Isobelle’s keen eyes saw that tension shifting, and her smile widened. “Well, tomorrow we’re going to have to do an etiquette crash course. Then I’ll introduce you to the girls—I think we should probably keep all this secret from them. I trust them, but the more people who know a thing, the more chances there are for someone to slip up. We’ll need a name for Sir Gawain’s sister. Maybe something flowery and nonthreatening, like Rose or Lily?” She turned and slid off the edge of the bed.

Gwen glanced down at the tiny iron knight galloping across the bedspread. “How about . . . Céline?”

Isobelle’s smile flashed with delight. “Ooh, beautiful. Where’d that come from?”

Gwen closed her fingers around Sir Gawain, drawing him back into the safety of her pocket. “It was my mother’s name.”

Interstitial

It’s probably for the best, dear reader, if we draw a veil over what comes next. If only to spare poor Gwen her dignity.

The crash course in etiquette that takes place the next day involves all the usual parts of such a thing—from curtsies to laps of the room with a book on one’s head to flash cards featuring sketches of the court’s most notable personalities. None of this is Gwen’s strong suit. But if Isobelle has any doubts . . . well, she’s an expert at ignoring those and focusing on the joys at hand.

If you’d really like to know more about what Isobelle has Gwen learning, then please direct your attention to one of the myriad texts on the subject, such as Ladye Hostlethwaite’s Primer on Graciously Goode Manneres or On Being of Noble Stocke by Lord Rollin Moisey of Dalmerlington. They should only take a day or two to read and commit to memory—each is but a few hundred thousand words.

Go on, take your time.

We’ll wait.

Chapter Fourteen
Hast Thou Ever . . .

The tea party at which Lady Isobelle planned to introduce “Lady Céline” to her friends took place the following afternoon, in the solarium in the south wing of the castle. Olivia was still finishing up the gowns she was altering for Gwen, but she’d located one that needed minimal alterations to fit. Isobelle was a good bit shorter than Gwen, so Olivia must’ve gotten the gowns from somewhere else, though neither girl asked her where.

“Just be yourself,” Isobelle was saying firmly as she all but bodily dragged Gwen down the corridor leading to the south wing. “Avoid any mentions of the smithy or your village, and you’ll be fine.”

Gwen opened her mouth to point out that they’d spent the entire day teaching Gwen how not to be herself, but Isobelle had stopped in front of a door and turned to give her one of those wide, dimpled smiles she employed to cover her true feelings.

She’s nervous. At least that’s something.