Gwen was used to manning the forge for an entire day, for there was no sense spending the fuel to heat it only to work an hour or two. And her arms and shoulders were fine—wielding a blade for hours was far less strenuous than swinging her hammer.

But Oh. My. God. Her feet.

Gwen let herself fall back onto the mattress, the soles of her feet pulsing with her heartbeat. When she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the bed swaying to the beat of an imaginary waltz. She dipped her hand into the pocket of her skirts and drew out the tiny iron knight—Sir Gawain—and closed her fingers around it.

Remember why you’re doing this.

When a tapping came at the door, her mind dismissed it as a phantom rap of Madame Dupont’s cane. It came again, though, and Gwen sat up with some effort, half dreading whatever fresh horror awaited her.

The door opened, and Isobelle’s face appeared at the crack. “Can I come in?” she asked brightly.

Gwen drew herself up to sit cross-legged. “Of course.”

Isobelle had changed her clothes, discarding the aquamarine layer cake of a dress she’d worn that afternoon in favor of a slimmer dress of soft, gleaming gold. Gwen swallowed, all too aware she was still wearing the sweaty—and now rather clammy—dress in which she’d faced off with Madame Dupont.

When Isobelle drew closer, Gwen saw draped over her arm a couple of damp, steaming towels. Isobelle had a wry smile on her face as she plopped herself down on the bed beside Gwen, effortlessly tucking that silky, shiny skirt beneath one bent knee.

“If I’d known Dupont would keep you at it that long on the first day, I would have warned you.” Isobelle wrinkled her nose. “Believe it or not, that’s a compliment from her. She wouldn’t have run you into the ground if she didn’t think you could go the distance. Here, give me your feet.”

Isobelle gestured toward Gwen’s crossed legs, and though Gwen wasn’t quite sure what she intended, she leaned back and nudged her aching feet out from under the edge of her skirt.

Isobelle bent her head and began carefully wrapping one of Gwen’s feet in the hot towel. Fighting every instinct to flinch away and protect her battered limbs, Gwen waited—and a few seconds later, the half-scalding flash of heat dissolved into a warm, soothing cloud of relief.

“Oh my god, thank you.” Gwen slumped, propping her forehead against her hands. “How did you know?”

Isobelle laughed, though somehow she managed to make it a kind sound. “Oh, please. We have to do this after every ball. Nobody can dance for four hours straight without suffering for it.” She paused thoughtfully. “Well, except maybe for Dupont.”