After a morning of etiquette lessons during which Isobelle acted as though none of Gwen’s slipups or mistakes mattered—as though selling Gwen as a knight’s sister was the easiest thing in the world, with no life-and-death consequences for Gwen should she fail—any sign that Isobelle understood the stakes was a relief.

“Here we are!” she announced, and then pushed the door open.

The solarium was a round room situated above Isobelle’s quarters in one of those inappropriately designed turrets of the castle, with windows at regular intervals all around. Sunlight streamed in through clouded glass, falling upon the soft, rich fabrics covering the floors and the divans and daybeds strewn in a rough circle.

In the center of the room was a low, round table on which sat a gleaming silver tea service and several platters containing tiny cakes and some kind of unidentifiable pastry. A trio of young women were sprawled on three of the divans, with a fourth empty one embroidered with pink roses clearly left for Isobelle. Gwen recognized the trio from the day she met Isobelle at the market, each of them wearing a different jewel tone, each of them with perfectly coiffed hair and gleaming jewelry.

And each of them turning in perfect unison to stare at the girl who’d entered with their ringleader. When Gwen had first donned the dress Olivia had provided, it had been the most beautiful dress she’d ever worn—now, she felt plainer than the drabbest sparrow.

Oh god. Give me a dozen armored men on horseback over this.

“Girls, this is Céline,” Isobelle announced, sweeping into the room as Gwen paused to stare. “Her brother is Sir Gawain, that dashing young knight who unseated Sir Evonwald in the qualifiers. She’s in town for the duration of the tournament.”

An indistinct wave of protest rolled across the other girls, and they lifted their teacups to drink and wash away the taste of that pronouncement.

“You said the ‘T’ word!” cried one of the girls, a honey blonde with shining braids and pink cheeks.

Gwen glanced between them and Isobelle. “What’s wrong with mentioning the tournament?” she managed.

“It makes half of us furious and the other half start swooning,” drawled a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty in a maroon gown that perfectly set off the warm brown of her skin. She lounged against a navy-blue divan with utter self-assurance. “Welcome, Céline—I’m Sylvie. My, what lovely freckles you have.” The dark eyes narrowed, putting Gwen in mind of a tiger about to pounce.

Gwen had a sneaking suspicion that the girl’s comment was more a shrewd observation than a compliment—a noble-born lady was expected to avoid the sun and preserve her complexion. But was she merely nitpicking a new arrival to the circle, or was that tiger-sighting-prey look a warning that Gwen’s masquerade was already under fire?