Isobelle and Hilde had watched with fascination on the servants’ stairwell as their friend tightened her bodice to straining point, pinched her cheeks until they were red, ran a hand through her hair, and then went racing down the stairs.

“Oh, quickly!” she cried. “Oh, sir, please help me!”

Moments later she’d come hurrying up the stairs, towing a guard by the hand, straight past the alcove where Hilde and Isobelle were hiding. Sylvie had stayed behind at Olivia’s insistence, in case Sir Ralph came looking for her.

“That’s one down,” Isobelle murmured. “I can’t imagine he’ll get a chance to ask where they’re going for quite some time.”

“The other is yours,” Hilde said softly. “Go to her, Isobelle.”

But Isobelle—despite every part of her pulling toward Gwen—hesitated. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach was attempting to twist itself into impossible knots, and her feet weren’t sure they wanted to take a step.

“Hilde,” she whispered, reaching for the other girl’s hand. “What if she tells me to go?”

I’m sorry, Gwen had mouthed. But she’d had plenty of time to think since then, all of it in a cold, frightening jail cell.

“Isobelle.” Hilde—who looked like the most wholesome of milkmaids, with her crown of blond braids and her round cheeks—managed to frown properly for once.

“I—”

“No,” Hilde said, raising a finger to silence her. “Isobelle, no. Take it from me, you must go. I know what everyone thinks of me . . . foolish Hilde. Look at her, waiting for Sir Arnau, a ghost to her for six years. Look at how she clings to this romantic dream, the poor thing.”

“Hilde,” Isobelle protested immediately. “I never—”

“I am not so foolish, Isobelle,” Hilde continued. “I know he has forgotten me. But what other joy does a life like ours hold, except to dream of romance? Look at Sylvie, whose choices have been stolen. One day, my turn will come. For now, I choose to be happy with a dream, rather than empty without one.”

Isobelle simply stared at her, held by the force of Hilde’s eyes.

“I must be content with a dream,” Hilde whispered. “But your knight is real. Go to her.”

Taking Isobelle by the shoulders, she turned her to face down the stairs, and with a gentle push, sent her on her way.

Isobelle still hadn’t collected herself when she reached the bottom of the staircase and found herself face-to-face with a boy who was fourteen at most, and in possession of a worried expression and a too-large suit of armor.

“Halt?” he tried. “Who goes there.”