Isobelle began tucking the towel in, pressing against the bottoms of Gwen’s feet and making her flinch. The other girl grimaced and laid her hand across Gwen’s ankle, a gesture of apology that made Gwen instantly forget the pain. She glanced up and met Isobelle’s eyes, her insides giving an odd lurch before she pulled her gaze away, reminding herself of Dupont’s admonition to stay focused.

“Oh, I have news about Jinna,” Isobelle said, carefully shifting her grip. “His lordship controls my finances—that’s how my dowry’s ended up as the tourney prize—but I’m not the only one who’s snuck off to one of her ladies’ nights in the past. I’ve gathered enough contributions for her to hire an advocate to contest ownership of the tavern. At least she won’t be alone.”

A flash of anger pushed through Gwen’s tiredness at the memory of Jinna being bundled out of her own tavern in chains, but she watched Isobelle thoughtfully. “I’m glad you thought of doing that. I’m not sure I would have.”

“Madame Dupont’s donation was generous,” Isobelle confided with a smile. “Apparently Jinna imports French wine just for her.”

Gwen couldn’t help a smile. “What’s Dupont’s deal, anyway? How is she such a . . .” But words failed Gwen at that point, and the sentence ended in a helpless gesture.

Isobelle snickered, lifting one shoulder in a shrug as she reached for the second towel and Gwen’s other foot. “Such a force of nature? No one knows. She’s been around since before my parents first dumped me here three years ago. Obviously, she’s from France, but no one knows much more than that.” She leaned in, ducking her head to catch Gwen’s eye again, her own sparkling. “They say she was raised by dragons, or sorcerers, or maybe the fae, and that’s how she knows everything and never gets tired or sore.”

Gwen laughed, because the rumor was clearly a joke—and yet she couldn’t deny there was something superhuman about the wiry old dance instructor. She kept her eyes on the graceful, perfectly manicured hands wrapping her foot. What had it been like for Isobelle, left behind by her own parents? Isobelle’s smiles and laughs never told the whole story, that much she knew. She couldn’t imagine being separated from her own father—or knowing he’d let it happen.

Gwen felt a twinge in her chest, a sharp and unexpected longing for home. She’d left her father in good hands, recruiting the apprentice blacksmith from a neighboring village to help him while she was gone, but she knew it would be a massive change for him not to have her there. She ran her thumb over the figurine still clutched in her fist, finally distracted from Isobelle’s well-meaning and entirely too engrossing ministrations.