“There’s a rope in that wicker box over there. Olivia says you should always have at least one emergency exit, and nobody ever expects a lady to rappel off a balcony.”

Gwen turned to regard her—to make sure Isobelle wasn’t mocking her—and then turned back to study the rings once more. “I certainly wouldn’t expect you to,” she said eventually.

“It’s not easy with the skirts,” Isobelle agreed. “Oh, here’s brunch.”

Olivia appeared with a tray holding a quartet of croissants, a dish of butter, and a pot of Isobelle’s favorite apricot jam. She set the plates down on the table as Gwen took her place, and then unloaded a teapot before disappearing once more.

“Olivia’s not sure about me,” said Gwen, once she’d craned her neck to be sure Olivia was gone. Olivia probably wasn’t gone, but Isobelle didn’t point that out.

“I’m sure she has every confidence,” Isobelle replied breezily.

“She thinks we’re playing a dangerous game, and it’ll end in disaster,” Gwen shot back. “You’re already facing backlash—she told me you’ve been confined to the castle.” Her tone softened, eyes apologetic, as if it were Gwen’s fault Isobelle had snuck out in the middle of the night.

“Nonsense,” Isobelle said firmly, with a confidence she trusted to become real if she believed in it hard enough. “Whimsitt will forget about his decree in a day or two. And Olivia wouldn’t go along with our plan if she didn’t think we were onto something. She’s just sulking because she thought the best solution to my current predicament was an assassination or two.”

“What?” Gwen blinked at her, startled, and Isobelle thought she heard a faint throat-clearing from just inside the door.

“Try a croissant?” Isobelle handed her the plate of pastries. “They’re rich enough to eat plain, but I like them best with piles of butter and jam.”

“I’ve never tried . . .” That was as far as Gwen got before she popped the first piece into her mouth. Her breath caught, her lashes lowered in sheer, naked bliss, and she made a sound of pleasure that brought a flush of answering pleasure to Isobelle’s cheeks.

Isobelle watched the other girl’s enjoyment through her lashes, declining to ask herself why she couldn’t stop staring at Gwen.

The next little while, they were both silent, each contemplating their own novel experiences. After a minute, Isobelle pushed the rest of the croissants across to Gwen.

“I think it’s the butter,” she ventured, when they were mostly gone. “Olivia taught one of the girls in the kitchen to make them, and . . . well. They’re very nice.”

Gwen visibly tried to get herself under control. She reached for the teapot, but paused after pouring the first few drops, setting it down and lifting the cup to give it a curious sniff. “What’s this?”