Somehow, though, it wasn’t the thought of being arrested or roasted that felt maddest of all. The part that kept her awake at night with wanting was the idea that she thought she could be, even for a moment, good enough to be a knight.

So much for one day of glory, she thought, trying to swallow the lump rising in her throat.

A ragged chorus of gasps from the stall across the way made Gwen look up. The blacksmith from two counties over, in town for the pretournament Market Day, was demonstrating a flashy figure-eight slashing pattern with an ornately decorated sword. The whooshing, whistling noise of the blade cut right through the din of the crowds.

Gwen felt her brow furrowing, too annoyed to control the scowl she’d been told made her particularly unapproachable as a vendor. The only reason the sword was making such a racket—and drawing such a crowd—was because it was poorly balanced. A properly made weapon wouldn’t be half so noisy.

A swirl of color at the end of the makeshift row of vendors drew Gwen’s attention. A gaggle of vibrantly dressed noblewomen were sweeping their way down the aisle, people scattering back from them like frogs before a flock of colorfully plumed herons.

Gwen found herself watching them, safe in the relative anonymity of her profession—nothing at her stall would interest these girls. Their obvious leader was a girl in a blindingly pink dress—how does one even dye fabric that color?—with her blond hair in intricate braids coiled around her head.

She was absolutely beautiful, in that put-together fashion that waved like a big red flag to Gwen’s eye. Even if she weren’t a noblewoman, and entirely off-limits, her whole demeanor would’ve warned Gwen off flirting or even approaching her to talk. Different worlds, Gwen thought, continuing to watch her through her lashes. The girl’s face was shapely, her skin flawless. Her nose was perfect and pert, her lips a generous pink pout, her blue eyes huge.

Of course she’s got blue eyes, Gwen thought, allowing herself a bit of petty annoyance at the girl’s classic beauty. And yet, for some reason, she couldn’t quite make herself take her eyes off the ringleader of the ladies and go back to work.

And then the blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty turned and met Gwen’s gaze.

Gwen found herself frozen with surprise—and a certain amount of panic at having been caught staring. Then she jerked her head down so fast her neck popped audibly.

“Ooh,” came a clear, sweet voice, straight through the crowds to her ears. “Let’s go here!”

Gwen didn’t look up. Just keep going. If I have to try to sell a pickaxe to a noblewoman, I’m going to throw myself into the lake.