“Or, you know, a lady knight.” Isobelle’s smile was decidedly smug. Gwen got the sense the other girl was used to getting her way, and that she was fighting a losing battle trying to resist.

“Look,” Gwen managed, “if you won’t come with me back to where you belong, I’ll fetch someone who’ll make you go.”

Isobelle bit her lip to smother a laugh. “If you’re going to threaten me,” she replied breezily, “I think you ought to do it over a drink while hearing me out. Come on, I’m buying.”

Gwen was experiencing the oddest sensation, as though she were no longer inside her own skin, watching the absurdity of this interaction from somewhere above and to the left of herself. She could see the blacksmith girl fighting and losing the battle, while the lady just stood there, totally at ease, waiting for her to capitulate.

“Five minutes,” Gwen said slowly. “Five minutes and then you go home, understood?”

The lady grinned at her. “Whatever you say, Sir Knight.”

Chapter Six
I’ll have a White Knight, please

Isobelle hadn’t been sure about what she’d seen at the tournament qualifiers—not until she’d seen Gwen respond to the name “Sir Gawain,” looking like she was going to throw up right out the window and ruin Isobelle’s shoes.

The question had been chasing itself in circles around her head all day, like a dog determined to catch its own tail. Could it be . . . ? But no, it really seemed . . . But maybe?

It was impossible for a girl to ride in the qualifiers. Where would she get the armor? The horse? The training? The nerve?

But perhaps, if she were a blacksmith . . . if she’d already proven to herself that a girl could do a man’s work, then . . .

Somehow, Isobelle had found herself here in the village Gwen had mentioned when introducing herself, wondering if the pressure of the tournament had finally caused her to crack.

But she hadn’t cracked. She wasn’t wrong. And if it was true—if Gwen really was Sir Gawain—then anything was possible.

The tavern was situated at the edge of the town clustered around Darkhaven Castle, and it had been a long walk from Gwen’s village. Isobelle had tried once or twice along the way to strike up conversation, but Gwen’s grim, thundercloud expression warned her not to push her luck before she’d made her case. It gave Isobelle time to mentally work on her pitch, and she was so absorbed in the task, she nearly ran into Gwen’s back when the other girl halted.

Above them hung the sign for the Siren’s Sting, complete with a lovingly painted depiction of a plump, cheerful sea nymph holding an improbably foaming mug of ale.