The clock on Isobelle’s mantel chimed the hour, drawing Gwen’s attention away. Shaped like a darling little chalet, its doors opened to emit a huntsman brandishing an axe—or they had done, before Isobelle replaced him with a sparkly little cat. Gwen turned to inspect it, her movements easy with a very different kind of grace than Isobelle had been taught all her life. Gwen was so unlike anyone Isobelle had ever known, and for the first time she could recall, Isobelle found herself restlessly self-conscious in her own domain.

“You find it hard to believe,” Olivia murmured by Isobelle’s side, “that she doesn’t have admirers?”

Isobelle folded her arms. “What?” Then she unfolded them immediately, so as not to appear defensive. Her mind told her she had nothing to be defensive about, and yet there was the urge to step back from Olivia’s inspection of her face, like her maid was some kind of inquisitor accusing her of a crime.

Olivia twitched a half smile.

“You’ll play the game just fine, my lady,” she said firmly.

For a moment, Isobelle thought Olivia was talking to her. The words were aimed at Gwen, though, who turned and blinked at her.

“We’ll get you dressed like a lady,” Olivia continued, “and you’ll be of no particular note quickly enough.”

“Think of the dresses like a new kind of armor,” Isobelle agreed, her mind still trying to sort out what Olivia had been implying with that aside, while also being somewhat reluctant to examine it too closely. Isobelle had a lot of practice at not examining her thoughts too closely, and she clambered back aboard the moving carriage of the conversation without missing more than one or two beats.

“Indeed,” Olivia said. “I’ll see about your meal, if you’d like to take your places on the balcony, my ladies.”

Gwen, with the expression of one who was abandoning herself to her fate, allowed Isobelle to lead her through the double doors and out onto the balcony, which ran the length of Isobelle’s quarters. On one end a door led directly to Isobelle’s bedroom, and on the other end another door led to the spare room where Gwen would be staying. Here, in the middle, stood a table and a pair of chairs.

Isobelle took her place at the table and busied herself straightening the silverware, while Gwen drifted over to lean on the balustrade, studying the hills rolling out to meet the forest and the mountain that housed the newly reopened mine in the distance.

“Isobelle,” she said after a little while, her gaze having drifted downward toward the moat below. “I know I’m asking a lot of questions about this place, but . . .”

“Go on,” said Isobelle, suspicion dawning.

“Has someone hammered iron rings into the outside of your balcony?”

“Oh yes,” Isobelle replied. “That was Olivia.”

“Olivia.”