Gwen didn’t answer. The urge to fill the silence tugged at Isobelle, and she made herself take a breath, let it out. She let her gaze trace the other girl’s features, breaking them down, centering herself as she made a list: the constellations of freckles across her strong nose and cheekbones. The line of her jaw. The strand of black hair that had escaped her braid and was curling in toward her lips like a beckoning finger.

“You’re the dragon sacrifice this year,” Gwen said eventually. “I heard the knights talking about it.”

Isobelle felt like a cold grip was squeezing her stomach. “Yes,” she said simply. “My dowry guarantees that whoever wins will most certainly claim my hand in marriage.”

“That’s such bullshit,” Gwen retorted, her good hand tightening into a fist. There was a cold fury in that gaze now, not nearly so shielded as before. “What if he’s an asshole?”

“That, unfortunately, is not a hypothetical,” Isobelle replied, swallowing down a wave of revulsion at the memory of Sir Ralph’s direct gaze after his effortless win. “Almost all the favorites are. So, can’t blame a girl for trying a wild scheme, can you?”

Gwen’s eyes were narrowed, but she seemed thoughtful, rather than dismissive. “What about the guy you were with at the market? Sir Awesome?”

“Orson’s not so bad,” Isobelle admitted with a rueful smile. “But we grew up together, and . . . he’s not interested in me. Or women in general. Or anyone, really. He’d still marry me, I suspect, for the dowry—his estate is pretty badly in debt, thanks to his late unlamented father’s unwise decisions.” She steadied herself with a breath. “The best of my bad options is a man who doesn’t want to marry me at all. And the most likely is a horrible excuse for a human, who can’t wait for the wedding night. Either way, whoever it is won’t love me in the least.”

Gwen was still watching her, her expression scarcely changing except for the barest flicker.

Isobelle thought it might be understanding, and she added quietly, “Is it such a reprehensible thing to want something more than the least terrible option? To choose my own fate instead of being parceled off to someone like property?”

She took a sip of her cocktail for good measure, then grimaced and set it down. “Can I try a sip of your ale? Maybe ordering on name alone was a bad idea.”

Gwen pushed her mug across, but her gaze was on Isobelle’s drink.

“Oh,” she said simply, a subtle shift taking over her features. Realization. “A white knight.”

Isobelle held her breath, barely daring to hope. Trying, with everything she had, not to let Gwen see the fear gripping her at the mere mention of the fate awaiting her if she didn’t find some way out of it.