A hint of a memory threaded through her thoughts, insidious, like a snake creeping in under her blankets. So. Fucking. Hot, one of the knights had said of Lady Isobelle, helpless sacrifice to the honor and symbolism of the tournament. I’ve got to take a swing at hitting that.

Gwen’s rage had probably made all the difference when it came to beating Sir Evonwald. She should probably feel grateful that she’d overheard them. And yet, now, thinking back . . . she felt the tiniest bit more heartbroken.

Even the knights aren’t knights.

The thatch rustled overhead, and Gwen stifled a groan, rolling once more onto her back. If they were getting rats in the straw again, she was going to scream. A few years back there’d been an epidemic of them in the village, until this absolute weirdo with a flute had turned up and driven them out. He’d stuck around afterward for an embarrassing amount of time, eyeing the village young people in the creepiest way. Eventually the local hedge witch came and stared him down until he moved on to the next town.

If only Gwen had had any aptitude for magic and herbalism, maybe she could’ve studied with the hedge witch. It wouldn’t be holding a sword, but she’d be able to protect her village in some way against creeps like that.

The rustle came again—and then, a half second later, a thunk against her window’s shutters.

Gwen sat up in bed, clutching at her blanket. Rats didn’t clunk against shutters.

When the noise came again, she got out of bed and crept to the window, holding on to the knife she used for trimming her candles. After a breath, she flipped the latch and threw open the shutters.

A figure stood on the ground below, wearing a long, hooded cloak. As Gwen watched, a hand emerged from the cloak and pushed the hood down to display a wealth of long blond hair that gleamed like white gold in the moonlight.

Lady Isobelle beamed up at her and called in a carrying whisper-shout: “Climb down, lady, we’re going out!”

Gwen stood frozen, staring down at Lady Isobelle—apparently the most eligible noblewoman in the entire county—standing under her window.

Isobelle waited patiently for a few heartbeats, as if used to eliciting this kind of paralyzing shock from the people she encountered. Then, raising her voice, she called, “Get dressed! Haven’t you ever snuck out before?”

“Hush, you’ll wake my father!” Gwen hissed back. She turned her head, listening for any sounds within the house. Her room was a loft over the main house, one of the few buildings in the village to have a second story, thanks to her father’s cleverness with engineering. “What . . . what are you doing here? How are you here?”