Olivia looked up from her work, let out a sigh, and walked across to brace her hands against the doorframe. “And what’s your plan, my lady?”

“I’m going to lie here until I grow moss,” Isobelle replied, allowing herself a sniffle.

“Is that what Gwen would tell you to do?” Olivia asked, raising one eyebrow.

Isobelle buried her face in the pillow, muffling a genuine sob, and most of her words. “No. She’d tell me to run. But she’d be wrong.” Another sob pushed its way up from her gut, shaking her body. “That’s what I told her, last night. That she was wrong.”

“Isobelle,” Olivia said, clearly reaching for patience. “My job is to keep you safe. And once those men have put out the fires and had time to think, they’re going to work out that you knew what Gwen was doing. That you were wrapped up in all this, handing Gawain your favor in front of everyone. This is going to go badly. I hammered those rings outside the balcony for a reason, and this was it. You and I are going to head down that rope with our emergency supplies. I’ll have you in Londonne by tomorrow morning, and on a boat to Europe by tomorrow night.”

“You’ll have to drag me,” Isobelle shot back.

“We both know I can, if that’s what it takes. Listen, I’m only mostly sure they’re not going to stake you out for a dragon to take you. That the conversation even took place tells me we’re done here.”

Isobelle squeezed her eyes shut. The same image of Gwen kept welling up in her mind—blood trickling down her face, pale beneath her freckles, green eyes fixed on Isobelle. I’m sorry, she’d mouthed.

Sobs took over again. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave. She had to tell Gwen that she was the one who was sorry. But Gwen was under guard, and nobody was taking another drugged custard tart, and her head was throbbing, the urgent beat of her heart drumming through it as her thoughts ran in circles.

But . . . wait. The loud pounding was someone thumping at the door.

Isobelle lifted her tearstained face. Olivia shot her a look warning her to stay put, then threw open the door to reveal . . . Sylvie.

“I’ve just heard,” Sylvie said by way of greeting, heaving for breath as though she’d been running.

“I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to go out and find you,” Olivia said, stepping out of her way and tilting her head to send Sylvie through to Isobelle’s—or rather Gwen’s—room. “I’ve been trying to provoke her into doing something—see if you have better luck.”

Isobelle gazed up at her as she filled the doorway. “Where were you?” she whispered, hoarse. “You didn’t show up to the final.”