Isobelle grinned. “She did. It’s all the rage on the continent, and Jinna imported the idea. I would’ve ordinarily gone for the Midnight Rendezvous, but I couldn’t quite resist trying the White Knight. It seemed . . . thematically appropriate.” She raised the lance to her lips and popped one of the berries into her mouth, her eyes never leaving Gwen’s face.

Gwen’s barricades snapped back into place, so firmly that a faint frown line appeared between her eyebrows and her rosy lips flattened into a line.

“There’s no need to be so cross.” Isobelle lobbed her opening salvo across the net with a flash of her dimples. “I came to congratulate you on your victory.”

The frown line did not go away.

“No need?” Gwen echoed. “You wake me in the middle of the night, drag me out of my house, make me come to this . . . this . . . mad place, and accuse me of being . . .” She trailed off, then lifted her hands to scrub at her face, her voice muffled. “You’re like something out of a ballad,” she muttered, more to herself than to Isobelle. “And not one of the more believable ones.”

“Well, firstly, literally none of the fun ballads are about anything believable,” Isobelle pointed out. “And secondly”—and here she lowered her voice, leaning in for a deliciously dramatic effect—“you think I’m the one out of a ballad, Sir Gawain?”

Gwen’s eyes closed, and she allowed herself a long breath. “My lady,” she said, addressing her ale, rather than risking looking up at Isobelle. “Before you turn me in, you should know that’s as far as this was ever going to go. I wasn’t going to compete in the tourney proper. I just . . . I wanted to know that I could.”

She did glance up then, and for a moment, her fear and her frustration were supplanted by a sort of wistfulness that made Isobelle catch her breath. Then it was gone, Gwen’s expression closed and shuttered again, that hope locked away.

“I’m finished,” Gwen said quietly. “No one will ever see Sir Gawain again.”

“What?” Isobelle was glad a round of screaming from the dance floor drowned out what could charitably be described as a squawk. “No, no, you can’t! You can’t stop now! You knocked Sir Evonwald right off his horse, it was magnificent!”

Gwen tried to stifle a laugh, then shook her head, making herself serious again. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not a noble. I’m a woman. I have an actual job to do.” She ticked the reasons off on her fingers one by one, and without thinking, Isobelle let herself reach out, closing her hand gently over Gwen’s and folding her fingers back down again.

For some reason, Gwen held still and let her do it.