“I was—never mind.” Sylvie squinted at her, then strode over to throw open the curtains. “What are you doing just lying there, hugging Céline’s—Gwen’s—pillow? Isobelle, what’s wrong with you?”

But when Sylvie dismissed the question about where she had been, Isobelle felt a horrible certainty click into place. There was always a reason that Sylvie was anywhere, and she hadn’t been at the joust.

“You told,” she gasped, sitting up straight.

“What?” Sylvie took a step back.

“You told them about Gwen,” Isobelle whispered, horror creeping over her. “Because if Gwen hadn’t ridden, Sir Ralph would have made it through, and you never would have— I know you blame her. And me.”

Sylvie stood perfectly still, her expression made of stone. When she spoke, she shaped each word carefully, as though if she didn’t, one of them might drop to the floor and shatter. “Isobelle, you are an idiot in love—it would be obvious even if you hadn’t told us, you should have kept a straighter face around her if you didn’t want to give it away—so I’m going to pretend you didn’t just accuse me of betraying our friendship.”

Isobelle had to remember to draw in a breath, her chest so tight she thought the air wouldn’t come. Then with a hiccup and a sniffle, she managed it. “You didn’t?”

“I would never,” Sylvie replied, her voice rising as she continued. “Listen, if I’d had the right gossip to destroy her when I thought she was lying to you about who she was, perhaps I would have done it to keep her from hurting you. But I would never—not for anything—betray her to them.”

Her words echoed between the pair of them, and Isobelle felt them settle into her bones with the weight of truth, followed by a hot flush of shame—her own guilt had planted the idea that Sylvie had betrayed them.

“I don’t know how Whimsitt found out, but Ralph told me this morning, just to watch my face when I realized what it meant.” Sylvie lifted a hand to brush her hair out of her eyes, and Isobelle saw her nails were torn, her fingertips bloodied. “And then he locked me in my room, to keep me from you. I tried to fight my way out. I tried to warn you.”

“Sylvie!” Isobelle threw aside the pillow, scrambling across the bed. “I’m sorry, I should have known. You deserve so much better than for me to think . . .”