“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she murmured, her gaze jumping from the chandelier to the silk pillows on the window seat to the racks of dresses Olivia had pulled out when choosing which to alter for Gwen.

“It’s one of a kind,” Isobelle agreed cheerfully. “I decorated it myself.” Then, at a faint noise from Olivia: “Well, I had lots of ideas about how to make it lovely, anyway, and Olivia executed them flawlessly. Olivia excels at flawless execution.”

Gwen’s eyes flicked across to Isobelle, and then to Olivia, her mouth covertly twitching at that revision. Isobelle had a sneaking suspicion Gwen was amused by her, those forest-green eyes mirthful behind her ever-present shields. She found she didn’t particularly mind.

Isobelle tried to take in the apartments through a newcomer’s eyes as Gwen turned away to walk over to a wall of small portraits, each no larger than her palm. There must have been two dozen of them, quick studies of Isobelle, Sylvie, Jane, and Hilde undertaking various pursuits—they’d been daubed by a painter Jane had fancied, and Isobelle had tacked them up as reminders of her friends.

Isobelle had never much noticed the richness of the fabrics, the thick braiding along the edge of the sofas, the lush velvet of the curtains, the gold thread running through the tapestries.

This must be so very different from what Gwen was used to. But even as the girl from the village kept staring about her with a sort of appalled wonder, she stood her ground.

That was what Gwen did—she stood her ground. Whether she was running her father’s smithy, ignored by everyone around her even as she did the work they all needed, or she was strapping on her armor to venture into the realm of knights and chivalry, a place where she was far from welcome. This much, Isobelle had already learned about her. Gwen simply lifted her chin, set her mouth, and—

Olivia poked her in the small of the back, and Isobelle blinked out of her daydream. What was it about Gwen that kept making her do that? The same thing that kept drawing her gaze back to her, she supposed—she was one of a kind. That was all.

Gwen had torn herself away from her inspection, and she was looking at Isobelle expectantly. It was very possible she’d said something and was waiting for an answer.

“Olivia’s at work on your dresses,” Isobelle said, setting off in a conversational direction of her choosing rather than requesting a recap of what she’d missed. “We can stay here this morning while she fits you.”

“Already?” Gwen blinked. “But how do you know—”

“I noted your size at the market,” Olivia replied, as though it was perfectly normal to mentally measure up everyone you met.