her arms behind her back, the loud, heavy sound of a lock closing, the weighty clink of chains. She saw Isobelle, her mouth moving soundlessly, the words lost in the hubbub as she tried to climb over the railing of the box to get to Gwen. Olivia was holding her back, her expression as stoic and unchanging as ever.

Hilde was there, crying quietly and holding on to Jane, who stood watching with a faint, confused frown, as if she’d never fully understood the revelation of Sir Gawain’s identity to begin with, and was only now grappling with the implications.

And Sylvie . . . wasn’t there.

Gwen felt a stab of sorrow, searching for anger and finding none. She couldn’t even blame Sylvie for betraying her to Whimsitt, for it must have been she—the truth of Gawain’s identity was the only dagger Sylvie had. Could Gwen blame her for using it, even if the target it found was her own heart?

The guards hauled Gwen roughly to her feet, wrenching her bad shoulder hard enough to tear a cry of pain from her lips.

“Hey!” Orson’s voice snapped as he pulled off his helmet, his eyes flashing. “You’re to detain her. Not hurt her.”