“My lord,” she said, trying one last time to dull the edge of his outrage. “I’m sorry for angering you—I never meant to show you any disrespect. I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me.”

Whimsitt’s face softened a touch. “I know, child. Go, get some rest. Let us put all this foolishness behind us and look ahead to the delights of the tournament.”

Isobelle understood the dismissal for what it was—and noted he had not rescinded his ultimatum. She felt herself drop into a curtsy, seemed to watch from a distance as she left his quarters and made her way back toward her own.

She should have known better than to try again to talk him out of his decision to give her away to whichever knight managed to stay on his horse the longest. He was a petty, ineffectual man, but unreasonably attached to his declarations once they were made.

She needed a different sort of plan.

In her mind’s eye she replayed that last, glorious instant when Gwen’s eyes had met hers across the chaos unfolding in the tavern. Isobelle hadn’t spoken or called out, but somehow Gwen had seen her, heard her. Had Isobelle only imagined the resolve in the other girl’s face as she nodded?

She’ll come, she told herself firmly. She has to.

Interstitial

By now, dear reader, you’ve probably decided that Lord Whimsitt is our villain. But let’s not be so hasty to judgment. He has, after all, rather a lot on his mind, and you’ve been swept up in the charisma and charm of his ward and her champion.

Perfectly understandable. She’s very charming.

The Tournament of Dragonslayers takes place once every four years, but for generations, the tiny county of Darkhaven never had a chance at successfully bidding to host. Wealthy counties could always double or even triple the amount of Darkhaven’s bid, not to mention the absolute fortunes spent on bribing the TODS executive committee.

Darkhaven’s only real source of wealth is a gold mine that hadn’t been used in centuries for the superstitious fear of waking that which ought to be left alone. Until a great man named Whimsitt had a dream.

The lord of Darkhaven is, in fact, ahead of his time. Doing away with silly old superstitions and campaigning tirelessly to bring fame and fortune into his land, even devising a way to offer the largest prize pot in tournament history by tapping into his ward’s dowry.

Even now, the whole world is descending on Darkhaven. And Whimsitt would much rather be rushing around, muttering about infrastructure, than dealing with a spoiled, willful teenaged girl with more money than sense.

He never asked to be her guardian. He was, in actuality, a saint for agreeing with the king’s order to watch over Avington’s only child.