Isobelle was tucking in the last edge of the second towel. “There, now. Ooh!” She had spotted the model knight Gwen held. “May I?”

Gwen handed Sir Gawain over, still half distracted watching Isobelle’s face. The dimples had vanished in favor of a softer smile.

“He really is spectacular. Did you . . . ?” The long, fair lashes lifted as Isobelle glanced up at Gwen.

“Hell no.” Gwen leaned back, watching Isobelle turn the knight over in her hands. “I’m not that talented. My dad made it. For my mother. Lavender was her favorite flower.” Gwen touched the sculpted pennant bearing its etching of the lavender sprig that now marked Gwen’s own pennant in the tournament.

Isobelle’s eyebrows shot up, her hands pausing on the knight. “Your dad made this?”

Gwen’s throat tightened, as it always did whenever the subject of her father came up among the villagers. “He’s not what you think,” she said softly. “He’s actually quite brilliant.”

Isobelle’s head tilted to one side. “I promise I didn’t think anything, just that your work was what I saw on display at the market.”

Gwen bit her lip, briefly meeting Isobelle’s eyes. “He’s just . . . had a tough time since my mother died. It’s harder for him to work, especially since he’d rather make things like this, things the village has no use for. And I can make nails and horseshoes well enough to keep us fed.”

Isobelle gently set the little knight down, nestling him among the rumples of the bedspread between them. “When did your mother die?”

“About five years ago. I was twelve.” Gwen was grateful for the safe, neutral place to rest her eyes—it looked like Sir Gawain was galloping on his horse through snow-covered hills. Off in search of adventure, she thought.

“I’m sorry,” Isobelle said softly. A sympathetic gaze was no doubt waiting for Gwen if she lifted her head, but she didn’t.

“She was always obsessed with knights and chivalry,” Gwen said, reaching out to nudge the knight more firmly into the fold holding him upright. “She would tell me stories about Sir Gawain, and I’d imagine I was living those stories.”

“And now you are living them.”

Gwen looked up and found Isobelle regarding her with a tiny smile—somehow a much warmer one than the bright, dimpled things she tended to flash about. The cozy warmth enveloping her battered feet was spreading, as if the rest of her body had still been stuck in combat, but had now received the message to stand down.

“I suppose I am,” Gwen managed, the tightness in her chest easing.