Gwen swallowed, smiled as best she could, and eased her way into the room.

The round-faced girl with a coronet of buckwheat-blond braids who’d protested Gwen’s mention of the tournament got up to wrestle a fifth divan into the circle. “Yes, welcome! I am Hilde—and you must tell us whether you are a romantic or not, ja?” Her pink cheeks brightened with a smile.

Gwen sank down on the extra divan as Isobelle claimed her spot on the rose-embroidered one. “Um . . . a romantic?” she echoed, in confusion.

“Ja! Perhaps you can decide whether we are glad about the tournament or not.” Hilde’s Germanic accent gave her voice a rolling, rhythmic quality full of dips and high points, expressive and cheerful.

Gwen glanced at Isobelle, who was accepting a cup of tea from the third girl with a murmured, “Thanks, Jane.”

“I suppose I’m not much of a romantic,” Gwen said finally, smiling her thanks as another cup was pressed into her hand. “My brother is the romantic in the family.”

Hilde clasped her hands together with a sigh—her teacup and saucer, perched precariously on one thigh, tilted at an alarming angle. “A young knight who’s a romantic? Ach, if only I were not promised to my Arnau, I would seek him out to know him better.”

“Gawain is, um, rather shy,” Gwen said, curling her fingers around the handle of the teacup. “You probably won’t see him much. Who’s Arnau?” Desperately, she tried to change the subject.

Sylvie opened her mouth, but Isobelle swooped into the conversation first. “Arnau is Hilde’s beau, and a very charming man by all accounts.”

“He is away in France,” Hilde said with a sigh, gazing down into her teacup. “We miss each other so.”

“Yes, they wrote each other constantly,” commented Sylvie, tilting her head back so she could settle a stray hair into place with one perfectly manicured hand. “For the first year or two. How long has it been now? Six years?”

“Oh, but he is so very busy there,” exclaimed Hilde, though Gwen could see her fingers tightening on the handle of her cup. “He would write more often if he could.”

“So,” interrupted the third girl—Jane, Isobelle had called her—in an obvious attempt to change the subject before Sylvie could needle poor Hilde any further. “You say your brother is a romantic? Perhaps we will see him at the ball at the tournament’s end, then. You must tell him to save his first dance for me.”

Jane leveled her gaze at Gwen. She had a round, luscious figure, gleaming auburn hair and full lips, with eyelashes so long they swept her cheeks. Just now, her eyes were fixed on Gwen, one corner of her mouth lifted in a smile that made her throat tighten. Talk about a tiger sighting prey, Gwen thought, privately relieved Jane’s interest was in her fictitious alter ego and not herself.