Gwen left them, Jeffers murmuring a steady, unintelligible stream of sweet nothings to the massive bay horse, Achilles rolling his eyes and looking like the coyest of ladies batting her eyelashes and fanning herself.

Ruefully, Gwen couldn’t help but think she was the only one of the lot of them feeling rather sick as she walked away from the stables again, leaving behind the one friend she had in this massive, imposing place.

“My lady asked me to bring you to her quarters after finding a place for your horse,” said Olivia as she led Gwen up a winding set of stone steps. She’d brought Gwen in through a side entrance for servants, far less grand than the main doors at the front. “Then we’ll decide what to do about clothes.” Her head turned slightly, flashing her a sidelong glance. “And the rest of it.”

Gwen felt the tension lacing her shoulders tighten the tiniest bit more. “Believe me, I’m no more enthused about this than you are. Is— Lady Isobelle is the one who thinks it’ll be no problem passing me off as a noblewoman.”

They reached the top of the staircase, which opened out into a long corridor. The space was narrow, but the floor was adorned by long, fine carpets, and the torches lighting the way guttered and smoked far less than the ones downstairs.

Olivia paused for another look at Gwen. Grudgingly, she murmured, “I guess you’ve got good hair, at least. You’re not planning on chopping it off for this ridiculous charade as Sir Gawain, are you?”

Gwen closed her fingers protectively around the braid hanging over her shoulder. “Of course not,” she replied hastily. She was all too aware that her long, thick black hair was one of her only feminine beauties. “It fits under my helmet.”

Olivia nodded, still watching Gwen with a measured gaze. “As far as my lady is concerned, she doesn’t always think through her schemes. With any luck, she’ll lose interest in this one quickly and we can all go back to our normal lives.”

A portion of the air in Gwen’s lungs whooshed out, like she’d been slammed with another of those blows from Sir Evonwald’s lance. Instinct planted her feet, balled her fists, went coursing through her system, telling her it was time to fight.

Except Olivia wasn’t wrong. It probably would be better if they could all go back to their lives.