Lady Isobelle made a noise of contradiction.

Gwen’s father lifted his head and met her eyes, his eyebrows rising. “The demo,” he insisted. “The new kitchen knives.”

Gwen looked up at the clear blue sky, wishing a lightning bolt would magic itself down from the heavens and vaporize her. She wanted to point out to her father that these women had never set foot inside a kitchen in their lives.

Instead, she turned back to the counter and stepped over toward the end, where their array of kitchen knives was fanned out against a cheery red display cloth. Picking up the floor model, she launched into the speech that had been one of her father’s few contributions to their business these past few months.

“Welcome to Amos’s Armaments and Sundries,” she said, picking a puffed fold of Lady Isobelle’s sleeve to address. “Allow me to demonstrate our new line of kitchen knives, stronger than Spanish steel and capable of holding a sharp edge five times longer than the leading competitor’s blades. Each purchase comes with a lifetime guarantee and free sharpening, though with our innovative design, you’ll almost never have to sharpen your knives again.”

She could feel those intense eyes on her as she spoke. A giggle from one of the other ladies was quickly stifled—evidently, Lady Isobelle was kind enough not to let her friends laugh at the poor blacksmith’s daughter running through her memorized lines.

“Gather round,” Gwen went on, “and I’ll show you how our knives can cut through the toughest of materials—even an old leather drinking flask.” She held up the flask in question—they got them cheap from the local tavern once they’d begun to wear out to the point of leaking—and then drove the knife down into the leather. Truthfully, it required far more strength to do smoothly than any of these ladies would have, but Gwen spent her days forging iron and could make it look easy.

“See how easily the knife cuts,” she said, as the bottom of the flask fell onto the counter. “See how smooth the edges are.” She turned the top of the flask over to show off the even edges of the leather.

“Amazing!” exclaimed Lady Isobelle. Her tone was so genuinely lacking in patronization that Gwen glanced at her, startled. Her gaze was lowered as she ran her fingertips just beside Gwen’s against the cut leather. Gwen fought the urge to jerk her hand back, for reasons she could not quite identify.

Then Isobelle looked up, the force of her stare lessened somewhat by the gentle curiosity in her expression. “Is it important that they can cut through leather?” she asked.

In all the times Gwen had run through this particular demonstration for customers, not once had anyone asked her that. She groped for a response, any response, that wasn’t the truth. “Uh,” she said.