Gwen felt the bottom dropping out of her stomach, her eyes darting between the organ and the dancing instructor. “Wait—you want me to dance?” She couldn’t help but notice her voice had risen in pitch. “I thought you wanted to see if I could fight.”

Madame Dupont raised an eyebrow. “You told me you could handle a sword. Should I not take your word that this is so?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean—” Gwen took a breath, wishing for once that Isobelle weren’t there. “I . . . I don’t know how to dance. Not to something like this.” She gestured with her free hand toward the organ, where Isobelle kept circling back around to the introductory phrases of the music, like a carriage driver waiting for her charges to hop on.

Gwen was not accustomed to being taken at her word as far as her abilities were concerned. Handling a sword was one of the things she knew, and in this world of chandeliers and croissants and curtsies, she’d been telling herself all she had to do was make it far enough to prove there was a reason Isobelle had brought her here.

Madame Dupont was watching her with an even expression, her black eyes giving nothing away.

“I don’t even know what a gavotte is,” Gwen murmured.

“That is why I have chosen it,” said Madame Dupont. “I trust that you know how to hold a sword. What I must teach you is how to use it while someone else is trying to stab you through the weak points in your armor. To do this, you must learn to see what they will do an instant before they do it. That is why we will begin with a dance you do not know—you will learn by watching me and predicting how I will move next.”

Gwen looked down at the practice blade she held, shifting her grip until it felt balanced in her hand and giving it a few experimental swings. It was noticeably lighter than her own sword, but it wasn’t a bad one—she could work with it. “All right,” she told Madame Dupont. “I’ll try.”

Madame Dupont tilted her head, something very nearly like a smile changing the set of her mouth. “Good. Let us begin.”

Chapter Twelve
Mademoiselle le Chevalier

Isobelle let her fingers dance across the keys, a lifetime of lessons taking care of the music while she addressed her attention to the two figures on the dance floor.

This was her great gamble, and she knew it. If Gwen couldn’t learn—or worse, couldn’t understand why Madame Dupont was the perfect teacher—then all Isobelle’s plans would begin to dissolve like a spun-sugar castle left out in the rain.