Isobelle stopped struggling and stood panting, body still rigid with fury. “I can see myself back,” she snapped.

Orson groaned. “Izzie, please. I have to see you back safely. For my sake, allow me to escort you, so I know you’re okay.”

Gwen bit her lip. Chivalry was all well and good, but cursed inconvenient at times.

She’d been tense, ready to launch herself at Isobelle’s captor—but now there was nowhere for her fighting instinct to go. The guards had Jinna in irons and had gotten her to the door of the tavern, and the riot of her patrons had been very neatly quelled.

Gwen felt Isobelle’s eyes before she saw them—lifting her head, she saw the other girl craning her neck as Orson walked her toward the door, one arm protectively around her shoulders. For an instant, Isobelle’s eyes met Gwen’s.

In that moment, Gwen would’ve wrested a sword from one of the guards and gone after her, if Isobelle’s eyes had demanded it of her. Instead, in Isobelle’s face there was a single desperate question.

Will you still come?

Gwen shifted her weight, feeling the crunch of the shattered cocktail glass under her boot.

She nodded, and Isobelle vanished into the night.

Chapter Eight
Just put her there

Isobelle buried Orson in icy silence the entire way back to the castle. She let him lead her, too busy with her own whirl of thoughts, the absolute injustice of Jinna’s fate jostling side by side with that last, burning look she’d exchanged with Gwen.

So busy, in fact, that she didn’t realize where they were headed until they were a few paces from the door.

She stiffened. “I thought you wanted to get me back before he found out I was gone.”

Orson reached for the latch on the door. “He knows. I had to get you back before anyone else noticed and he couldn’t pretend ignorance. Izzie, we’re not kids anymore. You . . .” Orson’s handsome features were uncharacteristically solemn and grim. “You’ve got to start taking these things more seriously. There are consequences.”

And with that, he opened the door and led her through.

Lord Whimsitt stood at the window, silhouetted by the light of the broad fireplace behind him. He looked up as they entered and nodded. “Thank you, Sir Orson. Just put her there—you may go.”

Isobelle fought a flash of indignation as Orson deposited her in a chair, bowed, and left. “I’m not some bag of laundry you can just have placed somewhere,” she protested.

Whimsitt had returned his gaze to the window, but his hands, folded behind his back, whitened at the knuckles. “Explain yourself,” he said, ignoring her protest. “Why did you sneak out of the castle tonight?”

“To go out.” Isobelle swallowed and lifted her chin. “To meet some friends. Why should that matter to you?”