“I’ll take four,” the lady announced, her perfectly symmetrical features alive with enthusiasm. “One for each of us. Right, girls?”

The rest of her friends had wandered off a few paces, their attention on another group of nobles strolling by. But just behind and to Isobelle’s left, the lady’s maid cleared her throat.

“Oh, you too?” Isobelle beamed. “Five, then!”

“Ah, no, my lady . . .” The maid’s expression betrayed very little, but for the tiniest flicker of alarm. “I was going to suggest you try buying something a little less . . . lethal.”

“Oh, come now, Olivia. I’m not going to cut myself.” Lady Isobelle paused, lips pursing. “Not again, anyway. Oh, fine. What about these?” She took a tiny step to the side, her gaze falling upon the rows of horseshoes.

Gwen blinked at her, and then glanced again at Olivia, whose poker face was of absolutely no help. “These . . . horseshoes?”

“Oh, is that what they are?” The blue eyes flitted back up, and Gwen felt a strange sense of vertigo, as if gravity wasn’t operating quite right—she couldn’t tell if the lady was teasing her, or if she truly had no idea what a horseshoe was.

“I don’t . . .” Gwen floundered, as the blush began rising again with a vengeance, swarming up her neck and threatening to choke her. “Surely the castle farrier would . . . I mean, you can tell him to see us if you need . . .”

Isobelle traced a fingertip along the curve of one of the horseshoes. “I’m thinking hung on the wall, for decoration. Any decent hedge witch says iron is the thing. We could call them good luck charms. Do you have any with some decoration on them?”

“Decoration?” Gwen echoed weakly, feeling like someone had cut her legs out from under her.

“Maybe a floral pattern, or something artsy and modern and geometrical?”

Numbly, Gwen shook her head.

Isobelle pursed her lips again. “Does your father ever do anything more ornate?”

“My father?” Gwen was beginning to sound like one of the town criers, repeating what they hear over and over.

“He’s the one who makes these, no? Amos himself?” Isobelle’s eyes dipped, falling on the spot where Gwen’s fingers curled around one of the horseshoes, her grip familiar and possessive.

Gwen let go, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

The other girl’s gaze, suddenly shrewd, met hers again. “Well, if your father ever does make any with decorations, they’ll go like hotcakes the next Market Day. I guarantee this time next month, every girl will want one for her own wall.”