“The beast must be ancient to be so large,” Sir Ralph shouted over the noise of the crowd. “Ancient and far too dangerous to take head on. But if we give it what it wants . . .”

Olivia finally let go of Isobelle, moving to push past her, and now it was Isobelle’s turn to grab her maid by the arm. The last thing she needed was Olivia in jail too, and that was what would happen if she got anywhere near Sir Ralph.

“Sir Ralph,” Isobelle gritted out, eyes narrowed, spine straight, skewering the man in place with her gaze. “If you think for one moment I’m going to let you—”

“Someone get this hysterical girl out of here,” Lord Whimsitt demanded.

He wasn’t siding with Sir Ralph—but Isobelle noted he wasn’t naysaying him, either.

“Isobelle,” Olivia said quietly in her ear, composed once more. “Let’s go now.”

The words were like cold water flowing through her veins, washing away all the fire that had held her upright. Olivia was right. They had Gwen. There was a dragon in the skies. The town below was on fire. Everything was horribly, disastrously wrong, and she had no idea what to do next.

This was always how it was going to end. They had been careening toward catastrophe for weeks, and now it was here. And Isobelle’s world was going up in flames.

After several hours—or perhaps an eternity, who was she to say—Isobelle lay on Gwen’s bed, crying. Olivia had shoved her into Jane’s and Hilde’s hands with orders to get her back to the suite, and then vanished. When she returned from her mysterious errand, pink-cheeked and smelling somewhat of horse, she’d taken one look at Isobelle sobbing on the bed and then started packing.

Isobelle could not summon enough interest to ask Olivia where she’d been. The wind had gone out of Isobelle’s sails, the fire had gone out of her veins, and the unshakable certainty that had carried Isobelle through life so far was in ashes.

Gwen was locked up below the castle. Olivia had heard from the servants’ gossip channels that the dragon had flown away out of sight, and most of the castle’s forces were focused on fighting the fires in the town below.

“There’s no point in packing,” Isobelle called to Olivia, hugging the pillow harder. It smelled like whatever Gwen used to wash her hair, and a little just like Gwen. A warm smell that was part leather, part Achilles, and part linen. Isobelle had always liked it, and now she breathed it in again, wrapping it around her heart.

“No?” Olivia called back, visible through the doorway as she carefully pushed a set of knives into pockets on a long strip of canvas, and then rolled the whole thing up to shove it in a bag.

“No. I’m not going anywhere.”