“I would offer,” Sylvie continued, “but I’m so comfortable. Besides, I think it should be your friend, no? Perhaps we’ve been playing the wrong game all along. Izzie, I dare you to kiss our new friend here. And make it a good one.”

Isobelle was rolling her eyes at Sylvie, though Gwen noticed she rather hastily put down her cup and saucer. Eager, or trying to hide an unsteady hand? She glanced back over at Gwen, blue eyes dancing and the tiniest bit unfocused. “It’s just for practice,” she assured her, her already pink cheeks going a little pinker. “And only if you want to.”

Gwen’s lungs constricted, her mind summoning up memories of girls in her village who would play at flirtation, never realizing Gwen felt something different, something deeper; never noticing her heartache when they ran off back to their beaus.

Gwen was frozen, gazing at Isobelle as she rose from the embroidered divan and came to drop down next to her, mirroring her pose with one leg folded under her—knee to knee, shin to shin. The dimples were there, but trembling slightly as she gazed beseechingly into Gwen’s face.

Of all the things that should’ve been running, screaming really, through Gwen’s mind—that this was risky when Isobelle was meant to be courting Céline’s brother, that this whole party was like something out of a nightmare, that they were both drunk and silly and maybe it didn’t matter—the only thought Gwen could think stood out like a fiery beacon amid warring feelings of longing and confusion.

Not like this.

Isobelle was actually leaning toward her when Gwen jerked back, sliding off the divan and getting unsteadily to her feet. “Um, sorry,” she managed, over the pounding of her heart. “I . . . I think I’ve had too much to drink. Forgive me.”

And without waiting to figure out if that was a ladylike, appropriate way to excuse herself, she turned tail and fled.

Chapter Fifteen
Everything is context

Isobelle scrambled to her feet, windmilled her arms for balance, and kept herself vertical mostly by sheer will.

Down at the tournament grounds there was an inflatable knight, held upright by the warm air of a fire beneath him that was constantly tended. He swayed gently in the breeze, and his arms flailed around unpredictably as the wind and updraughts caught them. Isobelle and the girls liked to joke about him: Full of hot air, just like the real thing.

Isobelle had an unpleasant suspicion she might have resembled him just now.

“Gw—Céline!” she called, hoping the slip sounded like a hiccup, and took off after Gwen.